YES, you despise the man to books confin'd,
Who from his study rails at human-kind;
Tho' what he learns he speaks, and may advance
Some gen'ral maxims or be right by chance.
The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,
That from his cage cries Cuckold, Whore, and Knave,
Tho' many a passenger he rightly call,
You hold him no philosopher at all.
And yet the fate of all extremes is such,
Men may be read, as well as books, too much.
To observations which ourselves we make
We
grow more partial for th' observer's sake;
To written wisdom, as another's less:
Maxims are drawn from notions, these from guess.
There's some peculiar in each leaf and grain,
Some unmark'd fibre, or some varying vein.
Shall only man be taken in the gross?
Grant but as many sorts of mind as moss.
That each from other differs first confess,
Next, that he varies from himself no less;
Add Nature's, Custom's, Reason's, Passion's strife,
And all Opinion's colours cast on life.
Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows finds? Quick whirls and shifting eddies of our minds,
On human actions reason tho' you can,
It may be reason, but it is not man:
His principle of action once explore,
That instant 'tis his principle no more.
Like following life thro' creatures you dissect,
You lose it in the moment you detect.
Yet more; the diff'rence is as great between
The optics seeing as the objects seen.
All manners take a tincture from our own,
Or come discolour'd thro' our passions shown;
Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies,
Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
Nor will life's stream for observation stay,
It hurries all too fast to mark their way:
In vain sedate reflections we would make,
When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.
Oft' in the passions' wild rotation tost,
Our spring of action to ourselves is lost:
Tir'd, not determin'd, to the last we yield,
And what comes then is master of the field.
As the last image of that troubled heap,
When sense subsides, and fancy sports in sleep,
(Tho' past the recollection of the thought)
Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought;
Something as dim to our internal view
Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do.
True, some are open, and to all men known;
Others so very close they're hid from none;
(So darkness strikes the sense no less than light ;)
Thus gracious Chandos is belov❜d at sight;
And ev'ry child hates Shylock, tho' his soul
Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.
At half mankind when gen'rous Manly raves,
All know 'tis virtue, for he thinks them knaves:
When universal homage Umbra pays,
All see 'tis vice, and itch of vulgar praise.
When flatt'ry glares all hate it in a queen,
While one there is who charms us with his spleen. But these plain characters we rarely find;
Tho' strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:
Or puzzling contraries confound the whole,
Or affectations quite reverse the soul.
The dull flat falsehood serves for policy;
And in the cunning truth itself's a lie :
Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wise,;
The fool lies hid in inconsistencies.
See the same man in vigour, in the gout,
Alone, in company, in place, or out,
Early at bus'ness, and at hazard late,
Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate,
Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball,
Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall.
Catius is ever moral, ever grave,
Thinks who endures a knave is next a knave,
Save just at dinner then prefers, no doubt,
A rogue with ven'son to a saint without.
Who would not praise Patricio's high desert,
His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart,
His comprehensive head! all int’rests weigh'd,
All Europe sav'd, yet Britain not betray'd.
He thanks you not, his pride is in Picquette,
New-market fame, and judgment at a bett.
What made (say Montaigne, or more sage Charron) Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon?
A perjur'd prince a leaden saint revere,
A godless regent tremble at a star?
The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit,
Faithless thro' piety, and dup'd thro' wit?
Europe a woman, child, or dotard, rule,
And just her wisest monarch made a fool?
Know, God and Nature only are the same.
In man the judgment shoots at flying game;
A bird of passage, gone as soon as found;
Now in the moon, perhaps now under ground.
In vain the sage, with retrospective eye, Would from th' apparent what conclude the why, Infer the motive from the deed, and show
That what we chanc'd was what we meant to do.
Behold! if Fortune or a mistress frowns,
Some plunge in bus'ness, others shave their crowns:
To ease the soul of one oppressive weight
This quits an empire, that embroils a state.
The same adust complexion has impell❜d
Charles to the convent, Philip to the field.
Not always actions shew the man: we find
Who does a kindness is not therefore kind :
Perhaps prosperity becalm'd his breast;
Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east:
Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat;
Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great.
Who combats bravely is not therefore brave;
He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave.
Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise;
His pride in reas'ning, not in acting, lies.
But grant that actions best discover men; Take the most strong, and sort them as you can: The few that glare each character must mark; 121 You balance not the many in the dark.
|