Thus Dædalus and Ovid too,
That man’s a blockhead have confessed,
Powel and Stretch [1] the hint pursue;
Life is the farce, the world a jest.
The same great truth South Sea hath proved
On that famed theatre, the ally,
Where thousands by directors moved
Are now sad monuments of folly.
What Momus was of old to Jove
The same harlequin is now;
The former was buffoon above,
The latter is a Punch below.
This fleeting scene is but a stage,
Where various images appear,
In different parts of youth and age
Alike the prince and peasant share.
Some draw our eyes by being great,
False pomp conceals mere wood within,
And legislators rang’d in state
Are oft but wisdom in machine.
A stock may chance to wear a crown,
And timber as a lord take place,
A statue may put on a frown,
And cheat us with a thinking face.
Others are blindly led away,
And made to act for ends unknown,
By the mere spring of wires they play,
And speak in language not their own.
Too oft, alas! a scolding wife
Usurps a jolly fellow’s throne,
And many drink the cup of life
Mix’d and embittered by a Joan.
In short, whatever men pursue
Of pleasure, folly, war, or love,
This mimic-race brings all to view,
Alike they dress, they talk, they move.
Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand,
Mortals to please and to deride,
And when death breaks thy vital band
Thou shalt put on a puppet’s pride.