To the Society of the Beaux Esprits. Ode

If Poets when they undertake
Some happy, lofty Theme,
That does their Hero's worth immortal make,
And fix it in the foremost rank of Fame;
So firm, 'tis hard to say if Fate
Or that will bear the longer date;
If they invoke some God to be
Propitious, and infuse
Life, Spirit, Warmth and Vigour in the Muse,
That through the whole may brightly shine,
And shew they're guided by a hand Divine;
What Power, what Deity
(You learn'd Society!)
Must be invok't by me?
'Tis You, great Souls, 'tis You,
Whose Fame I sing, must aid me too:
If your assistance does my labours bless,
'Twere vain to doubt success:
For while I write to Men,
Themselves such Masters of the Pen,
Solid, Judicious, Wise,
That search the dark retreats where errour lies,
And pluck off the Disguise;
While such I praise, shame, if not skill,
Will my desire fulfil;
'Tis hard on such a Subject to write ill.

No tedious ways y'ave taken, no Meander's trac'd;
Well knowing, they
That will be obstinate and go astray,
And leave the easie for a rugged way,
Are but the more remarkably disgrac't:
As sordid Chymists with much toyl and pain,
Labour of Body and of Brain,
Wear out their wretched days
In solid Poverty and empty praise;
And all to find (such Notions do they start)
What neither is in Nature nor in Art.
In vain they strive that passless Rock t' explore,
Where they have seen so many split before,
And lost on that Inhospitable shore.
Castles they still build in the Air;
Rapt with the Bliss
They shall possess
In their new Golden Worlds, the Lord knows where!
But after all, we see
(In spite of their stupidity)
When their whole Life is in expectance past,
Drill'd on by Hope, and flatter'd to the last;
Instead of the fam'd Stone of which they're proud,
That Geugaw in whose praise they've been so loud,
Meet the Resemblance only and an empty Cloud.

No; You have better fix't your aim,
And, to the Honour of your Name,
Acquir'd a just and lasting Fame:
"When first you did your Forces join,
"When first you did your mingl'd lustre twine
"In that bright Orb where now you shine,
"The Envious must confess,
"Though great the Praise we gave, you did deserve no less.
When 'twas your Pleasure to enrol
In your fam'd List some worthy Soul,
With one joint Mind and Voice:
You made the generous Choice;
For whom one Recommended, all the rest
A like esteem exprest,
And shot their Friendly Souls into his Breast:
Which proves the Body's purity,
From Factious and Self-Interest-Members free
No whiffling Fops you did admit,
Retaylers in the Trade of Wit;
No Farce-Companions, that, with awkard Miene,
Court every Punk they meet, and every where are seen;
No sordid Scriblers, whose unlicens'd Rhimes
Add to our growing Crimes,
And will, I fear, pluck down a Judgment on the Times:
This fry was scorn'd: — to none
Was the great Favour shown,
But who brought equal merit of their own;
Such as were worthy and believ'd
The Honour Worthy they receiv'd:
That loath'd the crying Follies of the Age,
And the lewd Scenes of the declining Stage;
The Coward's calmness and the Bully's rage,
The Statesman's Quibbles and the Lawyer's wiles,
The Souldier's brags and the false fair One's smiles,
The Spark's gay dress that sets up for a Beau;
With all that think they're Wise and are not so:
These were the Genii, these the Soul;
And such as these compose the whole.

Thus constituted, your bright Progress you began;
Short is the time and far the space y'ave ran!
For to that pitch of glory y'are arriv'd,
As all the foremost Arts admire;
Yet you stop not, but still aspire;
Unlike the Greshamites, who have their Fame surviv'd,
You are the more rever'd as you grow longer liv'd.
You make it not your business to pry
Into the dark-wrought Snares of Policy,
Made Intricate by Jugling Elves,
And is a Maze to lose themselves:
Ne'r vex, or wonder at the turns of State
That makes so many Knaves and Coxcombs great,
Does upstart Mushroms raise
Till they, like Meteors, blaze,
And make the Lavish Poets wanton in their praise;
This stiles 'em Noble and this Iust,
And tells how well they have discharg'd their trust,
Though they rais'd all their store,
By peeling of the publick and the poor,
As by Estates, soon got, w'are sure they must.
Another does their Eloquence approve,
As if their Tongues dropt from above,
And swear, like Orpheus's Harp, they make the Forests move:
Yet to the man that nicely marks,
A Dog keeps more Coherence when he barks:
Thus they flourish; — but anon
The storm of Fate comes on,
They're prov'd false Metal, and they must be gone;
And that which now appear'd so bright,
Has in a moment lost its glaring light,
Eclips'd by black reproach and everlasting night.

