A satyr against mankind written by a person of honour.

A SATYR AGAINST MANKIND.

VVritten by a Person of HONOUR.

VVEre I, who to my cost, already am, One of those strange, prodigious creatures Man; A Spirit free, to choose for my own share, What sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, I'd be a Dog, a ••onkey or a Bear: Or any thing, but that vain Animal, Who is so proud of being rational. His Senses are too gross; and he'll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five: And before certain Instinct, will preferr Reason, which Fifty times for one does err. Reason, an Ignis fatuus of the mind, Which leaves the Light of mature Sense behind. Pathless, and dangerous, wandr'ing wayes, it takes, Through errors fenny Bogs, and Thorny Brakes: Whil'st the mis-guided follower thinks, with pain, Mountains of Whimseys, heap't in his own brain; Stumbling from thought, to thought, falls headlong down Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown, Books bear him up a while, and make him try To swim with Bladders of Philosophy: In hopes still to o'retake the skipping Light, The Vapour dances, in his Dazeling sight, Till spent, it leaves him to Eternal night. Then Old Age, and Experience, hand in hand, Leads him to Death, makes him to understand, After a search so painful, and so long, That all his Life, he has been in the wrong.

Hudled in Dirt, the reas'ning Engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise: Pride drew him in, as Cheats their Bubbles catch, And made him venture, to be made a wretch: His Wisdom did his happiness destroy, Aiming to know, what World he should enjoy. And Wit was all his frivolous pretence, Of pleasing others at his own expence. For Wits are treated just like Common Whores; First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of doors. The pleasure past, a threatning doubt remains, That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains. Women, and men of Wit, are dang'rous Tools, And ever fatal to admiring Fools. Pleasure allures, and when the fopps escape, 'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate; And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate. But now methinks some formal Band and Beard, Takes me to Task; Come on Sir, I'me prepar'd: Then by your favour, any thing that's writ Against this gibing, gingling knack, call'd Wit, Likes me abundantly, but you'l take care Upon this point, not to be too severe, Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part, For I profess, I can be very smart On Wit, which I abhor, with all my heart: I long to lash it, in some sharp Essay, But your grand indiscretion bids me stay, And turns my Tyde of Ink, another way. What rage foments, in your degen'rate mind, To make you rail at reason, ••••d mankind? Blest Glorious man, to whom alone kind Heav'n An Everlasting Soul hath freely given: Whom his great Maker took such care to make, That from himself he did the Image take, And this fair frame in shining reason drest, To dignifie his Nature above Beast. Reason, (by whose aspiring influence, We take a flight beyond material sense,) Dives into Mysteries, then soaring pierce The flaming limits of the Universe, Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there, And give the World true ground of hope and fear.

Hold mighty man I cry; all this we know, From the pathetick pen of Ingelo, From Patricks Pilgrim, Sibbs Soliloquies, And 'tis this very Reason I despise, This supernatural gift, that makes a mite Think he's the Image of the Infinite; Comparing his short life, void of all rest, To the Eternal, and the ever blest, This busie pushing stirrer up of doubt, That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,

Filling with Frantick crouds, of thinking Fools, The Reverend Bedlams, Colledges and Schools, Born on whose wings, each heavy Sot can pierce The Limits of the boundless Universe: So Charming Oyntments make an old Witch flye, And bear a crippled Carkass through the Skie. 'Tis the exalted poor, whose business lies In Nonsence and Impossibilities: This made a Whimsical Philosopher, Before the spacious World his Tubb prefer: And we have many modern Coxcombs, who Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do. But thoughts were given for actions Government; Where action ceases, thought's impertinent Our Sphere of action is lifes happiness, And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an ass. Thus whilst against false reas'ning I inveigh, I own right reason, which I would obey; That reason, which distinguishes by sense, And gives us rules of good and ill from thence: That bounds desires, with a reforming will, To keep them more in vogue, and not to kill: Your Reason hinders; mine helps to enjoy, Renewing Appetites, yours would destroy. My Reason is my friend, yours is a Cheat: Hunger calls out, my Reason bids me eat; Perversly yours, your Appetite does mock: This asks for food, that answers what's a Clock.

This plain distinction, Sir, your doubt secures: 'Tis not true Reason I despise, but yours. Thus, I think Reason righted; ••ut for man, I'le ne're recant, defend him if you can. For all his Pride, and his Philosophie, 'Tis evident Beasts are, in their own Degree, As Wise at least, and Better far, than he, Those Creatures are the wisest, who attain By surest means, the ends at which they aim. If therefore Jowler finds, and kills, the Hares Better than man supplies Committee Chairs; Though one's a Statesman, th' other but a Hound; Jo••ler in Justice will be wiser found. You see how far mans Wisdom here extends: Look next if Human Nature makes amends; Whose principles are most Generous and Just; And to whose morals, you would sooner trust: Be Judge your self, I'le bring it to the Test, Which is the basest Creature, Man, or Beast: Birds feed on Birds, Beasts on each other prey; But salvage Man alone, does Man Betray. Prest by Necessity, they kill for food; Man undoes man, to do himself no good. With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature arm'd, they Hunt, Natures allowance, to supply their want:

But man with Smiles, Embrances, Friendships, Praise, Inhumanly, his fellows life betrayes, With voluntary pains, works his distress, Not through Necessity, but Wantonness For hunger, or for love they bite or tear, Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear. For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid: From fear, to fear, successively betray'd. Base fear, the source, whence his best passions came, His boasted Honor, and his dear bought Fame: The Lust of Pow'r, to which he's such a slave, And for the which alone, he dares be brave: To which his various projects are design'd, Which makes him Generous, Affable and Kind: For which he takes such pains to be thought wise, And scrues his actions, in a forc't disguise: Leads a most tedious life, in misery, Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie, Look to the Bottom of his vast design, Wherein man's Wisdom, Pow'r and Glory joyn; The Good he acts, the Ill he does endure, 'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure. Meerly for safety, after fame they thirst, For all men would be Cowards if they durst: And honesty's against all common sense, Must men be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence, Mankind's dishonest; if you think it fair, Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square, You'le be undone.— Nor can weak Truth, your reputation save; The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave. Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o're, opprest, Who dares be lesser Villain, than the rest. Thus here you see, what Human Nature craves, Most men are Cowards, all men should be Knaves. The Difference lyes, as far as I can see, Not in the thing it self, but the Degree: And all the subject matter of Debate, Is only who's a Knave, of the first Rate.

FINIS.