Cut from the anchorage of God, his bark is a plaything of the billows;
The compass of his principle is broken, the rudder of his faith unshipped:
Chance and Fate, in a stultified antagonism, govern all for him;
Truth sprang from the conflict of falsities, and the multitude of accidents hath bred design!
Where is the imposture so gross, that shall not entrap his curiosity?
What superstition is so abject, that it doth not blanch his cheek?
Whereof can he be sure, with whom Chaos is substitute for Order?
How should his silly structure stand, a pyramid built upon its apex?—
Yea, I have seen grey-headed men, the bastard slips of science,
Go for light to glow-worms, while they scorn the sun at noon: