A Pindaric Ode in the Praise of Folly and Knavery, Ode
A Pindarick ODE In the Praiſe of Folly and Knavery.
I.
MY humble Muſe no Hero Sings,
Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings:
The great Maria now no more,
In Sable Lines ſhe does deplore;
Of mighty William's growing fame,
At preſent muſt forget the name,
Yet ſhe affects ſomething that is ſublime,
And would in Dytherambick ſtrain
Attempt to riſe, and now diſdain
The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain:
He that's afraid to fall, ſhou'd ne'r pretend to climb.
II.
Let others boaſt of potent Wit,
And Summon in the awful Nine,
With all their Aids of Fancy, Humor, Sence,
Fair poliſh'd Learning, Eloquence,
And call their gawdy works Divine:
Hov'ring above my Head let dullneſs ſit,
The only God that's worſhipp'd by the Age;
Immortal Nonſence guide my Pen,
The Fames of Shakeſpear and of Ben,
Muſt warp, before my nobler fire
To their regardleſs Tombs retire.
Thus Arm'd, with Nonſence, I'll engage
Both Ʋniverſities,
And their Pedantick fooleries,
Show the miſguided World the Cheat,
And let Man know that Nonſence makes him Great.
III.
Almighty Folly! How ſhall I thy praiſe
To Human Underſtandings raiſe?
What ſhall I do
Thy worth to ſhew?
The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day,
Gives vital warmth and life by ev'ry Ray,
His Bleſſings he in common grants,
To Hemlock as to nobler Plants;
Thy Virtue thou doſt circumſcribe,
And doſt diſpence
Thy influence,
But to the Darlings of thy Tribe,
Thou Wealth and Honour doſt beſtow
On thy triumphant Fools,
Whilſt abject Sence do's barefoot go;
So weak's the Learning of the noiſie Schools.
IV.
Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who ſpend your time
In reading Books,
With thoughtful Heads and meagre Looks,
To Learnings Pinacle, who climb
Through the wild Briers of Philoſophy,
The Thorns of harſh Philology,
The dirty Road where Ariſtotle went
Encumber'd with a thouſand terms
Uncouth, Unintelligible,
Not by any fancy fathomable,
Bringing diſtracted Minds to harms;
The rankeſt Hellebore cannot prevent.
Tell me, I ſay, ye Learn'd Sots!
Did e'r the old or new Philoſophy,
Make a Man ſplendid live, or wealthy die?
Tho' you may think your Notions truer,
They'll ne'r advance your Lotts,
To the Eſtate of Wiſe Sir Jonathan the Brewer.
V.
A Fool! Heav'ns bleſs the charming Name,
So much admir'd in Ages paſt,
As long as this, and all the World ſhall laſt,
Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame.
A Fool! what mighty wonders has he wrought?
What mighty Actions done?
Obey'd by all, controul'd by none;
Even Love its ſelf is to its Footſtool brought.
For t'other day, I met amidſt the Throng
A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young;
Madam, ſaid I, I wiſh you double Joy,
Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy,
And wiſh my ſelf a ſight of him you Wed,
The happy Part'ner of your Bridal Bed.
Sir, ſhe reply'd, I him in Wedlock had;
Pointing unto an Image by her ſide,
An odder Figure no Man e'r eſpy'd,
Long was his Chin, and carotty his Beard,
His Eyes ſunk in, and high his Noſe was rear'd,
A nauſeous uglineſs poſſeſs'd the Tool,
And ſcarce had Wit enough to be a Fool:
Bleſs me (thought I) if Fools ſuch fortune get,
Then who (the Devil) wou'd be plagu'd with wit.
VI.
View but the Realms of Nonſence, ſee the State,
The Pageant pomp attends the ſhow,
When the great God of Dullneſs does in triumph go,
How ſplendid and how great
His num'rous Train of Blockheads do appear?
Almighty Jove,
That governs all above,
Is but a puny to this Mighty God,
The bluſtring God of War,
Who with one Nod
Makes the Earth tremble from afar,
Guarded with puiſſant Champions ſtern and bold
That breath Deſtruction, talk of bloody Jars,
Have nought but ragged Cloaths to keep off cold,
And tatter'd Enſigns relicks of the Wars.
The God of Dullneſs mounted on his Throne▪
Beneath a Canopy
Of fix'd ſtupidity,
Proſtrate his num'rous Subjects tumble down,
They pay obeiſance to their gloomy God,
And at his Nod
They act, they move,
They hate, they love,
They bleſs, they curſe, they ſwear,
For they his Creatures are,
He amply does his Benefits afford,
For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord.