Nor is your time mis-spent in Parchment-Far,
The Hellish Bustle of the Bar,
Where the loud tough-lung'd Tribe wage an eternal War;
A War while there: — high words are rais'd,
Their Pedigree and Vertues blaz'd:
That is the Issue of a first-rate Clown,
That wore his Leathern-Breeches up to Town;
This is a Pimp to Causes, such a Cheat,
He'd pawn his Soul for a five-shilling Treat:
This has a Conscience steel'd, and this a Face of Brass,
And he that looks so gravely is an Ass:
Yet when they next meet they agree,
(Litigious Treachery!)
Consult afresh to raise their Client's strife,
And make it last as long as life:
Yet they well know the Law was meant,
What's wrongful to redress,
To free the Poor and Innocent,
And make their suffrings less.
How cou'd Grays-Inn, or how the Temple rise,
(Such pompous Piles as e'n outbrave the Skies,
And seem a dwelling fit for Deities;)
If all the Cash, which such a charge sustain'd,
Had Righteously been gain'd?
Let Lawyers then talk what they please,
Banter, Buz, and ly for Fees,
We see which way they draw;
And safely may assert,
(And all unprejudic't will take our part)
No man can be a thorough Knave that's not bred to the Law.)

But as you shun and hate
These Catterpillars of the State,
That ravage on the Spring just as they please,
And leave the Barren after-crop to other Sciences;
So you laugh too at those
(For they deserve not pity but your scorn)
That madly run into the dang'rous Noose,
And painful Bondage before freedom chuse —
But Asses are for slavery born:
Such Bruits! They wou'd let all the poor
Rot and perish at the door,
E're they'd relieve'em with a single Mite;
Yet wast Estates to propagate their spite:
Wou'd give a Million, without grutch,
To Pettifoggers, Rooks and such,
Just for the dear delight to make another spend as much:
Reflecting not what will, at last, befal,
Or who stands waiting by to sweep up all.
At the Groom-Porter's, so,
I've seen the Fops impatient for the throw,
Win there three hands and pay,
But leave not off their play,
Till, between what was won and lost,
Fortune from one to t'other tost,
Wise Niel has half the Cash engross'd;
Still they push on, nor mind th' impendent ill,
The Purse will empty as the Box does fill.
And so too have I read
In living lines, though the fam'd Author's dead:
The Frog and Mouse were once at mortal strife,
And each in equal hazard of his life;
The Kite who saw the vain contest,
(And, by the way,
Lawyers, like them, are Birds of prey)
To give a warning to the rest,
And make their senseless fewd a jest,
Devours 'em both, ends the dispute.
Dull Souls! whom such Examples can't confute.

Nor stop you here; the Velvet-Quack
That wears a Leash of Lives upon his back,
Feels your Resentment like the rest,
For him a like disgust express't:
Nor does the grave Disguise
(Which he affects to make us think he's wife)
Preserve him from the Notion of a Cheat,
That grows by purging, and by poys'ning great:
How negligent they are we see,
And careful of our Lives what need they be,
That both ways, live or dy, will have their Fee?
By Indirection thus they raise their store;
Keep their gay Lacquey, Coach and Whore,
And Fops of Quality can do no more.
As for Religion, what they have, they feign,
'Tis not consistent with their way of gain,
T'wou'd make 'em charitable paths pursue,
Which they that will be rich can never do.
Their Spawn, Th' Apothecary, too,
Who Leech-like cleave to the poor Patient close,
And suck their Purses full e're they break loose,
With their damn'd, long, unconscionable Bills,
Bring in as many Pounds as they deliver Pills:
Thus Fools, with Villains willfully complying,
Are made to pay for dying:
Nay some leave 'em large Legacies by Will,
And, ev'n in Death, admire their Murd'rer's Skill.

