98
The Complaint.
Night 5.
While Man is growing, Life is in Decrease;
And Cradles rock us nearer to the Tomb.
Our Birth is nothing but our Death begun;
As Tapers waste, that Instant they take Fire.
Shall we then fear, lest that should come to pass,
Which comes to pass each Moment of our Lives?
If fear we must, let that Death turn us pale,
Which murders Strength and Ardor; what remains
Should rather call on Death, than dread his Call.
Ye Partners of my Fault, and my Decline!
Thoughtless of Death, but when your Neighbour's Knell
(Rude Visitant!) knocks hard at your dull Sense,
And with its Thunder scarce obtains your Ear!
Be Death your Theme, in ev'ry Place and Hour;
Nor longer want, ye Monumental Sires!
A Brother Tomb to tell you you shall die.
That Death you dread (so great is Nature's Skill!)
Know, you shall court, before you shall enjoy.
But you are learn'd; in Volumes, deep you sit;
In Wisdom, shallow: Pompous Ignorance!
Wou'd you be still more learned, than the Learn'd?
Learn well to know how much need not be known,
And what that Knowlege, which impairs your Sense.
Our needful Knowlege, like our needful Food,
Unhedg'd, lies open in Life's common Field;
And bids all welcome to the Vital Feast.
You scorn what lies before you in the Page
Of Nature, and Experience, Moral Truth;
Of indispensable, eternal Fruit;
Fruit, on which Mortals feeding, turn to Gods:
And dive in Science for distinguisht Names,
Dishonest Fomentation of your Pride;
Sinking in Virtue, as you rise in Fame.
Your Learning, like the Lunar Beam, affords
Light, but not Heat; it leaves you undevout,
And Cradles rock us nearer to the Tomb.
Our Birth is nothing but our Death begun;
As Tapers waste, that Instant they take Fire.
Shall we then fear, lest that should come to pass,
Which comes to pass each Moment of our Lives?
If fear we must, let that Death turn us pale,
Which murders Strength and Ardor; what remains
Should rather call on Death, than dread his Call.
Ye Partners of my Fault, and my Decline!
Thoughtless of Death, but when your Neighbour's Knell
(Rude Visitant!) knocks hard at your dull Sense,
And with its Thunder scarce obtains your Ear!
Be Death your Theme, in ev'ry Place and Hour;
Nor longer want, ye Monumental Sires!
A Brother Tomb to tell you you shall die.
That Death you dread (so great is Nature's Skill!)
Know, you shall court, before you shall enjoy.
But you are learn'd; in Volumes, deep you sit;
In Wisdom, shallow: Pompous Ignorance!
Wou'd you be still more learned, than the Learn'd?
Learn well to know how much need not be known,
And what that Knowlege, which impairs your Sense.
Our needful Knowlege, like our needful Food,
Unhedg'd, lies open in Life's common Field;
And bids all welcome to the Vital Feast.
You scorn what lies before you in the Page
Of Nature, and Experience, Moral Truth;
Of indispensable, eternal Fruit;
Fruit, on which Mortals feeding, turn to Gods:
And dive in Science for distinguisht Names,
Dishonest Fomentation of your Pride;
Sinking in Virtue, as you rise in Fame.
Your Learning, like the Lunar Beam, affords
Light, but not Heat; it leaves you undevout,
Frozen
