Trifles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whence comes it, L---, that ev'ry fool,
In reason's spite, in spite of ridicule,
Fondly his own wild whims for truth maintains,
And all the blind deluded world disdains;
Himself the only person blest with sight,
And his opinion the great rule of right?
'Tis strange from folly this conceit should rise,
That want of sense should make us think we're wise:
Yet so it is. The most egregious elf
Thinks none so wise or witty as himself.
Who nothing knows, will all things comprehend;
And who can least confute, will most contend.
I love the man, I love him from my soul,
Whom neither weakness blinds, nor whims controul;
With learning blest, with solid reason fraught,
Who slowly thinks, and ponders every thought:
Yet conscious to himself how apt to err,
Suggests his notions with a modest fear;
Hears every reason, every passion hides,
Debates with calmness, and with care decides;
More pleas'd to learn, than eager to confute,
Not victory, but truth his sole pursuit.

187

But these are very rare. How happy he
Who tastes such converse, L---, with thee!
Each social hour is spent in joys sublime,
Whilst hand in hand o'er learning's Alps you climb;
Thro' reason's paths in search of truth proceed,
And clear the flow'ry way from every weed;
Till from her antient cavern rais'd to light,
The beauteous stranger stands reveal'd to sight.
How far from this the furious noisy crew,
Who, what they once assert, with zeal pursue?
Their greater right infer from louder tongues;
And strength of argument from strength of lungs,
Instead of sense, who stun your ears with sound,
And think they conquer, when they but confound.
Taurus, a bellowing champion, storms and swears,
And drives his argument thro' both your ears;
And whether truth or falshood, right or wrong,
'Tis still maintain'd, and prov'd by dint of—tongue.
In all disputes he bravely wins the day,
No wonder—for he hears not what you say.
But tho' to tire the ear's sufficient curse,
To tire one's patience is a plague still worse.
Plato, a formal sage, debates with care,
A strong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks so wise—'tis pity he's a fool.
If he asserts, tho' what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thousand proofs to make it out.

188

This, this, and this—is so, and so, and so;
And therefore, therefore,—that, and that, you know,
Circles no angles have; a square has four:
A square's no circle therefore—to be sure.
The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.

Oppos'd to him, but much the greater dunce,
Is he who throws all knowledge off at once.
The first, for every trifle will contend;
But this has no opinions to defend.
In fire no heat, no sweetness in the rose;
The man's impos'd on by his very nose;
Nor light nor colour charms his doubting eye,
The world's a dream, and all his senses lie.
He thinks, yet doubts if he's possess'd of thought;
Nay, even doubts his very power to doubt.
Ask him if he's a man, or beast, or bird?
He cannot tell, upon his honest word,
'Tis strange, so plain a point's so hard to prove;
I'll tell you what you are—a fool, by Jove.

Another class of disputants there are,
More num'rous than the doubting tribe by far.
These are your wanderers, who from the point
Run wild in loose harangues, all out of joint.
Vagarious, and confute him if you can,
Will hold debate with any mortal man.
He roves from Genesis to Revelations,
And quite confounds you with divine quotations.
Should you affirm that Adam knew his wife,
And by that knowledge lost the tree of life;

289

He contradicts you, and in half an hour
Most plainly proves—Pope Joan the scarlet whore.
Nor head nor tail his argument affords,
A jumbling, incoherent mass of words;
Most of them true, but so together tost
Without connection, that their sense is lost.

But leaving these to rove, and those to doubt,
Another clan alarms us; face about:
See, arm'd with grave authority they come,
And with great names and numbers strike us dumb.
With these an error ven'rable appears,
For having been believ'd three thousand years.
Reason, nay common sense, to names must fall,
And strength of argument's no strength at all.
But on, my muse, tho' multitudes oppose us,
Alas! truth is not prov'd by counting noses:
Nor fear, tho' ancient sages are subjoin'd;
A lie's a lie, tho' told by all mankind.
'Tis true, I love the ancients—but what then?
Plato and Aristotle were but men.
I grant 'em wise—the wisest disagree,
And therefore no sufficient guides for me.
An error, tho' by half the world espous'd,
Is still an error, and may be oppos'd;
And truth, tho' much from mortal eyes conceal'd,
Is still the truth, and may be more reveal'd.
How foolish then will look your mighty wise,
Should half their ipse dixits prove plain lies!

190

But on, my muse, another tribe demands
Thy censure yet: nor shou'd they 'scape thy hands.
These are the passionate; who in dispute,
Demand submission, monarchs absolute.
Sole judges, in their own conceit, of wit,
They damn all those for fools that won't submit.
Sir Testy (thwart sir Testy if you dare)
Swears there's inhabitants in every star.
If you presume to say this mayn't be true,
You lie, sir, you're a fool and blockhead too.
What he asserts, if any disbelieve,
How folks can be so dull he can't conceive.
He knows he's right; he knows his judgment's clear;
But men are so perverse they will not hear.
With him, Swift treads a dull trite beaten way;
In Young no wit, no humour smiles in Gay;
Nor truth, nor virtue, Pope, adorns thy page;
And Thompson's Liberty corrupts the age.
This to deny, if any dare presume,
Fool, coxcomb, sot, and puppy fill the room.
Hillario, who full well this humour knows,
Resolv'd one day his folly to expose,
Kindly invites him with some friends to dine,
And entertains e'm with a roast sir-loin:
Of this he knew sir Testy could not eat,
And purposely prepar'd it for his treat.
The rest begin—sir Testy, pray fall to—
You love roast beef sir, come—I know you do.
“Excuse me, sir, 'tis what I never eat.”
How, sir! not love roast beef! the king of meat!

191

“'Tis true indeed.” Indeed it is not true;
I love it, sir, and you must love it too.
“I can't upon my word”, Then you're a fool,
And don't know what's good eating, by my soul.
Not love roast beef!—come, come, sirs, fill his plate,
I'll make him love it—Sir, G---d---ye, eat.
Sir Testy finding what it was they meant,
Rose in a passion, and away he went.