But now, methinks, some formal band and beard Takes me to task: come on, sir, I'm prepared.

Then, by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibing, jingling 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?
Bless'd, glorious man, to whom alone kind heav'n
An everlasting soul has 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.
Hold, mighty man, I cry, all this we know

Maintenant je crois voir, tout fourré comme un ours, Un gros docteur barbu me tenir ce discours:

TAYLOR

Fort bien, mon jeune ami; j'aime que votre muse
Combatte cet esprit qui plait, séduit, abuse,
Cet esprit que je hais. Je vous approuve fort;
Mais n'allez pas trop loin; entendons-nous d'abord:
De l'esprit, comme vous, je déteste l'usage,
Et j'allais le fesser dans quelque bon ouvrage;
Déjà, même, déjà, j'étais sûr du succès;
Votre indiscrétion dérange mes projets:
Il y faut renoncer; votre fougue indocile
Me fait porter ailleurs et mon encre et ma bile;
Quel démon, juste ciel, vous souffla le dessein
D'attaquer la raison et tout le genre humain?
Oui, de son créateur image noble et belle,
L'homme seul, distingué par une âme immortelle,
Monarque enorgueilli de ce superbe don,
Sur tous les animaux règne par la raison;
La raison qui, des sens franchissant la barrière,
S'élance fièrement à la cause première;

Loin des bords enflammés de ce vaste univers,
S'élève dans les cieux ou descend aux enfers;
Et, perçant les secrets de la Toute-puissance,
Fixe, du genre humain, la crainte et l'espérance.

O grand homme, arrêtez, et sachez que déjà

From the pathetic pen of Ingelo;

From Patrick's pilgrim, Stillingfleet's replies,
And 'tis this very reason I despise;
This supernat❜ral gift, that makes a mite
Think he's the image of the infinite;
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the eternal, and the ever-blest.
This busy puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds 'em out;
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those rev'rend Bedlams, colleges and schools;
Borne on whose wings, each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe;

So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcass thro' the sky.
Tis this exalted pow'r, whose bus'ness lies
In nonsense and impossibilities,
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
And we have modern cloister'd coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do:
But thoughts are giv'n for action's governement;
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent.
Our sphere of action is life's happiness;
And he who thinks beyond, thinks like an ass.
Thus whilst against false reas'ning I inveigh,

I own right reason, which I would obey;

Dans l'illustre Ingelo j'avais lu tout cela.
Mais ce que vous vantez, docteur, je le méprise;
Vous appellez raison, moi je nomme sottise
Ce don surnaturel par qui seul, en effet,
Un atôme, d'un Dieu croit être le portrait,
Mesure sa faiblesse à la Tout-puissance,
Près de l'éternité met sa courte existence,

Et, malheureux, se croit formé pour le bonheur.
Raison, faible instrument de vertige et d'erreur,
Toi qui penses d'un Dieu pénétrer les mystères,
Et te perds follement dans tes propres chimères,
Oui, c'est toi qui bátis ces petites maisons,
Ces Bedlams décorés de respectables noms,
Ces universités et ces académies,

Théâtres discordans des humaines folies.

Là, ces graves penseurs, grimpés sur leur raison,
Comme Astolfe autrefois monta sur son griffon,
D'un monde illimité vont franchir les limites.
Là, ces fats encloîtrés, paresseux cénobites,
A servir les humains craignant de s'abaisser,
Ne sachant point agir, s'enferment pour penser.
Sans action, pourtant, il n'est point de sagesse,
Où l'action finit, docteur, le bonheur cesse.

Mais pour trancher ici des discours superflus, J'estime la raison et j'en blâme l'abus;

That reason which distinguishes by sense,
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence:
That bounds desires with a reforming will,
To keep 'em more in vigour, not to kill.
Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy;
Yours would renewing appetites destroy.
My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat:
Hunger calls out, my reason bids me eat,
Perversely yours your appetite does mock;
This asks for food, that answers, what's o' clock?
This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures;
"Tis not true reason I despise, but yours.

Thus I think reason righted; but for man, I'll ne'er recant, defend him if

you can; For all his pride, and his philosophy, 'Tis evident, beasts are, in their degree, As wise at least, and better far than he. Those creatures are the wisest who attain, By surest means, the ends at which they aim. If therefore Jowler finds and kills his hare, Better than Meers supplies committee-chair; Tho' one's a statesman, t'other but a hound, Jowler, in justice, will be wiser found.