Classic Poem

A PINDARIC ODE .

'Tis well that equal Heav'n has plac'd
Those joys above, that to reward
The just and virtuous, are prepar'd,
Beyond their reach until their pains are past;
Else men would rather venture to possess
By force, than earn their happiness;
And only take the devil's advice,
As Adam did, how soonest to be wise,
Though at the' expense of Paradise:
For, as some say, to fight is but a base
Mechanic handy-work, and far below
A generous spirit to' undergo;
So 'tis to take the pains to know,
Which some, with only confidence and face,
More easily and ably do;
For daring nonsense seldoms fails to hit,
Like scatter'd shot, and pass with some for wit.
Who would not rather make himself a judge,
And boldly usurpate the chair,
Than with dull industry and care
Endure to study, think, and drudge,
For that which he much sooner may advance
With obstinate and pertinacious ignorance?

For all men challenge, though in spite
Of Nature and their stars, a right
To censure, judge, and know,
Though she can only order who
Shall be, and who shall ne'er be wise:
Then why should those whom she denies
Her favour and good graces to
Not strive to take opinion by surprise,
And ravish what it were in vain to woo?
For he that desperately assumes
The censure of all wits and arts,
Though without judgment, skill, and parts,
Only to startle and amuse,
And mask his ignorance (as Indians use
With gaudy-colour'd plumes
Their homely nether parts to' adorn)
Can never fail to captive some
That will submit to his oraculous doom,
And reverence what they ought to scorn,
Admire his sturdy confidence
For solid judgment and deep sense;
And credit purchas'd without pains or wit,
Like stolen pleasures, ought to be most sweet.

Two self-admirers, that combine
Against the world, may pass a fine
Upon all judgment, sense, and wit,
And settle it as they think fit
On one another, like the choice
Of Persian princes, by one horse's voice:
For those fine pageants which some raise,
Of false and disproportion'd praise,
To' enable whom they please to' appear,
And pass for what they never were,
In private only being but nam'd,
Their modesty must be asham'd,
And not endur'd to hear,
And yet may be divulg'd and fam'd,
And own'd in public every where:
So vain some authors are to boast
Their want of ingenuity, and club
Their affidavit-wits, to dub
Each other but a Knight o' the Post,
As false as suborn'd perjurers,
That vouch away all right they have to their own ears.

But when all other courses fail,
There is one easy artifice
That seldom has been known to miss,
To cry all mankind down, and rail:
For he whom all men do contemn,
May be allow'd to rail again at them,
And in his own defence
To outface reason, wit, and sense,
And all that makes against himself condemn;
To snarl at all things right or wrong,
Like a mad dog, that has a worm in his tongue;
Reduce all knowledge back of good and evil
To' its first original, the devil;
And, like a fierce inquisitor of wit,
To spare no flesh that ever spoke or writ;
Though to perform his task as dull,
As if he had a toadstone in his skull,
And could produce a greater stock
Of maggots than a pastoral poet's flock.

The feeblest vermin can destroy
As sure as stoutest beasts of prey,
And only with their eyes and breath
Infect and poison men to death;
But that more impotent buffoon
That makes it both his business and his sport
To rail at all, is but a drone
That spends his sting on what he cannot hurt;
Enjoys a kind of lechery in spite,
Like o'ergrown sinners, that in whipping take delight;
Invades the reputation of all those
That have, or have it not to lose;
And if he chance to make a difference,
'Tis always in the wrongest sense:
As rooking gamesters never lay
Upon those hands that use fair play,
But venture all their bets
Upon the slurs and cunning tricks of ablest cheats.

Nor does he vex himself much less
Than all the world beside,
Falls sick of other men's excess,
Is humbled only at their pride,
And wretched at their happiness;
Revenges on himself the wrong
Which his vain malice and loose tongue
To those, that feel it not, have done;
And whips and spurs himself, because he is outgone;
Makes idle characters and tales,
As counterfeit, unlike, and false,
As witches' pictures are of wax and clay
To those, whom they would in effigy slay.
And as the devil that has no shape of's own,
Affects to put the ugliest on,
And leaves a stink behind him when he's gone;
So he that's worse than nothing, strives to' appear
I' the' likeness of a wolf or bear,
To fright the weak; but when men dare
Encounter with him, stinks, and vanishes to air.