You, Iris, 'twere an easy task to praise; But you refuse the incense of my lays. In this you are unlike all other mortals, Who welcome all the praise that seeks their portals; Not one who is not soothed by sound so sweet. For me to blame this humour were not meet, By gods and mortals shared in common, And, in the main, by lovely woman. That drink, so vaunted by the rhyming trade, That cheers the god who deals the thunder-blow, And oft intoxicates the gods below,-- The nectar, Iris, is of praises made. You taste it not. But, in its place, Wit, science, even trifles grace Your bill of fare; but, for that matter, The world will not believe the latter. Well, leave the world in unbelief. Still science, trifles, fancies light as air, I hold, should mingle in a bill of fare, Each giving each its due relief; As, where the gifts of Flora fall, On different flowers we see Alight the busy bee, Educing sweet from all. Thus much premised, don't think it strange, Or aught beyond my muse's range, If e'en my fables should infold, Among their nameless trumpery, The traits of a philosophy Far-famed as subtle, charming, bold. They call it new--the men of wit; Perhaps you have not heard of it?[2] My verse will tell you what it means:-- They say that beasts are mere machines;[3] That, in their doings, everything Is done by virtue of a spring-- No sense, no soul, nor notion; But matter merely,--set in motion, Just such the watch in kind, Which joggeth on, to purpose blind. Now ope, and read within its breast-- The place of soul is by its wheels possess'd. One moves a second, that a third, Till finally its sound is heard. And now the beast, our sages say, Is moved precisely in this way An object strikes it in a certain place: The spot thus struck, without a moment's space, To neighbouring parts the news conveys; Thus sense receives it through the chain, And takes impression.--How? Explain.-- Not I. They say, by sheer necessity, From will as well as passion free, The animal is found the thrall Of movements which the vulgar call Joy, sadness, pleasure, pain, and love-- The cause extrinsic and above.-- Believe it not. What's this I hold? Why, sooth, it is a watch of gold-- Its life, the mere unbending of a spring. And we?--are quite a different thing. Hear how Descartes--Descartes, whom all applaud, Whom pagans would have made a god, Who holds, in fact, the middle place 'Twixt ours and the celestial race, About as does the plodding ass From man to oyster as you pass-- Hear how this author states the case 'Of all the tribes to being brought By our Creator out of nought, I only have the gift of thought.' Now, Iris, you will recollect