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I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,
But your grand Indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns my Tide of Ink another Way.
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Hold, mighty Man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetick Pen of Ingelo:
From Patrick’s Pilgrim, Sibb’s Soliloquies,
And ’tis this very Reason I despise;
This supernat’ral 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 frantick Crouds of thinking Fools,
The rev’rend Bedlams, Colleges and Schools,
Born 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 crippl’d Carcase 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 many modern Coxcombs who
Retire to think, ’cause they have nought to do.
But Thoughts were giv’n for Action’s Government;
Where Action ceases, Thought’s impertinent.
Our Sphere of Action is Life’s 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 Vigour, 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 my eat;
Perversly yours your Appetite do’s mock;
This asks for Food, that answers what’s’t a Clock.
This plain Distinction, Sir, your Doubt secures;
’Tis not true Reason, I despise but yours.
Thus, I think Reason righted: But for Man,
I’ll ne’er recant, defend him if you can.
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy,
’Tis evident Beasts are, in their Degree,
As wise at least, and better far than he.
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