Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

TO JACK PAVY, &c.

'TIs true, dear Iack, thou'rt of all sense bereft, And can'st not tell thy right hand from thy left, Observ'st no Seasons, Reason, Right, or Rule; In short, thou art, indeed, a Natural Fool. And hence some Men so insolent we find, To think thee the most wretched of Mankind: But I, who all along have took delight To speak plain Truth, and vindicate the right, Must tell thee thou'rt abus'd: — No man can be More happy, more the Care of Heav'n than Thee. Your Standard Fool, the Fool we shou'd despise, Is he that is a Fool and thinks he's wise.

And first, for a foundation, I wou'd know What Man can be intirely blest below, If not as dull as thou: — The Turns of Fate, Promiscuously, on all the wiser wait. Grief, horrour, shame, distrust, despight and fear, Extend to all, each has so large a share, That who has least has more than he can bear.

Either his best Diversions quickly cloy, Prey on themselves, and so themselves destroy, Or some sharp cross cut short his mounting joy: In vain he toils for Pleasure, 'twon't be found, But flies the Searcher, like enchanted ground, And in a maze of sorrow leads him round and round. Well then, that Man is happiest, who in this Vain World lives free from Care, and in the next in Bliss, Who neither knows, nor cares, nor can do any thing amiss: This is thy Fate, and this thy Soul will save, For Heav'n requires no more than what it gave, Lays on our minds restraints we well might bear, Were we less wise, and thy kind Fate our share. But grant there are some Men devout and good, (As Gracious Heav'n avert but that we shou'd!) Grant Vertue is, alone, their strictest care, And that they've all a human frame can bear; Nay grant from every anxious thought they're free, (Which is ev'n an Impossibility) They, in this World, can be but blest like thee: But in the next thy Joys will far transcend What they can hope, or by good Deeds pretend. For since by merit Heav'n can ne're be gain'd, Happiest, by whom 'tis with least sin attain'd; Then happiest Thou, to whose share it does fall, Blessed to be without being Criminal, Which ev'n the Wisest never cou'd attain; Th' Attempt shall be rewarded, but th' Attempt is vain

Our Parent, Iack, the first Created Man (If Mysteries Divine we may, with safety, scan,) While yet in perfect Innocence he stood, Cou'd not, perhaps, boast so sublime a good As is on thee (Heav'ns greater Favorite) bestow'd. Thy State of sweetness is unmixt with Gall; Thou stand'st, and art not liable to fall: In solid dullness fixt, no Charms, no Art Of Beauty makes Impression on thy Heart. The faithless Sex cou'd ne're thy Fancy move, Thou'rt Adamantine Proof against the shafts of Love. That Conq'ring God cou'd never vanquish Thee; He's blind, thou did'st not care if he cou'd see. At no proud Dowdy's Feet thou e're did'st ly, And pine and sigh, and grieve and weep, and dy; As some, who, like the Heathen heretofore, First make the Deity, and then adore. A light Demeanor and a painted Face, No Wit, no Vertue, with much silks and lace, Pass with such Fops for a Resistless Grace. In short, the Bawds perswasions and her wiles, With the kind Nymphs almost resistless smiles, Are lost on thee, stedfast thou dost remain; Shou'd Eve attempt to charm thee, 'twere in vain. Ah! had old Adam been as dull, as good, Eden had not been lost, and Man had stood!

Ambition, which disturbs the Statesman's rest, Ne're gains the least Admission to thy Breast. Without a pang thou can'st see others rise, And take their glorious Station in the Skies;

See 'em look back with a disdainful Eye On those, whose Bounty gave 'em Wings to fly: Without concern, again, thou see'st 'em come From their vast height to an ignoble Doom; Like Stars they glitter and as swift decline, But ne'r, like them, must rise again to shine. Mistaken Men! that labour to be great, That still contribute to their own deceit, And will not see through the Transparent Cheat. Pride is a Sin too obvious to conceal, It puffs the Heart as Butchers do their Veal; Looks fair without, but probe the hidden Mind, The Imposthume breaks and mixes with the wind. By it's own self, Narcissus like, 'tis priz'd; But curst is he that is by all, but his own self, despis'd.

