The Fourth Satyr of Boileau

WHence does it come, dear Friend, that they alone,
Think they engross all Wisdom, who have none;
That one Fop lolls his Tongue out at another,
And shakes his empty Noddle at his Brother.

A Pedant who has stuff'd his brain with reading,
So full, that there's no room for Wit or Breeding;
Bristling with Greek, bloated with Pride and Bluff,
And by long poring, surly grown and gruff.
Who has by rote a Thousand Authors got,
And of them all made one prodigious Sot.
He on his dusty Volumes only dotes,
Which he in talk, impertinently quotes.
With him, if Aristotle says the word,
Reason's ridiculous, and Sense absurd.

But the old Beau, and ev'ry modish Ass,
Who half the Morning constantly does pass,
Ogling his ugly Carkass in his Glass:
(Which frightfully t' adorn three hours are spent,
As if, like ancient Picts, 'twere his intent,
To native Ugliness acquir'd t' impart,
And hideous grow, by Ornament and Art:)
Who to the Park or Play rides jingling, where
By his loud nauseous Chat, and graceless Air,
He plagues the Sensible, and frights the Fair;
Whilst all the little Loves that hover nigh,
Our English Beauties from the Scare-crow fly;
The Lumber of our Boxes and our Pits,
And Beauties curst Incumbrance too, and Wits:
This Chariot load of Blockhead hates all Science,
And bids to all the learned World Defiance.
Damns, as by Priviledge, whatever's writ,
And makes his Ignorance his Claim to Wit.
Proud Bigots who would all their faults conceal,
And cheat ev'n God by their affected Zeal;
With seeming Sanctity, and spiritual Spight,
Damn all the rest of men with all their Might.

But th'Athiest who tow'rds Hell in Darkness strays,
Whom want of Sense to want of Faith betrays,
And whom no Law, but brutal Impulse sways;
Contemns Gods Wrath, and everlasting Fire,
By which (he swears) the State, and the Church Liar.
Grey reverend Rogues, to awe bold Fools conspire.
For his part, who to reason makes pretence,
He laughs at Shams, which shock all common Sense.

But he that would this boundless Theme exhaust,
And not in Crowds of various Fools be lost;
He I'le maintain as soon might number all
Whom in a Spring, or Pestilential Fall,
Feavers, or more malignant Doctors, mawl.
Or sum up all our Cuckolds on Record,
From sneaking Cit to the gay strutting Lord.
But that this matter may t' a point be brought,
And in two words to sum up my whole thought;
By leave of those sev'n Fools, so much renown'd
By Greece for Wisdom, take the Globe around,
On it no perect Wisdom e're was found.
All Men are Fools, and spight of all their pains,
Their difference only in their rate remains.
As in a Wood which numerous paths divide,
Waysaing men are lost without a Guide;
One on the right, one on the left hand strays,
Both by one error rambling different ways:
So we thro Life's grand journey blund'ring run,
Stumbling at Scandals which we wish'd to shun,
By one same error sev'ral ways all bubbled and undone.
Yet some grave Fops for wondrous wise would pass,
But the grave Ass is an original Ass.
Yet here let Satyr publish what it will,
To Wisdom each exalts his Folly still:
Does of his frailties as perfections boast,
As doating Sires love weakly Children most.
This to the man then who himself would know,
He is most wise, who thinks he is least so.
Who others viewing with indulgent thoughts,
Does cynically censure his own faults:
With rigour prosecutes them ev'ry one,
And upon all sees strictest Justice done.
But here let Satyr what it will divulge,
His darling vice who is not apt t' indulge?
A Fool who dats on, nay adores his Gold,
Amidst his Heaps enduring Want and Cold,
His Folly does for a rare Prudence hold.
His Pleasure, and his Pride's to heap up store,
Which since 'twas his is guarded from him more,
And less is in his power than 'twas before.
But tell me mercenary, sordid Sot,
Hast thou the plague of Tantalus forgot
Who to the very Chin in water set,
Ne'r with one drop his burning Lips could we.
D' you laugh? how ignorant of your self are you,
Who your own Image thus with scorn can view?
The plague of Tantalus does thee destroy;
Possessing wealth, which thou canst ne're enjoy.
Numberless Sums your crowded Coffers burst,
Yet after Gold eternally you thirst.
Swimming in plenty still thy drought remains,
And in thy Soul the Raging Feaver reigns.
Nor Fraud nor Sacriledge you shun for gain,
Yet from what's yours religiously abstain,
Thus Avarice but digs the Mine t' enter the Gold again.
Why faith, the Miser in plain terms is mad,
Cry's one whose Frenzy's diff'rent, but as bad.
Who Gold, all day as up and down he wanders,
On Rooks, cast Captains, Plotters, Parasites, squanders,
Whores, Horses, Taylors, Hawks, Pimps, Dogs, and Panders
Who counter after Happiness does run,
And to be rectifi'd must be undone.
From place to place he roams with restless mind,
In search of Quiet, which he ne're could find:
By Fortune's favours render'd discontented;
So when the Mistriss is too fond, the Gallant is tormented

