From these examples, it appears, This art, if true in any wise, Makes men fulfil the very fears Engender'd by its prophecies. But from this charge I justify, By branding it a total lie. I don't believe that Nature's powers Have tied her hands or pinion'd ours, By marking on the heavenly vault Our fate without mistake or fault. That fate depends upon conjunctions Of places, persons, times, and tracks, And not upon the functions Of more or less of quacks. A king and clown beneath one planet's nod Are born; one wields a sceptre, one a hod. But it is Jupiter that wills it so! And who is he?[23] A soulless clod. How can he cause such different powers to flow Upon the aforesaid mortals here below? And how, indeed, to this far distant ball Can he impart his energy at all?-- How pierce the ether deeps profound, The sun and globes that whirl around? A mote might turn his potent ray For ever from its earthward way. Will find, it, then, in starry cope, The makers of the horoscope? The war[24] with which all Europe's now afflicted-- Deserves it not by them to've been predicted? Yet heard we not a whisper of it, Before it came, from any prophet. The suddenness of passion's gush, Of wayward life the headlong rush,-- Permit they that the feeble ray Of twinkling planet, far away, Should trace our winding, zigzag course? And yet this planetary force, As steady as it is unknown, These fools would make our guide alone-- Of all our varied life the source! Such doubtful facts as I relate-- The petted child's and poet's fate-- Our argument may well admit. The blindest man that lives in France, The smallest mark would doubtless hit-- Once in a thousand times--by chance. [23] _And who is he_?--By Jupiter, "the soulless clod," is of course meant the planet, not the god. [24] _The war_.--See note to Fable XVIII., Book VII. XVII.--THE ASS AND THE DOG.[25] Dame Nature, our respected mother, Ordains that we should aid each other. The ass this ordinance neglected, Though not a creature ill-affected. Along the road a dog and he One master follow'd silently. Their master slept: meanwhile, the ass Applied his nippers to the grass, Much pleased in such a place to stop, Though there no thistle he could crop. He would not be too delicate, Nor spoil a dinner for a plate, Which, but for that, his favourite dish, Were all that any ass could wish.