Nor in the War thou labour'st for a Name, By cutting Throats to get Immortal Fame: Search through the Race of Brutes, and you will find There's none that preys so much upon his kind As we, that boast of an Immortal Mind. Cities are tumbled down, and Temples rac't, And the chief works of God the most defac't: Nor is there any hope these Fewds shou'd cease Till we are all like Thee; then all wou'd be at Peace.

In thee no Covetous Desires we find, That griping, restless Colick of the Mind.

Devil with Devil damn'd firm Concord hold, But Man will disagree; are bought and sold, Prove Faithless, Perjur'd, Merciless for Gold. Here one, bewitcht with the base itch of Coin, Hides it as deep as first 'twas in the Mine. Still dunning all to whom h' has money due, But you must stay, if he owes ought to You. Against nought else but want of Cash does pray, Dreams on't all night, and hugs it all the day, Yet (sordid Wretch!) can carry none away. Envious of Mankind's good, he'l angry be, His Neighbour is more fortunate than he: Nay, if thy Wife a moderate Beauty bear, He'l curse his Fate, his own is not so fair. This Plague for ever is to thee unknown; Rich in thy Rags, thou let'st each Man in Peace enjoy his own.

Envy in vain thy Quiet wou'd devour, Her Rage is impotent, and weak her power: She finds her Foe too fearless to attack, Goes cursing off, and grins as she looks back. The silly Sex, indeed, she does entice; For Envy, chiefly, is a Female Vice: Rather than not Revenge they'l Witches grow; But while around their hurtful Charms they throw, They're curst above, and double damn'd below.

Mark but the Course of things, and you must own Most men do that they'd rather let alone:

Thinks on his present state with wat'ry Eyes; Still prone to change, with every wish complies, And fain wou'd be the thing his Fate denies: Roving Desires perplex his labouring thought, Still seeking, and still missing what is sought: Against the stream of Disappointment strives, In vain, for back th' impetuous torrent drives, And makes him, to his loss and torture, see He's still Obnoxious to Incertainty: Toss'd, like a Bubble, to and fro he rouls, And every trifle his resolve controuls: Wretched all ways, though Fortune frown or smile, There is no end of his incessant toyl; And all, alas! to have his Bantlings fed; But see the Curse impendent o'er his head, He that moils least has the most share of Bread. The Trading Cit, smooth tongu'd, demure and sly, Who never swears, unless 'tis to a ly, Gets more one Day by bantring off false Ware, Than serves the needy Labourer a Year; He gets, indeed, but curst is ill got store; Rather than so be Rich, let me, ye Gods, be poor.

Here One his dozen Voyages performs, Breaks through rough Waves, and combates Winds and Storms; And thus he drudges many tedious Years; The Master wreck't at home with wretched Fears, Thinks on the Winds, the Rocks, the Sands and Pirates of Argiers: Expects 'em long, at last, perchance, they come Without their Lading, Tempest-beaten, home.

Thus, for a bootless Voyage, he is hurl'd "From Pole to Pole, and slav'd about the World. But say he gains (as many, we confess, Succeed, that don't deserve the least success) What lasting, what substantial pleasure can Attend this wealthy, careful, restless Man▪ What satisfaction can he compass here, That one can't have for fifty pound a Year? Out of his many Dishes (which I'd shun) He eats no more than I do out of one: Though his Vault's full of Bagrag and Moselle, Though of old Hock and Chios he does tell; I have my Bottle, and that does as well. But after all his outward pomp and show, Though high his Pride, his Credit may be low; For oft such men, ev'n to our Cost found true, Have dy'd in Debt, which (though a Poet) I wou'd scorn to do.