For which of these d' you most despair of cure?
Why their conditions both are dangerous sure.
An ancient Lord at thee Groom Porter's cries,
With a grave shrug d plaguy politick eyes
At the same time the bold adventurer knocks
At all the Stakes with just Pandora's box.
Whence the disasters flew that caus'd his ruine,
And where his hope lay after his undoing.
For Lands and Tenements being sold, he's ain,
His Lacqueys and his Strumpets to maintain,
By a Rent charge, upon the merry Main.
Should Fortune her inconstant malice show,
And turn the Dice with one unhappy throw,
You might behold him strait with bristling Hair,
Turn up his Eyes to Heav'n, and wildly stare;
And swear like Devils, from some Wretches Breast
By croney Priest unkindly dispossest.
Bind him, or by his furious upcast Eyes,
This modern Monster will invade the Skies:
Which ev'n already loudly he defies.
Yet leave him to the storm which tears his Breast,
For his own Fury will chastise him best.
Errors there are, which do pleasing harm,
Whilst the weak Reason to auch they charm.
Like Wine delicious, Poison they dispense,
And send up Fues, intoxicating sense.
Aristus Rhimes, and there his Folly lies,
But tho those Rhimes ev'n Busby's Boys despise;
Himself h' applauds, and in his vain account,
Takes place of Virgil on th' Aonian Mount.
But oh! should some bold man, severely kind,
Dispel the mist, which thus obscures his mind;
And all the bungling strokes h' admires display,
In the full light of Reason's glittering ray;
How would he curse that hour, and how be griev'd,
Of his sweet Error to be undeceiv'd.

Once an Enthusiast whom the Spleen did cheat,
Into an odd and singular conceit:
(The man concerning ev'ry thing beside,
Discours'd like one whom Sense and Reason guide.)
Fancied that Angels hovering o're him hung,
That Cherub plaid to him, and Seraph sung,
Whilst in his ravish'd breast immortal Pleasures sprung.

A Doctor undertook him with success,
And cur'd him by his Art, or else by Guess.
But when he did at last his Fees require:
I pay you, crys the Enthusiast all on fire,
You, whose damn'd Art, in opening thus my Eyes
Has lost me Paradise, to make me wise.

His Rage was just; for man is not so curst,
But Reason's yet of all his Plagues the worst:
Tis she who fierce in midst of Joys remains,
And with Remorse our gay Desires restrains:
Our urious Passions she can never curb,
And checking all the sprightlier does disturb.
Her Rule's as troublesome, as 'tis severe,
The Pedant's always bawling at our Ear.
Our thoughts she reprimands, our actions blames,
To make us mad sh' eternally declaims,
Till Patience turns to Rage and flings away;
Then that her barbarous Lectures we may shun,
Like Husbands forc'd by Shrews to go astray,
To Wine, or kinder Mistrisses we run.
In vain, some writers would with soveraign sway,
Make her command, and every sense obey;
Set up a Goddess with presumpteous pride,
Who might on Earth and in themselves reside.
She they affirm can lasting joys bestow,
Such as are her Voaries can only know,
Who lead the lives of Demi-gods below.
Why faith these things in Books are finely said,
But hast not thou my Friend, who men hast read,
Hast not thou found, after a strict survey,
That your unthinking noisy Rogues are they,
Who can be always satisfi'd, who can be always gay?