Thus at the shut of even the weary bird Leaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake, Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away. WILLIAM WHITEHEAD FROM ON RIDICULE Our mirthful age, to all extremes a prey, Even, courts the lash, and laughs her pains away, Declining worth imperial wit supplies, And Momus triumphs, while Astraea flies. No truth so sacred, banter cannot hit, No fool so stupid but he aims at wit. Even those whose breasts ne'er planned one virtuous deed, Nor raised a thought beyond the earth they tread: Even those can censure, those can dare deride A Bacon's avarice, or a Tully's pride; And sneer at human checks by Nature given. To curb perfection e'er it rival Heaven: Nay, chiefly such in these low arts prevail, Whose want of talents leaves them time to raid. Born for no end, they worse than useless grow, (As waters poison, if they cease to flow;) And pests become, whom kinder fate designed But harmless expletives of human kind. See with what zeal th' insidious task they ply! Where shall the prudent, where the virtuous fly? Lurk as ye can, if they direct the ray, The veriest atoms in the sunbeams play. No venial slip their quick attention 'scapes; They trace each Proteus through his hundred shapes; To Mirth's tribunal drag the caitiff train, Where Mercy sleeps, and Nature pleads in vain. * * * * * Here then we fix, and lash without control These mental pests, and hydras of the soul; Acquired ill-nature, ever prompt debate, A seal for slander, and deliberate hate: These court contempt, proclaim the public foe, And each, Ulysses like, should aim the blow. Yet sure, even here, our motives should be known: Rail we to check his spleen, or ease our own? Does injured virtue every shaft supply, Arm the keen tongue, and flush th' erected eye? Or do we from ourselves ourselves disguise? And act, perhaps, the villain we chastise? Hope we to mend him? hopes, alas, how vain! He feels the lash, not listens to the rein. 'Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times, Howe'er severe the smile, to sport with crimes. Vices when ridiculed, experience says, First lose that horror which they ought to raise, Grow by degrees approved, and almost aim at praise. * * * * * [The] fear of man, in his most mirthful mood, May make us hypocrites, but seldom good. * * * * * Besides, in men have varying passions made Such nice confusions, blending, light with shade, That eager zeal to laugh the vice away May hurt some virtue's intermingling ray. * * * * *