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THE WORKS OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE _JOHN_ Earl of _Rochester_.
Consisting of SATIRES, SONGS, TRANSLATIONS, AND OTHER Occasional POEMS.
_LONDON_: Printed for the Booksellers of _London_ and _Westminster_. 1718. Price 1 _s._
Horace_'s Nempe incomposita dixi pede, &c. imitated._ p. 19
_A Letter from _Artemisa_ in the Town, to _Cloe_ in the Country._ p. 29
_An Epistolary Essay from _M. G._ to _O. B._ upon their mutual Poems._ p. 41
_The ninth Elegy in the second Book of _Ovid_'s Amours translated._ To Love. p. 58
_A Young Lady to her antient Lover. A Song._ p. 71
Were I, who to my Cost already am, One of those strange, prodigious Creatures _Man_, A Spirit free, to chuse for my own Share, } What Sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, } I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear; } Or any thing, but that vain Animal, Who is so proud of being Rational. The Senses are too gross; and he'll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five: And before certain Instinct, will prefer Reason, which fifty Times for one does err. Reason, an _Ignis Fatuus_ of the Mind, Which leaves the Light of Nature, Sense, behind. Pathless, and dang'rous, wand'ring Ways it takes, Thro Error's fenny Boggs, and thorny Brakes: Whilst the misguided Follower climbs with Pain Mountains of Whimseys heapt in his own Brain; Stumbling from Thought to Thought, falls headlong down Into Doubt's boundless Sea, where like to drown, Books bear him up a while, and make him try To swim with Bladders of Philosophy: In hopes still to o'ertake the skipping Light, } The Vapour dances in his dazzled Sight, } Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night. } Then old Age and Experience, Hand in Hand, Lead him to Death, and make him understand, After a Search so painful, and so long, That all his Life he has been in the wrong. Huddled in Dirt the reas'ning Engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise: Pride drew him in, as Cheats their Bubbles catch, And made him venture to be made a Wretch: His Wisdom did his Happiness destroy, Aiming to know the World he should enjoy. And Wit was his vain frivolous Pretence, Of pleasing others at his own Expence. For _Wits_ are treated just like _Common-Whores_; First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of Doors. The Pleasure past, a threat'ning Doubt remains, That frights th' Enjoyer with succeeding Pains. Women, and Men of Wit are dang'rous Tools, And ever fatal to admiring Fools. Pleasure allures, and when the Fops escape, } 'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate; } And therefore what they fear, at Heart they hate. } But now methinks some formal Band and Beard Takes me to Task, Come on, Sir, I am prepar'd: Then by your favour, any thing that's writ Against this gibing, gingling Knack call'd Wit, Likes me abundantly; but you'll take Care Upon this Point not to be too severe: Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this Part; } For I profess I can be very smart } On Wit, which I abhor with all my Heart. } I long to lash it in some sharp Essay, } But your grand Indiscretion bids me stay, } And turns my Tide of Ink another Way. } What Rage ferments in your degen'rate Mind, To make you rail at Reason and Mankind? Blest glorious Man, to whom alone kind Heav'n An everlasting Soul hath freely giv'n; Whom his great Maker took such Care to make, That from himself he did the Image take; And this fair Frame in shining Reason drest, To dignify his Nature above Beast. Reason, by whose aspiring Influence, We take a Flight beyond Material Sense, Dive into Mysteries, then soaring pierce The flaming Limits of the Universe; Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there, And give the World true Grounds of Hope and Fear.