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A
SATYR
AGAINST
MANKIND.
Written by a Person of HONOUR.
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WEre I, who to my cost, already am,
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One of those strange, prodigious creatures Man;
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A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
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What sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear,
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I'd be a Dog, a Monkey or a Bear:
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Or any thing, but that vain Animal,
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Who is so proud of being rational.
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His Senses are too gross; and he'll contrive
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A sixth, to contradict the other five:
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And before certain Instinct, will preferr
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Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.
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Reason, an Ignis fatuus of the mind,
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Which leaves the Light of mature Sense behind.
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Pathless, and dangerous, wandr'ing wayes, it takes,
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Through errors fenny Bogs, and Thorny Brakes:
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Whil'st the mis-guided follower thinks, with pain,
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Mountains of Whimseys, heap't in his own brain;
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Stumbling from thought, to thought, falls headlong down
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Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown,
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Books bear him up a while, and make him try
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To swim with Bladders of Philosophy:
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In hopes still to o'retake the skipping Light,
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The Vapour dances, in his Dazeling sight,
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Till spent, it leaves him to Eternal night.
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Then Old Age, and Experience, hand in hand,
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Leads him to Death, makes him to understand,
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After a search so painful, and so long,
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That all his Life, he has been in the wrong.
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Hudled in Dirt, the reas'ning Engine lies,
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Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise:
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Pride drew him in, as Cheats their Bubbles catch,
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And made him venture, to be made a wretch:
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His Wisdom did his happiness destroy,
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Aiming to know, what World he should enjoy.
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And Wit was all his frivolous pretence,
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Of pleasing others at his own expence.
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For Wits are treated just like Common Whores;
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First they;re enjoy'd, and then kickt out of doors.
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[Th]e pleasure past, a threatning doubt remains,
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That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains.
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Women, and men of Wit, are dang'rous Tools,
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And ever fatal to admiring Fools,
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Pleasure allures, and when the fopps escape,
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'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate;
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And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.
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But now methinks some formal Baud and Beard,
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Takes me to Task; Come on Sir, I'me prepar'd:
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Then by your favour, anything that's writ
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Against this gibing, gingling knack, call'd Wit,
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Likes me abundantly, but you'l take care
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Upon this point, not to be too severe,
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Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part,
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For I profess, I can be very smart
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On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart:
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I long to lash it, in some sharp Essay,
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But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,
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And turns my Tyde of Ink, another way.
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What rage foments, in your degen'rate mind,
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To make you rail at reason, and mankind?
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Blest Glorious man, to whom alone kind Heav'n
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An Everlasting Soul hath freely given:
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Whom his great Maker took such care to make,
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That from himself he did the Image take,
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And this fair frame in shining reason drest,
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To dignifie his Nature above Beast.
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Reason, (by whose aspiring influence,
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We take a flight beyond material sense,)
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Dives into Mysteries, then soaring pierce
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The flaming limits of the Universe,
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Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there,
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And give the World true ground of hope and fear.
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Hold mighty man I cry; all this we know,
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From the pathetick pen of Ingelo,
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From Patricks Pilgrim, Sibbs Soliloquies,
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And 'tis this very Reason I despise,
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This supernatural gift, that makes a mite,
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Think he's the Image of the Infinite;
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Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
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To the Eternal, and the ever blest,
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This busie pushing stirrer up of doubt,
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That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
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Filling with Frantick crouds, of thinking Fools,
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The Reverend Bedlams, Colledges and Schools,
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Born on whose wings, each heavy Sot can pierce
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The Limits of the boundless Universe:
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So Charming Oyntments make an old Witch flye,
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And bear a crippled Carkass through the Skie.
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'Tis the exalted poor, whose business lies
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In Nonsence and Impossibilities:
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This made a Whimsical Philosopher,
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Before the spacious World his Tubb prefer:
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And we have many modern Coxcombs, who
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Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.
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But thoughts were given for actions Government;
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Where action ceases, thought's impertinent
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Our Sphere of action is lifes happiness,
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And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an ass.
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Thus whilst against false reas'ning I inveigh,
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I own right reason, which I would obey;
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That reason, which distinguishes which sense,
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And gives us rules of good and ill from thence:
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That bounds desires, with a reforming will,
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To keep them more in vogue, and not to kill:
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Your Reason hinders; mine helps to enjoy,
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Renewing Appetites, yours would destroy.
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My Reason is my friend, yours is a Cheat:
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Hunger calls out, my Reason bids me eat;
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Perversly yours, your Appetite does mock:
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This asks for food, that answers what's a Clock.
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This plain distinction, Sir, your doubt secures:
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'Tis not true Reason I despise, but yours.
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Thus, I think Reason righted; But for man,
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I'le ne're recant, defend him if you can.
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For all his Pride, and his Philosophie,
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'Tis evident Beasts are, in their own Degree,
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As Wise at least, and Better far, than he.
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Those Creatures are the wisest, who attain
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By surest means, the ends at which they aim.
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If therefore Jowler finds, and kills, the Hares
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Better than man supplies Committee Chairs;
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Though one's a Statesman, th' other but a Hound;
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Jowler in Justice, will be wiser found.
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You see how far mans Wisdom here extends:
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Look next if Human Nature makes amends;
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Whose principles are most Generous and Just;
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And to whose morals, you would sooner trust:
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Be Judge yourself, I'le bring it to the Test,
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Which is the basest Creature, Man, or Beast:
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Birds feed on Birds, Beasts on each other prey;
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But salvage Man alone, does Man Betray.
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Prest by Necessity, they kill for food;
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Man undoes man, to do himself no good.
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With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature arm'd, they Hunt,
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Natures allowance, to supply their want:
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But man with Smiles, Embraces, Friendships, Praise,
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Inhumanly, his fellows life betrayes,
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With voluntary pains, works his distress;
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Not through Necessity, but Wantonness.
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For hunger, or for love they bite or tear,
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Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear
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For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid:
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From fear, to fear, successively betray'd.
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Base fear, the source, whence his best passions came,
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His boasted Honor, and his dear bought Fame:
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[?]st of Pow'r, to which he's such a slave,
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And for the which alone, he dares be brave:
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To which his various projects are design'd,
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Which makes him Generous, Affable and Kind:
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For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
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And scrues his actions, in a forc't disguise:
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Leads a most tedious life, in misery,
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Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie.
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Look to the Bottom of his vast design,
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Wherein man's Wisdom, Pow'r and Glory joyn;
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The Good he acts, the Ill he does endure,
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'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.
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Meerly for safety, after fame they thirst,
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For all men would be Cowards if they durst:
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And honesty's against all common sense,
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Must men be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence,
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Mankind's dishonest; if you think if fair,
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Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,
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You'le be undone.
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Nor can weak Truth, your reputation save;
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The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave.
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Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o're, opprest,
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Who dares be lesser Villain, than the rest.
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Thus here you see, what Human Nature craves,
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Most men are Cowards, all men should be Knaves.
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The Difference lyes, as far as I can see,
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Not in the thing itself, but the Degree:
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And all the subject matter of Debate,
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Is only who's a Knave, of the first Rate.
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