John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
A Satire Against Mankind
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 sort of flesh and blood I pleased to wear, | ||
5 | I’d be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, | |
Or anything but that vain animal, | ||
Who is so proud of being rational. | ||
His senses are too gross; and he’ll contrive | ||
A sixth, to contradict the other five; | ||
10 | And before certain instinct will prefer | |
Reason, which fifty times for one does err. | ||
Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind, | ||
Which leaving light of nature, sense, behind, | ||
Pathless and dangerous wand’ring ways it takes, | ||
15 | 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, | ||
20 | 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. | ||
25 | Then old age and experience, hand in hand, | |
Lead him to death, make him to 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, | ||
30 | Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise. | |
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch, | ||
And made him venture, to be made a wretch. | ||
His wisdom did his happiness destroy, | ||
Aiming to know that world he should enjoy; | ||
35 | And Wit was his vain, frivolous pretence | |
Of pleasing others, at his own expense. | ||
For wits are treated just like common whores, | ||
First they’re enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors; | ||
The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains, | ||
40 | That frights th’enjoyer with succeeding pains: | |
Women and men of wit are dangerous tools, | ||
And ever fatal to admiring fools. | ||
Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape, | ||
‘Tis not that they’re beloved, but fortunate, | ||
45 | And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate. | |
But now, methinks some formal band and beard | ||
Takes me to task; come on sir, I’m prepared: | ||
Then by your favour, anything that’s writ | ||
Against this jibing, jingling knack called Wit | ||
50 | Likes me abundantly: but you take care | |
Upon this point not to be too severe. | ||
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part, | ||
For I profess, I can be very smart | ||
On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart; | ||
55 | I long to lash it in some sharp essay, | |
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay, | ||
And turns my tide of ink another way. | ||
What rage forments in your degenerate mind, | ||
To make you rail at reason, and mankind? | ||
60 | Blessed glorious man! To whom alone kind heaven | |
An everlasting soul hath freely given; | ||
Whom his great maker took such care to make, | ||
That from himself he did the image take; | ||
And this fair frame in shining reason dressed, | ||
65 | To dignify his nature above beast. | |
Reason, by whose aspiring influence | ||
We take a flight beyond material sense, | ||
Dive into mysteries, then soaring pierce | ||
The flaming limits of the universe, | ||
70 | Search heaven and hell, find out what’s acted there, | |
And give the world true grounds of hope and fear. | ||
Hold might man, I cry, all this we know, | ||
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo; | ||
From Patrick’s Pilgrim, Sibbes’ Soliloquies, | ||
75 | And ‘tis this very Reason I despise, | |
This supernatural gift that makes a mite | ||
Think he’s an image of the infinite; | ||
Comparing his short life, void of all rest, | ||
To the eternal, and the ever-blessed. | ||
80 | This busy, pushing stirrer-up of doubt, | |
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out; | ||
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools | ||
The reverend bedlams, colleges and schools; | ||
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce | ||
85 | The limits of the boundless universe: | |
So charming ointments make an old witch fly, | ||
And bear a crippled carcass through the sky. | ||
‘Tis the exalted power whose business lies | ||
In nonsense, and impossiblities. | ||
90 | This made a whimsical philosopher | |
Before the spacious world his tub prefer, | ||
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who | ||
Retire to think ‘cause they have nought to do. | ||
But thoughts are given for action’s government; | ||
95 | Where action ceases, thought’s impertinent: | |
Our sphere of action is life’s happiness, | ||
And he that thinks beyond thinks like an ass. | ||
Thus, whilst against false reasoning I inveigh, | ||
I own right reason, which I would obey: | ||
100 | That reason which distinguishes by sense, | |
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence; | ||
That bounds desires, with a reforming will | ||
To keep ‘em more in vigour, not to kill. | ||
Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy, | ||
105 | Renewing appetites yours would destroy. | |
My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat, | ||
Hunger calls out, my reason bids me eat; | ||
Perversely, yours your appetite does mock: | ||
This asks for food, that answers, ‘what’s o’clock?’ | ||
110 | This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures, | |
‘Tis not true reason I despise, but yours. | ||
Thus I think reason righted, but for man, | ||
I’ll ne’er recant, defend him if you can. | ||
For all his pride, and his philosophy, | ||
115 | ‘Tis evident: beasts are in their own degree | |
As wise at least, and better far than he. | ||
Those creatures are the wisest who attain, | ||
By surest means, the ends at which they aim. | ||
If therefore Jowler finds and kills the hares, | ||
120 | Better than Meres supplies committee chairs; | |
Though one’s a statesman, th’other but a hound, | ||
Jowler in justice would be wiser found. | ||
You see how far man’s wisdom here extends, | ||
Look next if human nature makes amends; | ||
125 | Whose principles are most generous and just, | |
And to whose morals you would sooner trust: | ||
Be judge yourself, I’ll bring it to the test, | ||
Which is the basest creature, man or beast? | ||
Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey, | ||
130 | But savage man alone does man betray: | |
Pressed by necessity, they kill for food, | ||
Man undoes man, to do himself no good. | ||
With teeth and claws, by nature armed, they hunt | ||
Nature’s allowance, to supply their want. | ||
135 | But man, with smiles, embraces, friendships, praise, | |
Inhumanely his fellow’s life betrays; | ||
With voluntary pains works his distress, | ||
Not through necessity, but wantonness. | ||
For hunger or for love they bite, or tear, | ||
140 | Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear. | |
For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid: | ||
From fear, to fear, successively betrayed. | ||
Base fear, the source whence his best passions came, | ||
His boasted honour, and his dear-bought fame. | ||
145 | The lust of power, to whom he’s such a slave, | |
And for the which alone he dares be brave; | ||
To which his various projects are designed, | ||
Which makes him generous, affable, and kind. | ||
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise, | ||
150 | And screws his actions, in a forced disguise; | |
Leads a most tedious life in misery, | ||
Under laborious, mean hypocrisy. | ||
Look to the bottom of his vast design, | ||
Wherein man’s wisdom, power, and glory join: | ||
155 | The good he acts, the ill he does endure, | |
‘Tis all from fear, to make himself secure. | ||
Merely for safety after fame they thirst, | ||
For all men would be cowards if they durst. | ||
And honesty’s against all common sense, | ||
160 | Men must be knaves, ‘tis in their own defence. | |
Mankind’s dishonest: if you think it fair | ||
Among known cheats to play upon the square, | ||
You’ll be undone. | ||
Nor can weak truth your reputation save, | ||
165 | The knaves will all agree to call you knave. | |
Wronged shall he live, insulted o’er, oppressed, | ||
Who dares be less a villain than the rest. | ||
Thus sir, you see what human nature craves, | ||
Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves; | ||
170 | The difference lies, as far as I can see, | |
Not in the thing itself, but the degree; | ||
And all the subject matter of debate | ||
Is only, who’s a knave of the first rate? |
First published 1675 (?)
Robert Clark