‘To be, or not to be?’—Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being? ’Tis true we speculate both far and wide, And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side, Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath. ‘Que scais-je?’ was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians: That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions. There’s no such thing as certainty, that ’s plain As any of Mortality’s conditions; So little do we know what we’re about in This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? Your wise men don’t know much of navigation; And swimming long in the abyss of thought Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. ‘But heaven,’ as Cassio says, ‘is above all— No more of this, then,—let us pray!’ We have Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall, Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. ‘The sparrow’s fall Is special providence,’ though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch’d Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search’d. O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy? O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony? Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion. But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne’er Done anything exceedingly unkind,— And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind) Have always had a tendency to spare,— Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.—and here we’ll pause. ’Tis time we should proceed with our good poem,— For I maintain that it is really good, Not only in the body but the proem, However little both are understood Just now,—but by and by the Truth will show ’em Herself in her sublimest attitude: And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment. Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours) Was left upon his way to the chief city Of the immortal Peter’s polish’d boors Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty. I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery—even Voltaire’s, and that ’s a pity. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.