78
The Complaint.
Night 5.
Pride, like an Eagle, builds among the Stars;
But Pleasure, Lark-like, nests upon the Ground.
Joys shar'd by Brute Creation, Pride resents;
Pleasure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A Point how hard to gain!
But, what can't Wit, when stung by strong Desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous Enterprize.
Since Joys of Sense can't rise to Reason's Taste;
In subtle Sophistry's laborious Forge,
Wit hammers out a Reason now, that stoops
To sordid Scenes, and meets them with Applause.
Wit calls the Graces the chaste Zone to loose;
Nor less than a plump God to fill the Bowl:
A thousand Phantoms, and a thousand Spells,
A thousand Opiates scatters, to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool'd Mind of Man delightfully confound.
Thus that which shock'd the Judgment, shocks no more;
That which gave Pride Offence, no more offends.
Pleasure and Pride, by Nature mortal Foes,
At War eternal, which in Man shall reign,
By Wit's Address, patch up a fatal Peace,
And Hand in Hand lead on the rank Debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, cursed Art! wipes off the indebted Blush
From Nature's Check, and bronzes ev'ry Shame,
Man smiles in Ruin, glories in his Guilt,
And Infamy stands Candidate for Praise.
All writ by Man in favour of the Soul,
These sensual Ethics far, in Bulk, transcend.
The Flow'rs of Eloquence, profusely pour'd
O'er spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd World.
Can Pow'rs of Genius exorcise their Page,
And consecrate Enormities with Song ?
But Pleasure, Lark-like, nests upon the Ground.
Joys shar'd by Brute Creation, Pride resents;
Pleasure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A Point how hard to gain!
But, what can't Wit, when stung by strong Desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous Enterprize.
Since Joys of Sense can't rise to Reason's Taste;
In subtle Sophistry's laborious Forge,
Wit hammers out a Reason now, that stoops
To sordid Scenes, and meets them with Applause.
Wit calls the Graces the chaste Zone to loose;
Nor less than a plump God to fill the Bowl:
A thousand Phantoms, and a thousand Spells,
A thousand Opiates scatters, to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool'd Mind of Man delightfully confound.
Thus that which shock'd the Judgment, shocks no more;
That which gave Pride Offence, no more offends.
Pleasure and Pride, by Nature mortal Foes,
At War eternal, which in Man shall reign,
By Wit's Address, patch up a fatal Peace,
And Hand in Hand lead on the rank Debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, cursed Art! wipes off the indebted Blush
From Nature's Check, and bronzes ev'ry Shame,
Man smiles in Ruin, glories in his Guilt,
And Infamy stands Candidate for Praise.
All writ by Man in favour of the Soul,
These sensual Ethics far, in Bulk, transcend.
The Flow'rs of Eloquence, profusely pour'd
O'er spotted Vice, fill half the letter'd World.
Can Pow'rs of Genius exorcise their Page,
And consecrate Enormities with Song ?
But
