But most the Theatres with dulness groan, Embrio's half-form'd, a Progeny unknown: Fine things for nothing, transports out of season, Effects un-caus'd, and murders without reason. Here Worlds run round, and Years are taught to stay, Each Scene an Elegy, each Act a Play.[45] Can the same Pow'r such various Passions move? Rejoice, or weep, 'tis ev'ry thing for _Love_. The self-same Cause produces Heav'n and Hell: Things contrary as Buckets in a Well; One up, one down, one empty, and one full: Half high, half low, half witty, and half dull. So on the borders of an ancient Wood, Or where some Poplar trembles o'er the Flood, _Arachnè_ travels on her filmy thread, Now high, now low, or on her feet or head. Yet these love Verse, as Croaking comforts Frogs,[46] And Mire and Ordure are the Heav'n of Hogs. As well might Nothing bind Immensity, Or passive Matter Immaterials see, As these shou'd write by reason, rhime, and rule, Or we turn Wit, whom nature doom'd a Fool. If _Dryden_ err'd, 'twas human frailty once, But blund'ring is the Essence of a Dunce. Some write for Glory, but the Phantom fades; Some write as Party, or as Spleen invades; A third, because his Father was well read, And Murd'rer-like, calls Blushes from the dead. Yet all for Morals and for Arts contend---- They want'em both, who never prais'd a Friend. More ill, than dull; For pure stupidity Was ne'er a crime in honest _Banks_, or me. See next a Croud in damasks, silks, and crapes, Equivocal in dress, half-belles, half-trapes: A length of night-gown rich _Phantasia_ trails, _Olinda_ wears one shift, and pares no nails: Some in _C----l_'s Cabinet each act display, When nature in a transport dies away: Some more refin'd transcribe their Opera-loves On Iv'ry Tablets, or in clean white Gloves: Some of Platonic, some of carnal Taste, Hoop'd, or un-hoop'd, ungarter'd, or unlac'd. Thus thick in Air the wing'd Creation play, When vernal _Phoebus_ rouls the Light away, A motley race, half Insects and half Fowls, Loose-tail'd and dirty, May-flies, Bats, and Owls. Gods, that this native nonsense was our worst! With Crimes more deep, O _Albion!_ art thou curst. No Judgment open Prophanation fears, For who dreads God, that can preserve his Ears? Oh save me Providence, from Vice refin'd, That worst of ills, a _Speculative Mind_![47] Not that I blame divine Philosophy, (Yet much we risque, for Pride and Learning lye.) Heav'n's paths are found by Nature more than Art, The Schoolman's Head misleads the Layman's Heart.