Unhappy, foolish, wilful Man,
Preposterous! from thy self thy Woes began:
Of all created things none are so curst as Thee,
So curst by their Simplicity:
The Feather'd and four-footed kind,
Without those helps we boast to find,
Endure Heav'n's wrath, Excessive heat and cold,
Yet grow, according to their Natures, old;
Nor are among themselves at strife,
How to abridge the little span of Life,
Which of it self, alas! is quickly gone,
And flies too fast to be push't faster on:
But Man, vain Man has found a thousand Keys
To open that one Lock that ends his Days;
Or if Sword, Fire, the Plague and Tempest fail,
They're not Physician-proof, he'll certainly prevail.
O for a Western Wind that may
To the Red-Sea these num'rous Locusts bear,
A greater Curse than those of Egypt were:
They but a while brought Desolation;
But these are fixt a standing Plague to scourge the sinful Nation.

Nor less do you despise
The dull Astrologer's Absurdities,
That through their Telescopes pore on the Skies,
To calculate Nativities,
And find out Fools and Women's Destinies:
When such a one may 'scape being hang'd, or drown'd;
When Spirits walk, where Treasure may be found; —
At Peru, under ground.
When Comets hang in Air,
With swinging Tails and blazing Hair,
To what part of the World they threaten Plague and War.
What all our senseless Dreams import
(Drest in a thousand various shapes,
Centaures, Chimaera's, Bulls and Apes)
When Fancy is dispos'd her Airyship to sport.
And thus, with their twelve Houses, and their Schemes,
Run into more Ridiculous Extremes,
Than Poets, Fools and Madmen in their Dreams;
How can Another's Fate by him be known
That's Ignorant of his Own?
Or how reveal th'Intriegues of France and Rome,
That knows not when a Parliament will be call'd here at home?
Can those into Fate's dark Recesses see,
And find what is to be,
That shall forget (to prove how far they stray)
What their own selves did Yesterday?
To tell what is to come how dare they boast,
That can't retrieve the slightest Image memory has lost?

In the same File with these you do
The Virtuosi place;
Though, to speak truth, they don't deserve that Grace:
Who is it that can see
Their Magazins of Trumpery,
And how preposterously they're all employ'd,
And not, at the first view, be cloy'd?
Here one, that thinks he is no Ass —
(And 'tis but thought — but let it pass)
Has in his Magnifying Glass
Stuck up a Crab-louse, and does pry
Upon't with such a heedful Eye,
You'd swear some horrid Prodigy,
Or a new World were just upon Discovery;
Yet all the while shall have no other aim,
Than just to see, as 'tis divulg'd by Fame,
If it be like the Fish that bears that name:
Then into their Extraction they enquire,
And prove 'em Cousin Germans, if not nigher.
Another does to Montpelier repair,
To bring home bottl'd Air;
Extremely good to let loose here,
A Pint enough to purify a Shire.
A third will send for Water from the Rhine,
Only to make comparison between
The Thames and that, which of the two's most light,
Or which will freeze the thickest in a night.
Others aver, the Mites in Cheese
Like in a Monarchy, like Bees,
Have civil Laws and Magistrates,
Their Rise, their Periods and Fates,
Like other Human Powers and States;
And, by a strange, peculiar Art,
Can hear 'em sneeze, discourse and fart:
These Men by right shou'd be Ass-trologers,
And hold Acquaintance with the Stars,
Happy for doubting Man 'twou'd be;
For they that have such Ears, what is't they may not see?

Nay ev'n Philosophy is not exempt
From meriting contempt:
'Tis true, it's Excellencies are
Above all other Learning far;
That but a Glow-worm, this a Star;
Yet 'tis not wholly priviledg'd from Fau'ts,
And those employ my present thoughts.
How many wild Opinions have took Birth
From Man? that lumpish Son of Earth
That blindly groaps on in the dark:
For all their works express,
The best of 'em but spoke by guess,
No wonder they shoot wide that cannot see the mark
Here one, the first and wisest, did not know
But that this All was always as 'tis now,
And did on it's Power depend,
As Self-Existent, and wou'd never end.
Another (as if just wak'd from a Trance,
And seen the Atoms in their Antick Dance;
Those Atoms, which he says, all sorts of Union past,
Leap't into Form, and made a World at last)
Asserts 'twill perish, as it came, by chance.
A third the Earth is fixt, and all above,
Sun, Moon and Stars for ever round it move.
Others call this in doubt,
And say the Earth is whirl'd about,
By a Finger and a Thumb at first set up,
And spun e'r since just like a School-boy's Top,
While the superiour Orbs of light
Stand gazing on, and wonder at the sight.
Some, that the Moon's a World, and add withal
This Globe on which we tread, this pond'rous Ball,
(A fine task to discuss!)
Is but a Moon to that, as that to us.