For Rents here Fopus to the Country goes, Which when receiv'd, thinks all he meets are Foes, And looking downwards starts at his own Nose; Fears his own shadow dogs him with design To cut his Throat, and take away his Coin.

In the mean time, observe the Iangling Clown Trudge as fast up as the gay spendthrift down: 'Tis Term, and he has business at the Hall, Which is to hear some Pettyfogger baul: Litigious Crew! a Monkey, or Jack Daw Has as much sense, why not as much of Law?

Thus with a Serjeant's Cant, and a smooth dash Of his Clerk's Pen, he's banter'd out of Cash. Then home returns his Pocket to recruit, And knows not Money does prolong the Suit. So when y'are feeing your Physician still, You do but bribe the Brute to keep you ill.

Another's to be marry'd with all speed; But first there must be drawn some tedious Deed, In which more caution's us'd, than if he were Making his Will, or naming of an Heir: A Jointure's setled (Let her laugh that wins) A thousand pound a year to buy her Pins. Unthinking Wretch! that puts it in the Power Of an ill Wife to hasten his ill hour. But say at first she were both chast and true, What is't so much per annum will not do? Many, that have been thought divinely good, For less have dipt their hands in Husbands blood. This thought, at last, works busy in his brain; Drudge on, fond Ass, why shou'd'st thou now complain? Be still Obsequious, give her no offence, Lest she takes pet, and sends thee packing hence.

There an Attendance Dancer of the Court, To the Levee's and Couchee's makes resort: Where in more shapes he does his Body screw, Than those that dance through Hoops, or Smith∣field Tumblers do. Yet all the while has sense enough to tell Flattery's a Crime, and that he does not well.

Now to a Bishop he devoutly bends, Next to an Atheist the same Zeal pretends; Now to a Beef-eater he cringes low, Now to some new rigg'd Bawd, or tawdry Beau, And to ten thousand that he does not know: And all this while so talkative, you'll see His tongue is quite as pliant as his knee. Coward throughout, loves none, embraces all, And thus endow'd is cherisht at Whitehall.

Here to the Park an Am'rous Coxcomb hies, To meet his Love among the Butterflies, Which there abound, and swell into a Crowd, Pert, Pocky, Poor, Impertinent and loud: Coming, he finds his Rival in her hands, Her smiles, and all she has at his Command: Then rates himself he ever shou'd believe A perjur'd thing, whose Nature's to deceive: Curses his Fate, nor will put up his wrongs, Till with cold steel the tother probes his Lungs.

Another Buffoon, cherisht by the great, Burlesques the Scriptures, and Blasphemes to eat: Nor is this Court-bred Humour strange, or new, For who knows Fan—w, knows it to be true. Thus he drives on, unmindful of the Foe, Nor sees the brandisht Sword above, nor dreadful Steep below.

Thus goes, and thus will ever go the Times, Each Age improving on their Fathers Crimes:

Sin has abounded since the World begun, And we (on whom the dregs of time is come) Are casting up the mighty, total summ. So exquisite in Villany w'are grown, To blast our Neighbours Credit we expose our own: No Man a safe Retreat from ills can know, Abroad, or, else, at home he finds a Foe; Abroad ill Tongues, at home Thoughts prone to sin; Knav'ry without, and Passions reign within. Or Anger robs him of his Darling Rest, Or Iealousie does rage within his Breast; Unhappy Man that's with that Fiend possest! Distended on the Rack, there to remain Whole Ages, is a yet more moderate pain. O horrid Doom! O worse than Hellish Life! But he deserves it that will have a Wife.

While thou, supine, liest in soft Pleasure's Arms; And only such as Thou can find sh' has lasting Charms. Though the wide World with War and slaugh∣ter's vext, Thou'rt undisturb'd, secure and unperplext: When dreadful Comets in the Skies appear, Thou'rt not concern'd what they portend us here Did'st thou but live (as long shall live thy Fame) Till the last general Conflagration came, Thou wou'd'st but laugh and warm thee at the Flame. Thou for to morrow never dost prepare, Nor art a Slave to earn thy Bread with Care:

By certain Instinct taught, thou eat'st and drink'st, Nor, though thy Fare be course, on better Dain∣ties think'st. Still satisfy'd with what's before thee set, Nor just at twelve, or one condemn'd to eat. Wait'st not till all thy meat is overdrest, Expecting some long-rising, lazy Guest: Free from all Ceremony thou dost live; None does expect it from thee, and thou none dost give.

