O D D TO THE HONOURABLE E, SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, V Written at Moor-park, June, 1689. I. IRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies! It fell, and broke with its own weight By many a petty lord poffefs'd, But ne'er fince feated in one fingle breast! Where none ever led the way, Nor ever fince but in defcriptions found; Like the philofopher's ftone, With rules to fearch it, yet obtain'd by none. II. We have too long been led aftray; And we, the bubbled fools, Spend all our prefent life, in hopes of golden rules, III. But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? Remembrance is our treafure and our food; Nature's fair table-book, our tender fouls, We fcrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, Stale memorandums of the fchools: For Learning's mighty treasures look In that deep grave a book; Think that he there does all her treasures hide, And that her troubled ghoft ftill haunts there fince the dy'd. Confine her walks to colleges and schools; Her pricft, her train, and followers fhow Affect 5 Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, And, fick with dregs of knowledge grown IV. Curft be the wretch! nay doubly curst! (Which fince has feiz'd on all the reft) That knowledge forfeits all humanity; Thrice happy you have 'scap'd this general pest; You cannot be compar'd to one! I muft, like him that painted Venus' face, Their courting a retreat like you, Unless I put in Cæfar's learning too : Your happy frame at once controuls great triumvirate of fouls. This V. Let not old Rome boaft Fabius's fate; He fav'd his country by delays, But you by peace. You bought it at a cheaper rate; B 3 Nor |