Q. C. S. Urgest thou that against me, which thyself
Has been the wicked cause of? Which thy power,
Thy artifice, thy favourites have done?
Could Common Sense bear universal sway,
No fool could ever possibly be great.
Q. Ign. What is this folly, which you try to paint
In colours so detestable and black?
Is't not the general gift of fate to men?
And though some few may boast superior sense,
Are they not call'd odd fellows by the rest?
In any science, if this sense peep forth,
Shew men the truth, and strive to turn their steps
From ways wherein their gross forefathers err'd,
Is not the general cry against them straight?
Sneer. This Ignorance, Mr Fustian, seems to know a great deal.
Fust. Yes, sir, she knows what she has seen so often; but you find she mistakes the cause, and Common Sense can never beat it into her.
Q. Ign. Sense is the parent still of fear; the fox,
Wise beast, who knows the treachery of men,
Flies their society, and skulks in woods,
While the poor goose, in happiness and ease,
Fearless grows fat within its narrow coop,
And thinks the hand that feeds it is its friend;
Then yield thee, Common Sense, nor rashly dare
Try a vain combat with superior force.
Q. C. S. Know, queen, I never will give up the cause
Of all these followers: when at the head
Of all these heroes I resign my right,
May my curst name be blotted from the earth!
Sneer. Methinks, Common Sense, though, ought to give it up, when she has no more to defend it.
Fust. It does indeed look a little odd at present; but I'll get her an army strong enough against its acted. Come, go on.
Q. Ign. Then thus I hurl defiance at thy head. Draw all your swords.
Q. C. S. And, gentlemen, draw yours.