VII.
Then talk no more of Parts and Sence,
For Riches ne'r attend the Wiſe,
Have you to dullneſs no pretence,
You ſhall to Grandeur never riſe;
He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull,
Whoſe very aſpect tells the World he is a Fool,
Whoſe thicker Skull
Is proof againſt each ſtorm of Fate,
Is Born for Glory, and he ſhall be Great.
Who 'er… wou'd riſe,
Or great Preferment get,
Muſt nere pretend to Wit,
Or be that monſtrous, ill ſhap'd Man call'd Wiſe;
He muſt not boaſt
Of Learning's value, or its coſt;
But, if he wou'd Preferment have,
He muſt be much a Fool, or much a Knave.
VIII.
A Knave! the finer Creature far,
Tho' of the fooliſh Race of Iſſachar.
As the unwieldy Bear among her young
Deform'd, and ſhapeleſs Cubs,
Finds one more ſtrong,
Active and ſprightly than the reſt:
Him ſhe transforms and rubs,
And licks into a better ſhape the Beaſt.
Thus do's the gloomy God of Folly do,
With the inſipid Race:
He do's his num'rous Offspring call,
He handles one and feels his Skull;
If it be thick, he ſays, Be thou a Fool.
Another, if about his Face
He ſpies a roguiſh Mein, a cunning Look;
If there appears
The hopes of Falſhood in his tender Years,
Good ſigns of Perjury
And hardn'd Villany;
This for his ſecret Councils he do's ſave,
Lays on his Paw, and bids him, Be a Knave.
IX.
A Knave! the elder Brother to the Fool:
His vaſt Dominions are no leſs
Than the whole Univerſe:
The Lands are bounded by the Sea:
The Seas the ſturdy Rocks obey:
The Storms do know the Limits of their Rule:
Neither the Land nor Sea this Hero bind,
But unconfin'd
O're both he finds a way,
O're both he bears Imperial ſway:
His gay Attendants are the Cheat,
That ruines Kingdoms to be Great.
The fawning, flattring Fop, who creeps
Juſt like a Spaniel at your Heels,
To ſome illuſtrious Knave, who ſweeps
Away a Kingdoms Wealth at once,
And with the Publick Coin his Treaſure fills;
For Kingdoms work t'enrich the Knave and Dunce.
X.
Honeſty's a Garb we're mock'd in,
Only wore by Jews and Turks.
Merit is a Popiſh Doctrine;
Men have no regard to Works.
Subſtantial Knavery is a Vertue will
Your Coffers fill;
And Altars raiſe,
Unto your Praiſe.
Be but a Knave, you'll keep the World in awe,
And fear no Law;
For no Tranſgreſſion is,
Where all Men do amiſs.
But here methinks an antiquated Hero ſtarts,
Surpris'd at my Diſcourſe;
He ſtarts and boggles like a Horſe,
And damns our modern Knaviſh Arts.
XI.
Vain Youth, he ſays miſguided by a Knave,
By ſome dull Blockhead tempted from thy reſt;
The worldly Grandeur thou doſt vainly crave,
Is nought but Noiſe and Fooliſhneſs at beſt.
What Man wou'd quit his Senſe,
Or, the wiſe Dictates of right Reaſon's Rule,
In vain pretence
To be a rich, a gawdy Fool?
Or, quit his Honeſty, ſo much deſpis'd,
And baſely condeſcend,
To every little Knaviſh End;
Run headlong into every Cheat,
Attempt each Villany to make him Great.
Believe me Youth, (be better now advis'd)
Thy early Vertues will thy Temples ſpread,
With laſting Lawrels 'round thy Head.
Shall flouriſh when the Wearers dead.
I who have always honeſt been, though poor,
In whom the utmoſt ſigns of Age appears,
And ſink beneath the Burthen of my Years,
Cou'd never yet adore
A Knave or Blockhead, were he ne'er ſo Great;
Or, be like to them, to purchaſe an Eſtate.
XII.