See here a Mother mourning for her Boy Late, all her future hope, and Earthly Ioy; Tearing her Hair, and with Affliction wild, Will not be comforted, or reconcil'd; Unhappy Mother, but O happy Child! Free from the Woes with which thy Parents strive, Whose cruel kindness wish thee still alive. Another here for his dear Father mourns, In vain, alas! the Grave makes no Returns: Thinks Heav'n unkind, that the old man hast past Some fourscore Winters, and must dy at last; When, if we'll own Age weak, and sorrow strong, It is a wonder he cou'd live so long. A Third you'l see sit whining for his Wife, His Earthly Heav'n and Comfort of his Life;— Yet living, she ne'r fail'd to give him strife. This touches not thy Breast; thy Father's gone And Mother, yet who ever heard thee moan? Thy Resignation such, so free from blame, It ev'n deserves a more exalted Name; An Angel's Patience cou'd but do the same!

Observe the Man who has all Sin ingrost, And see if he is not the Man, who most Pretends to Wit; but any Fool may see, So plain, 'tis almost obvious to Thee, How his Pretext and Conduct does agree. So eager all that's wicked to retain, You'd think he wou'd not spare the Fools a grain. A very Bugbear, so licentious grown, He is the Standard scandal of the Town. Who more a Fop? and, which is worse, who more A Cully to the Dice, nay worse, a Cully to the Whore? Who, of all men, more pester'd with ill Nature? Who more obnoxious to the Sting of Satyr? Who more a Drunkard? who a greater Prater? Who at Plays sooner, and at Churches later? If this is Wit, e'r such a Wit to be, Who wou'd not, if 'twere possible, be more a Fool than thee?

Content's a Blessing; Let us search around, And see, then, where that Blessing's to be found. No Riches like Contentment, there 'tis meant One may be wealthy, and not be content: If Riches cannot make a happy Man, To human apprehension, nothing can. In short, the Rich, the Poor, the Peasant, Cit, Still aim at something, which they have not yet, And still at something more, if that shou'd hit. 'Tis hard, perhaps impossible, to find One that has all things suited to his mind:

Something will be amiss, and must be so; For to want nothing, wou'd be Heav'n below. Yet some will think to have it here, and some In search of it around the Globe will roam; Alas! it may be sooner found at home. She lives not in the Court, or noisy Town, But shuns the gilded Roofs, and Beds of Down, And Robes of State, the Ermins that do hide Hypocrisy, Debate, Revenge and Pride. In short, we'll all to this Conclusion bring; If not with thee, there is not such a thing: For true Content, impartially defin'd, (And in thy Breast we see the Blessings join'd) Is perfect Innocence, and lasting Peace of Mind.

How much, alas! of our short time we wast In seeking, what we never get at last, The true Religion? or, at least, so get, As to live up to the strict Rule of it. But one Foundation does our Saviour yield, But ah! how many Pinacles we build? Some, guided by false Pastors, go astray; Blinded are such, or will not see their way. Others need not be driven on the Shelves, Foes to the Compass, they will wreck themselves. Some will have the unfailing Chair their Guide, When any Chair wou'd do as well beside, And some the private Spirit, which is Pride. Tomes of Dispute about the World are spread; The living still at variance with the dead:

And after all their shifts from this to that, Their unintelligible, endless Chat, Nor we, nor they can tell what 'tis they wou'd be at. While thus their different Tenents they maintain, The Atheist thinks that all Religion's vain, A Pious Cheat, ripn'd, at last, to Law, To sham the Croud, and keep Mankind in awe. Indeed some preach for praise, and some for gain, And some delight in Notions dull and vain, And some in Texts abstruse which Angels can't explain; 'Tis not for Age it self, much more for Youth, From such vast heaps of Chaff to sift the sacred truth. Thus while we in an anxious Laby'rinth stray, Without a Clue, and doubtful of the way, Giddy with turning round, we fall to Death a Prey: Away w'are hurry'd, all our Life a Dream, Or slept away, or spent in the Extreme. Thou art, dear Iack, from this hard Fate exempt, 'Tis thou deserv'st applause, and these Contempt; This Iargon thou not mark'st, or dost not know; Thou without this dost mount, with this we sink below.

The Epicureans cou'd not feign their Gods More blest than Thee; for in their bright abodes, In full Fruition of themselves, they lay, And made Eternity one sportive Day: Careless of all our petty Jars on Earth, Which they not minded, or but made their Mirth.

So thou, in thy exalted Station plac't, Enjoy'st the present Minute e're it wast, Thoughtless of all to come, forgetting all that's past.

Tell me thou man of Knowledge, who hast read What Cicero, Plato, Socrates have said, With all the Labours of the Mighty Dead; Inform me, when the fatal hour comes on, And the last sands are hastning to be gone, What signifies your Wisdom? do you know What the Soul is, or whither 'tis to go? Are not your Minds with dreadful Visions fraught? Are you not lost in the Abyss of thought? But, which is meaner yet, can human wit, Can all in Pulpits taught, in Authors writ, Make you, contentedly, resign your Breath, And free you from the slavish Fears of Death? An Insect's chattring, or a Dog that howls, Your merry Crickets, and your midnight Owls, Makes ye imagine Heav'n has seal'd your doom, And summons you to your eternal home: On every thought the Spleen strict watch does keep, And rides your Haggard Fancy in your sleep.

Tell me, deny th' Assertion if you can; Is not my natural Fool the happier Man? Remorse he feels not, which the best must feel, Though guarded with a seven-fold shield of steel; And well he feels it, for who feels it not Has, of the two, a yet more wretched Lot.

The Stings of Conscience (and some Authors say Hell Flames are not more violent than they; Nay, which is yet far bolder, some will tell There is no other, needs no other Hell) This Plague thou art not troubl'd with; thy Breast Is with a constant calm of Peace possest, That Wings thee smoothly on to Everlasting Rest. No noisy storms of Nature on the deep Break thy repose, which the same state does keep, Alike, if Winds are still, or if they blow, And shatter all above, and loosen all below. No Clangor frightens thee, or beat of Drum, Or Visions of the dismal day of doom, When, trembling, some awake and cry, 'tis come! 'tis come! With rowling, Haggard Eyes, they gaze around, And think they hear the last, loud Trumpet sound. Start'st not in Dreams, when, lab'ring with short Breath, We think w'are plunging down the Precipice of Death, When Vapours rise, and dreadful thoughts instil Of hissing Fiends, and Fears of future ill: Thou dost not with such dozing Dolts comply, Nor in this worse than dying posturely; For to fear Death's more irksom than to dy: Free from these horrid Apprehensions found, Thy Peace is lasting, and thy Rest is sound. Let thoughts of Death the Coward Restless keep; To dy's no more than to drop fast asleep, To rest from endless toyl, and wake no more To find those ills that tortur'd us before.

