Almighty Folly! How shall I thy praise
To Human Understandings raise?
What shall I do
Thy worth to shew?
The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day,
Gives vital warmth and life by ev'ry Ray.
His Blessings he in common grants,
To Hemlock as to nobler Plants;
Thy Virtue thou dost circumscribe,
And dost dispence
Thy influence,
But to the Darlings of thy Tribe,
Thou Wealth and Honour dost bestow
On thy triumphant Fools,
Whilst abject Sence do's barefoot go;
So weak's the Learning of the noisie Schools.
IV.
Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who spend your time
In reading Books,
With thoughtful Heads and meagre Looks,
To Learnings Pinacle, who climb
Through the wild Briers of Philosophy,
The Thorns of harsh Philology,
The dirty Road where Aristotle went
Encumber'd with a thousand terms
Uncouth, Unintelligible,
Not by any fancy fathomable,
Bringing distracted Minds to harms;
The rankest Hellebore cannot prevent.
Tell me, I say, ye Learn'd Sots!
Did e'r the old or new Philosophy,
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?
Tho' you may think your Notions truer,
They'll ne'r advance your Lotts,
To the Estate of Wise Sir Jonathan the Brewer.
V.
A Fool! Heav'ns bless the charming Name,
So much admir'd in Ages past,
As long as this, and all the World shall last,
Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame.
A Fool! what mighty wonders has he wrought?
What mighty Actions done?
Obey'd by all, controul'd by none;
Even Love its self is to its Footstool brought.
For t'other day, I met amidst the Throng
A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young;
Madam, said I, I wish you double Joy,
Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy,
And with my self a sight of him you Wed, }
The happy Part'ner of your Bridal Bed.
Sir, she reply'd, I him in Wedlock had;
Pointing unto an Image by her side,
An odder Figure no Man e'r espy'd,
Long was his Chin, and carotty his Beard,
His Eyes sunk in, and high his Nose was rear'd,
A nauseous ugliness possess'd the Tool,
And scarce had Wit enough to be a Fool:
Bless me (thought I) if Fools such fortune get,
Then who (the Devil) wou'd be plagu'd with wit.
VI.
View but the Realms of Nonsence, see the State,
The Pageant pomp attends the show,
When the great God of Dullness does in triumph go,
How splendid and how great
His num'rous Train of Blockheads do appear?
Almighty Jove,
That governs all above,
Is but a puny to this Mighty God,
The blustring God of War,
Who with one Nod
Makes the Earth tremble from afar,
Guarded with puissant Champions stern and bold
That breath Destruction, talk of bloody Jars,
Have nought but ragged Cloaths to keep off cold,
And tatter'd Ensigns relicks of the Wars.
The God of Dullness mounted on his Throne
Beneath a Canopy
Of fix'd stupidity,
Prostrate his num'rous Subjects tumble down,
They pay obeisance to their gloomy God,
And at his Nod
They act, they move,
They hate, they love,
They bless, they curse, they swear,
For they his Creatures are,
He amply does his Benefits afford,
For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord.
VII.
Then talk no more of Parts and Sence,
For Riches ne'r attend the Wise,
Have you to dullness no pretence,
You shall to Grandeur never rise;
He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull,
Whose very aspect tells the World he is a Fool,
Whose thicker Skull
Is proof against each storm of Fate,
Is Born for Glory, and he shall be Great.
Who 'ere wou'd rise,
Or great Preferment get,
Must nere pretend to Wit,
Or be that monstrous, ill shap'd Man call'd Wise;
He must not boast
Of Learning's Value, or its cost;
But, if he wou'd Preferment have,
He must be much a Fool, or much a Knave.
VIII.