Poor thredbare Vertue ne'er admir'd in Courts▪
But ſeeks its Refuge in an honeſt Mind,
There it ſecurely dwells,
Like Anchorets in Cells,
Where no Ambition nor wild Luſt reſorts:
To love our Country is indeed our Pride;
We glory in an honeſt Action done;
When the Reward is laid aſide
The Glory and the Action is our own,
We ſeldom find
The Good, the Juſt, the Brave,
Have their Reward
From Princes they did ſave
From dire Deſtruction, or a poiſoning Foe;
They let them go
Contemn'd, diſdain'd; and moſt regard
Thoſe Villians ſought their overthrow.
As if the Juſt, the Brave, the Good,
Were but a Bridge of Wood
To waft to great Preferments o'er,
Thoſe, who were our foes before,
And then be tumbl'd down like uſeleſs Logs,
While thoſe, who juſt paſs'd o'er,
And the obliging Bridge ſhou'd thank,
Do ſcornfully ſtand grinning on the Bank,
To ſee the venerable Ruines float
Adrift upon the Stream,
Contemn'd by them,
Who give the Childrens Bread unto the Dogs;
In vain, ſays he, we've fought—
But at this Word
He fiercely look'd, and then he graſp'd his Sword.
XIII.
Pity it is, he ſaid, this Sword of mine,
Of late ſo gloriouſly did ſhine,
In Foreign Fields 'midſt Show'rs of Blood,
With which I've cut my Paſſage through
The Snowy Alps and Pyrenean Hills,
Where Death the Land with vaſt Deſtruction fills,
'Mongſt Warriors, who
Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good,
Should now be laid aſide
'Mongſt Rubbiſh Iron old,
From reaking Blood ſcarce cold;
Or elſe converted to a Knife,
For ſome damn'd Villain firſt to cut
A Princes Bread, and next his Throat:
In vain we venture to preſerve his Life,
In vain to Foreign Fields we come,
In vain to Foreign Force alli'd,
If a nefarious Brood at Home
Embarraſs his Affairs,
Prolong the Wars,
Only t' enrich his Enemies,
Weaken his Government, and his Allies.
XIV.
'Tis ſtrange a Prince, ſhou'd ere a Fool preferr,
To be an Officer!
A Knave may ſerve an unjuſt Government,
But ne'er prevent
Thoſe Miſchiefs may attend the juſt:
For who would truſt
A Villain may be bought by Gold,
Unleſs deſign'd on purpoſe to be ſold?
If Princes wou'd uſe Fools as Shop-men do
Their Signs or Boards of ſhow,
To tell the paſſers by there's better ſtuff
Within, 'tis rational enough.
But to ſet Centry at the Door,
A Patriot or a Senator,
Philoſopher or Orator,
To tell the Paſſers by their is within▪
A Merry Andrew to be ſeen,
Is very much ridiculous,
Tho' to our grief▪ we often find it thus.
Thus Princes Baſtardize
Their Countries Sons Legitimate,
And give the fair Eſtate
Unto a Spurious Brood,
That ne'er did good;
The honeſt Work, the Knave enjoys the Prize.
XV.
A Government adorn'd with Fools,
Empty Trifles, uſeleſs Tools,
Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriouſly bedeckt
With gawdy gewgaws, Childrens play things,
Painted Babies, Tinſel Creatures,
Wooden Folk, with Human features,
Made juſt for ſhow, and no advantage brings,
And prove of no effect.
It dwindles to a Raree-Show,
In which no Man muſt act a Part
But the dull Blockhead and the Beau,
The huffing Fop without a Heart;
What Wiſe Man would a Journey take
On a dull Steed has broke his Back?
Or have recourſe
Unto a Hobby-Horſe?
Thoſe act by ſuch wiſe Rules,
Who prop Juſt Princes by a Tyrant's Tools.
XVI.
Surely the Genius of a fruitful Iſle
Is either loſt,
Or what is worſt,
Murder'd by thoſe who ſhou'd ſupport her Fame,
Add Glory to her Name;
The Heavens themſelves have caſt an angry look,
Seldom the Glorious Sun does ſhine
But Veils its face Divine.
Jove does miſguide the Seaſons every Year;
Nought can we read in Nature's Book,
To reap her Fruits ſcarce worth our while.
Our Mother Earth,
From whoſe unhappy Womb,
We Mortals come,
Ne'er ſhows a Glorious Birth,
But proves abortive as our Actions are;
Nought have we left but hope,
Juſt like the Blind at Noon we grope:
The number of our Sins we muſt fulfil,
And if we're ſav'd, it is againſt our will.
FINIS.
End of the text · John Tutchin, A Pindaric Ode in the Praise of Folly and Knavery (1696)