Into doubt's 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'ertake the skipping light,
The vapour dances in his dazzling sight,
"Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then old age and experience, hand-in-hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful and so long,
That, all his life, he has been in the wrong.
Huddled 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 his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleasing others at his own expence:
For wits are treated just like common whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of doors.
The pleasure past, a threat'ning doubt remains,
That frights th'enjoyer with succeding pains.
Women and men of wit are dang'rous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools.
Pleasure allures; and when the fops escape,
"Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate;
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.
De pensée en pensée, imprudente victime,
Il tombe dans le doute, immense et sombre abîme;
Les livres quelque tems le feront surnager,
Sur la philosophie il croira se sauver;
Mais, culbuté bientôt d'une planche si frêle,
Il reste pour jamais dans la nuit éternelle;
L'expérience alors lui prouve, avec douleur,
Qu'il est né, qu'il vécut, qu'il mourra dans l'erreur ;
Et le noble instrument de sa disgrâce étrange,
Sa superbe raison, traîne au loin dans la fange.
C'est en vain que l'orgueil, adroit escamoteur, Veut, sous ses gobelets, lui cacher son malheur; Il eût été, sans doute, heureux dans sa faiblesse, Il perdit le bonheur en cherchant la sagesse. Son esprit amusa le monde à ses dépens; L'esprit ressemble assez aux attraits ambulans D'une jeune beauté qu'une maman colporte; On s'en amuse, et puis on la met à la porte.
But now, methinks, some formal band and beard Takes me to task: come on, sir, I'm prepared.
Then, by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibing, jingling knack, call'd wit,
Likes me abundantly; but you'll take care,
Upon this point, not to be too severe.
Perhaps my muse were fitter for this part;
For I profess I can be
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 tide of ink another way.
What rage ferments in your degen'rate mind,
To make you rail at reason and mankind?
Bless'd, glorious man, to whom alone kind heav'n
An everlasting soul has freely giv'n;
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 dignify his nature above beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring influence,
We take a flight beyond material sense;
Dive 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 grounds of hope and fear.
Hold, mighty man, I cry, all this we know
Maintenant je crois voir, tout fourré comme un ours, docteur barbu me tenir ce discours:
Fort bien, mon jeune ami; j'aime que votre muse
Combatte cet esprit qui plait, séduit, abuse,
Cet esprit que je hais. Je vous approuve fort;
Mais n'allez pas trop loin; entendons-nous d'abord:
De l'esprit, comme vous, je déteste l'usage,
Et j'allais le fesser dans quelque bon ouvrage;
Déjà, même, déjà, j'étais sûr du succès;
Votre indiscrétion dérange mes projets:
Il y faut renoncer; votre fougue indocile
Me fait porter ailleurs et mon encre et ma bile;
Quel démon, juste ciel, vous souffla le dessein
D'attaquer la raison et tout le genre humain?
Oui, de son créateur image noble et belle,
L'homme seul, distingué par une âme immortelle,
Monarque enorgueilli de ce superbe don,
Sur tous les animaux règne par la raison;
La raison qui, des sens franchissant la barrière,
S'élance fièrement à la cause première;
Loin des bords enflammés de ce vaste univers,
S'élève dans les cieux ou descend aux enfers;
Et, perçant les secrets de la Toute-puissance,
Fixe, du genre humain, la crainte et l'espérance.
O grand homme, arrêtez, et sachez
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo;
From Patrick's pilgrim, Stillingfleet's replies;
And 'tis this very reason I despise;
This supernatral 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 busy puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds 'em out;
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those rev'rend Bedlams, colleges and schools;
Borne on whose wings, each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe;
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcass thro' the sky.
"Tis this exalted pow'r, whose bus'ness lies
In nonsense and impossibilities,
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
And we have modern cloister'd coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do:
But thoughts are giv'n for action's governement;
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent.
Our sphere of action is life's happiness;
And he who thinks beyond, thinks like an ass.
Thus whilst against false reas'ning I inveigh
I own right reason, which I would obey;
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