« EelmineJätka »
Written at Moor-park, June, 1689.
IRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies !
It fell, and broke with its own weight
But ne'er fince feated in one fingle breast!
Nor ever fince but in descriptions found,
Like the philofopher's stone,
W rules to fearch it, yet obtain'd by none.
We have too long been led aftray;
And we, the bubbled fools,
Spend all our prefent life in hopes of golden rules.
But what does our proud ignorance Learning call ?
Think that the there does all her treasures hide,
Her priefts, her train, and followers show
Affect ill-manner'd pedantry,
Rudenefs, ill-nature, incivility,
And, fick with dregs of knowledge grown,
Curst be the wretch! nay doubly curst!
To curfe our greatest enemy)
Who learnt himself that herefy first
(Which fince has feiz'd on all the rest)
That knowledge forfeits all humanity;
Thrice happy you have 'fcap'd this general peft;
You cannot be compar'd to one :
I muft, like him that painted Venus' face,
Virgil and Epicurus will not do,
Their courting a retreat like you, Unless I put in Cæfar's learning too: Your happy frame at once controls This great triumvirate of fouls.
Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate;
But you by peace.