What wou'dst thou say, dear Iack, cou'dst thou but mind The shifts, the tricks and slavery of Mankind? What wou'dst thou say wer't thou to walk the street, And mark the two legg'd Herd you'l daily meet? To see some passionately hug and kiss, And when past by, put out their Tongues and hiss; Some creep like Snails, and some like Monkeys walk, Some all hum drum, and some eternal talk; Some drest in Silks, and some in double Frieze, And some with Foot-thick Rolls upon their Knees: Wert thou to see 'em drink to an excess, But little Reason, yet will make it less, And when intoxicated, draw and stab, And cling like a lin'd Bloodhound to their Drab: Wer't thou three hours i'th' Theatre to sit, And hear the Fools clap Bombast off for Wit, Farce for true Comedy; and the good sense That Manly speaks, run down for Impudence: Were't thou behind the Gawdy Scenes to go; (The former Age lov'd sense, and we are all for show) There see the Fops to Leonora bending, Like twenty fawning Spaniels on one Bitch attend∣ing: Or shou'd'st thou there a base-born Mimick see, Hugg'd and Ador'd by Coxcombs of Degree, With nothing but his hardned Impudence, To recommend him for a Man of sense; Observe his haughty Port, and towring looks, That peddl'd once for Bread, and sold old Books;

T' observe him scorn, flusht with a little pelf, Those that were ever better than himself; How big he looks, when any honest Pen Does tell how much he's loath'd by worthy men; But vain's his Anger, impotent his Rage, His Valour all is shown upon the Stage; His Tongue is sharp, and in abuse delights, But blunt must be the Sword with which he fights. Or shou'd'st thou, for diversion, take the pains To go and see the Prisoners in their Chains; What Wretches, doom'd to Durance, thou wou'd'st meet In Kings-Bench, Bridewel, Newgate and the Fleet; The Bench where many won't come out that may, And lesser Knaves that wou'd, are forc't to stay: Bridewel, where Vagrants must work out their Crime; The Gally Slave has a more hopeful time. Newgate, where Villanie's ne'r out of Vogue; Pimp, Padder, Palliard, Parricide and Rogue, Like Swine, are penn'd up battling in their dung, And with a mouldy Shoe, and mournful Tongue, Angle for Farthings as you pass along: What wou'd'st thou say too, shou'd'st thou go to Court, Where all our empty, Pageant-Fops resort, Each scorn'd by all, each making all his sport; There see the Ladies, with their high-heel'd Shoes, Walk as their Hipps were fastn'd on with Scrues; See'em thrust out, taught by some bawdy Mother, Their Buttocks one way, and their Breasts ano∣ther;

Ten times a Minute mending their attire, And mount their Top-Knots a yard high, or higher. Or shou'd'st thou see how many wait in vain, And hope Preferment none but Knaves attain; See Titles bought by Fops unlearn'd and Base: But Honour is as hard to get as Grace; For that's not so deriv'd from Sire to Son, Much more with Money bought, or Flattery won: Show me the Man (for which the Times be prais'd) Who by his own Intrinsick Worth was rais'd: Just to serve Turns of State, put in and out, Him that is now carest, anon they flout; High Office is a constant Slave to doubt. Shou'd'st thou see all this, Iack, and from thy Heart The Truth and nothing but the Truth impart, Wou'd'st thou be any thing but what thou art? No, no; thou rather wou'd'st thank Providence For easing thee of the Fatiegues of Sense. The Knight, Sir Guy, who overcame an Host, Was not so dreadful then, as now a Knight o'th' Post: With thee his perjur'd Affidavits fail; Nor can the Flatt'rer's florid Cant prevail; Destructive both, to human quiet Foes, Th' Eternal Troublers of the Worlds Repose. From Feasts thou'rt also quit and Serenade, (By none but Apes and Am'rous Coxcombs made) And being so, art free from Surfeits, Noise, Which our loose Gallants take for lasting Ioys.

Free from the Watchmens Bills, and Bully's stab, And the Embraces of his Pocky Drab; And being so, art free from Purging, Sweating At Spring and Fall, with blist'ring and blood-letting, Nodes, Shankers, Bubo's, Vlcers not forgetting. Nor art thou for thy Actions call'd t' account, Or for a word old Reverend Tripos Mount; Where many of our wisest men have swung, For want of the due Government of Tongue. Taxes and Gabells take no hold of thee; From all State-Impositions thou art free: Pay'st not Excise for wearing of a Head, Thy Hearth, or Oven, that does bake thy Bread.