As Contradictory are all
Their Notions of the Soul;
So hard, so difficultly solv'd,
And with so many wild perplexities involv'd,
The more w' unravel w' are the less resolv'd:
So a benighted Traveller that strays,
And comes to have, at once, his choice of many ways,
(For what is human Wisdom but a Maze?)
Stands reasoning with himself and doubtful long,
Choses, and wanders further in the wrong.
Quite as abstruse is what they say
Of Mankind's final good,
As little understood;
Here, one does place it, and another, here,
And all the while, alas! they grasp but Air;
For certain happiness we ne'r can know;
A Jewel 'tis too glorious to be worn below.
How senseless and how vain a thing is Man?
That, with his little span,
Pretends the height and depth, and breadth of Providence to scan!
Attempts to grasp whole Nature in his hand,
Whose smallest part he ne'r can understand!
From hence my Muse, with conscious awe, retires,
And all she cannot comprehend, admires.

Pardon me, generous Souls, I have digress't too long,
But my Digression has not done you wrong;
For while I show the Follies you despise,
The Lyon's Skin that you pluck off, and find
What sordid Creature lurks behind;
While this I tell, Impartial Men will guess,
By the degenerate Paths you shun,
In what a noble track you run,
And by the Vice you hate, the Virtues you possess;
Your Virtues, which, by me,
If you assist, shall be
Deliver'd down to all Posterity.
Here, therefore, I again your aid require,
That with fresh Spirit you'd the Muse inspire,
That while through airy, untrac'd ways I fly,
And nothing see but Sky,
I to your Worth may a just Tribute bring;
And keep the towring Pegasus on Wing,
Till it has fixt your Name
Among the happiest Favourites of Fame;
From her Records ne'r to be rac'd,
Till the loud Trumpet's general blast,
And Nature, Death and Time have breath'd their last.

First, your Religion shall be shown;
Though Zealots may, perhaps, think you have none.
All vain Disputings you avoid,
(Disputes with which, of late, w' have been so cloy'd)
But chiefly those, that tend
This Faith t' oppose, or that defend;
For such can never have an end.
For while there wants a measure to decide
The right from wrong, the diff'rence must abide:
True, Scripture is sufficient, and wou'd do't,
But that, alas! is Mute;
And this will wrest it one way, that another,
And, knowing this, why keep they such a pother?
The Points in Question I'll not here
Pretend to darken, or to clear,
But leave 'em to the holy, wrangling Men;
Such Iargon wou'd defile a Poet's Pen:
Yet this, without a Perspective, I see,
Their Interest, Prejudice and Pride, will ne're let 'em agree;
Each day the diff'rence grows more wild,
And all the Parties are resolv'd not to be reconcil'd.
Thus, to their everlasting shame,
They fix a scandal on the Christian name,
And tarnish the bright Lustre of it's (else unspotted) Fame.
'Tis this which makes the Atheist fleer and laugh,
And, equally, at all Religion scoff;
For how (they'l say)
How can we chuse but go astray,
When ev'n our Guides themselves take each a different way?
And these damn those, without Reprieve,
For not believing what they can't believe?

But you, Illustrious Souls, see this,
See all, and know that all's amiss;
And very wisely trace
The moderate Path, and keep the moderate pace;
While violent men, daz'd in their rash carere,
Fall from their aim, and meet the ills they fear:
But, Carrier-like, you cheerfully jogg on,
(Yet not so slow to mire,
Nor yet so fast to tire)
And the extremes of either hand you shun:
And just as the kind Sun,
(That cheers you while he shines)
Has chang'd the shadows and declines,
You'l arrive safely at your happy Inn,
When others the long Iourney but begin:
Lost and benighted, on they stray,
And perish in their Doubts before 'tis day.
In short, Faith's necessary Rules are few,
And you those Rules pursue;
And a good Man has little else to do.

