Were I (who to my cost
already am |
One of those strange, prodigious
creatures, man) |
A spirit free to choose, for my own
share, |
What case of flesh and blood I pleased
to wear, |
I’d be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, |
Or anything but that vain animal |
Who is so proud of being rational. |
The senses are too gross,
and he’ll contrive |
A sixth, to contradict the other five, |
And before certain instinct, will
prefer |
Reason, which fifty times for one does
err ; |
Reason, an ignis fatuus in the
mind, |
Which, leaving light of nature, sense,
behind, |
Pathless and dangerous wandering ways
it takes |
Through error’s fenny bogs and thorny
brakes ; |
Whilst the misguided follower
climbs with pain |
Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his
own brain ; |
Stumbling from thought to thought,
falls headlong down |
Into doubt’s boundless sea, where, like
to drown, |
Books bear him up awhile, and make him
try |
To swim with bladders of philosophy ; |
In hopes still to o’ertake the escaping
light, |
The vapour dances in his dazzling sight |
Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal
night. |
Then old age and experience, hand in
hand, |
Lead him to death, and make him
understand, |
After a search so painful and so long, |
That all his life he has been in the
wrong. |
Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine
lies, |
Who was so proud, so witty, and so
wise.
|
John Wilmot
| Classic Poems |
|
[ Homo Sapiens ] [ Love and Life ] |