How well are they, then, guilty of our scorn, That say, 'twere better thou had'st ne're been born? That look on thee with a Contemptuous Eye, And sneer and grin when e'r thou passest by? As if thou wert compos'd of courser Clay, Or were not form'd by the same hand as they. But 'tis not Thee, 'tis their own selves are sham'd; Ought that Seraphick Folly be defam'd, That is our Main security from all the ills I've nam'd?

The wiser Turks when, by kind Heav'ns De∣cree, Nature produces such a Fool as Thee, Make him their Care, and as a Saint adore; Their Mahomet himself has hardly more: Think they're oblig'd to cherish, serve and love, What Heav'n so kindly smiles on from above,

And fixes in a State, free from the wiles Of Princes Courts, and all Earths fruitless toils; While they, obnoxious to their Tyrants hate, Their barbarous Policy, and turns of State, Are made the Prey, Revenge and Sport of Fate. O let us then, like them, think thee the same, As worthy of the fond embrace of Fame, And to all future Times transmit thy glorious Name!

Hail! awful Fool, thou mighty Ideot, hail! Thou Conq'rour against whom nor Men, nor Hell prevail. Thy Shield of solid Dullness but oppose, And streight thou see'st the Backs of all thy Foes; Impenetrable! for w' have try'd it oft, Compar'd with it, ev'n Adamant is soft! What e'r his Holiness may urge in Pride, While on the Necks of Monarchs he does ride, Thy Dullness is a far more certain Guide; What e'r he boasts of an unerring sway, What e'r Monks teach, and hood-wink't Bigots say, H' has no pretence to Infallibility any other way.

Great was the wise man's saying (he I mean That wise we call, Stallion of Sheba's Queen, And (beside Wives) three hundred Punks ob∣scene:) And, truth consider'd, it must be confest, Of all his Aphorisms much the best,

* 1.1 Much Wisdom brings much Grief, and while we here This ponderous load of Flesh about us bear, He that increases Knowledge but increases Care. Which is as much as if his Ghost shou'd rise, And thus the Text explain before our Eyes. I knew, while Living, all that Man below, In all his height of Wit, cou'd boast to know; All that our mortal Fabrick can receive, More than e'r Heav'n, before, to Man did give. From the tall Cedars that on Mountains grow, Ev'n to the humble Shrubs in Vales below; All Plants the Fertile Earth cou'd e'r produce, I knew their several Natures and their use. To that exalted pitch my Knowledge flew, 'Twas ev'n unknown to me how much I knew: But having cast to what Account 'twill come, I find all Cyphers for the total summ. 'Tis nothing, nothing! all that we can here Attain with utmost study, search and care, Is but to know (yet knowledge hard to gain) Our Care is fruitless, and our search is vain. Against proud Wisdom 'twere enough to say It raises doubts it never can allay, And, being Blind, presumes to shew the way; Or if not wholly blind, with blinking Eyes Wou'd pry into abstrusest Mysteries, And grasp Incomprehensibilities: Talks but at random, varying to Extremes; Fond of wild Notions, and fantastick Themes, More Incoherent than a Madmans Dreams.

Thus it betrays us to ten thousand ills, And, Tyrant like, it tortures e'r it kills: Want pinches, for while thus we Books adore, Our Cash grows less, and Knowledge ne'r the more: Meagre and wan they look, and sleepless nights Is the main Essence of their best delights. Eternal Jangle! who cou'd ever find Two, though of one Religion, of one Mind? Here One on his dear Labours casts a smile, Another streight unravels all his toyl, And shews how course the Grain, how lean the Soyl: Another does the same by him; A Fourth Proves all the third has said of neither force, or worth. And thus the Game is plaid from hand to hand, And made a Medley none can understand. Wisdom's but trifling, then, well understood, And Folly is the only human good.

The End of Jack Pavy, aliàs, Jack Adams.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Eccles. Cha. 1. Ver. 18.