Classic Poem

Hail, Comus, God of Feasts! severe
Minerva shall not enter here.
Who wou'd be sage , since Fools are blest ,
For ever smiling , and caress'd?
Hence, Doubt! curs'd Reason 's worst Disease!
Ridiculous Desire to Please!
Pale Diffidence , and modest Shame ,
Be gone! we'll not be Slaves to Fame
For an uncertain, empty Name!
Philosophers! who Learning prize,
And hold, 'tis happy , to be wise ,
Why in vain Arts wou'd ye excel
Since Ignorance will do as well?
Why all this Labour to succeed ,
These needless Pains , since 'tis agreed,
That thoughtless Hamor's empty Brain
Affords him, what ye'll scarce obtain
From all these Books , on which ye pore?
Believe me, never Trust them more,
And give your fond Inquiries o'er.
Far better 'tis like him to pass
Your cheerful Mornings at the Glass ,
And doat upon an ugly Face.
Throw by these Volumes! spread the Board
With all the Elements afford!
Bid Cloi , blooming Nymph , advance,
To lead, with Smiles , the sprightly Dance ,
And let the useful Follys reign,
Ye strive so madly to restrain!
They cheat Themselves, who wou'd be Grave ;
Seneca was a wealthy Knave ,
His Morals a proud Stoick 's Tale:
Self-Love , and Pride can never fail.
Who wou'd his Vanities redress,
But steals from his own Happiness,
If to true Wisdom ye'd aspire,
Implicitely your Selves admire!
This, Friends , is to be wise , and blest!
Meer Imposition all the rest.
Then welcome, Comus! bring along
Your Torch , and ferenading Song ;
And shou'd the Fair refuse to rise,
We'll force our Way, and seize the Prize .