Your Morals too with your Religion fit,
And both are suited to your Wit:
Your Wit! which does deserve immortal praise,
A Wreath of Stars instead of Bays.
Your Wit! which can at once instruct and please,
And give the vitious Patient timely ease;
Discover his loose deeds and frantick thoughts,
And laugh him to a loathing of his Fau'ts:
Your Wit! so charming, those that hear
Cou'd wish they were all Ear;
No sooner they admire,
But some new rapture lifts their wonder higher!
Not taken up on trust, no plated Brass,
But Currant Coin that every where will pass:
From painful Learning and Experience drain'd,
And as with labour got, so with delight retain'd.
No glaring Meteor that makes us gaze,
And spends it self all in a blaze,
But, like the Sun, a lasting sourse of light,
Which, though it must decline, 'tis but to rise more bright.
Your Wit! which never values Man the more
For Wealth and Power,
Or what his lewd Ambition does devour;
His Pride, Vain-Glory, awful Port,
Which meets so much regard at Court,
It justly damns and makes a May-game sport.
No barren Jest, the Carman's Mirth,
Or Clinches e're from you take Birth;
But all you speak is nervous, strong,
And soft as Philomela's Song,
While Fools, unknowingly, advance,
And if they're Witty, 'tis th' effect of Chance.

When met, with grave Harangues you first begin,
Such as from Kings might just attention win:
Shew us how far w' have been misled
Both by the living and the dead:
Free us from Prejudice and Lies,
Nonsense, Impossibilities,
And Wolves in Sheep's disguise,
With all the Snares Malice and Zeal have laid,
By bringing our own Reason to our aid:
Our Reason, still in danger try'd,
And always prov'd a faithful guide:
Reason, the Polar Star
That does discover Happiness from far,
Straiten the Crooked Path, found by so few,
Contract the space and set all Heav'n in view.
A Pilot that can through Life's Ocean steer
As safe in Storms, as if the Skies were clear:
While those who stupidly believe,
And pin their Faith upon a Zealot's sleeve,
Are still with doubts and killing Fears perplext,
This hour of one perswasion, none the next:
But Reason, drest in Adamantine Arms,
Does end the frightful Charms;
All subtil shifts descry,
With it's sharp-sighted Eagle's Eye,
Before whose pow'rful Rays the gloomy Phantoms fly.

While thus you hold discourse, the Goblet's crown'd,
And twice or thrice does nimbly move around:
Care, that disturber of our rest,
That grows habitual to the Breast,
And hardly ever leaves what it has once possest,
Ev'n that curst Fiend at such a time takes wing,
And Envy drops her sting:
Yet nothing idle, or profane,
Lewd, Ridiculous, or vain,
Nothing is spoke but what the Nuns might hear,
Were they much chaster than they are.
With you Mirth's cloath'd in it's true, genuine shape,
Not like an Ass, an Owl, or Ape,
But in the same garb it was drest by Ben.
There's as much difference between Mirth as Men.
And now you Envy not ev'n Kings themselves,
Nor all the under-fry of courtly Elves;
Who, like the Moon, their borrow'd lustre owe,
And Tradesmen are the Suns that make 'em glitter so.
The troubles of Mortality you view,
(Those num'rous, and it's Blessings few)
The evil that o'r Mankind brooding sits,
That fattens Fools and starves the Wits:
What Fears and Iealousies are broach't by Knaves,
Believ'd by Cowards, Pimps and Slaves:
And since true pleasure flits and will not stay,
You this way take a draught without allay;
And make the dull Fatigue of Life fly pleasantly away!

What Honours then, you mighty few,
Ought here to be conferr'd on you;
That make Life pleasant, and improve your selves in knowledge too?
What Trophies to your Fame must we erect!
And O! what wonders may we not expect,
Though distant now, brought home within our view,
By Men so qualify'd as you?
That, ev'n at your first setting out, can be
So worthy of a History!
But that I know you will not raise
A Monument in your own praise,
I shou'd presume to ask
Some one of you to undertake that task:
For where, alas! where else can there be found
A Sprat, your Grandeur to resound?
Where else a Cowley, in his lofty Verse
Your Glories to reherse,
And to the Heav'nly Arch make the loud Echo bound?
Your Glory, which, like the fix't Star, wou'd shine,
And as propitious be,
To all that want a guide, as He,
Had this great Subject been adorn'd by any Muse but mine.