The London-Spy Compleat In Eighteen Parts :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poor Taylors, Weavers, Shooe-makers and such,
Little in Trade, and think they know too much,
Are the chief Sensless Bigots that advance
A foolish Whim to further Ignorance:
Buoy'd up by Chance-Success would things fore-know,
Aim to be Wise, and still more Fooolish grow;
Peep twenty Years at Stars, at Sun and Moon,
And prove themselves but Ideots when they've done.
Then finding by Experience they are lost,
In that True Knowledge which they fain wou'd boast,
They draw in Fools to pay for th'time their Study Cost.
All their whole Art consists in Barren Words,
Meer Sound, but no True Argument affords:

360

On a Faint shadow do they all relye,
What few believe, and none can justifie.
Mars by Heroick Actions got a Name,
Venus for Beauty and her Whoredom, Shame;
Mercury for Speed was famous, and for Theft,
And now most bad, when by himself be's left:
Good, if well mixt, like Hair amongst the Loom,
If not, he's Fatal to the Native's Doom:
So to the rest such Influence they ascribe,
As we, they say, by Nature's Course imbibe.
'Tis true, the Persons whence the Name's deriv'd,
Were Whores, and Thieves, and Heroes whilst they liv'd.
But these Bright Planets which surround the Earth,
Had the same Force and Power before their Birth:
E'er they were Christen'd they were still the same,
At first a part o'th' Universal Frame,
And do no Influence borrow from an Empty Name.
Mars can no Heroe by his Aspect make,
Nor Venus force a Virgin to forsake
Her Vertue; nor can Mercury prevail
On happy unstain'd Innocence to steal:
No, no, 'tis Education makes us fit
To Virtuous Live, or to Base means submit.
All their pretended Impulse is a Quacking Cheat.
Only upheld by Knaves, believ'd by Fools:
The first their Workmen, and the last their Tools:
All their Pretences are but empty show,
Wise would they seem, but still they nothing know,
Instead of Reason, which all Art defines,
Their Brains are fill'd with Planets, Orbs, and Signs;
Their knowledge little, their Gray Hairs but Green;
Their Learning less, and their Profession mean:
Their Conversation dull, each sensless word,
Is humbly Paid to some Ascendant Lord:

361

A Globe's their Sign; in Alleys do they dwell,
And tho' Fools think they've Conference with Hell,
Do all things know; yet little Truth can tell,