Of Socrates—see there his tenement— Whom, well inspired, the Oracle pronounced Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams, that watered all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe. 280 These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home, Till time mature thee to a kingdom’s weight; These rules will render thee a king complete Within thyself, much more with empire joined.” To whom our Saviour sagely thus replied:— “Think not but that I know these things; or, think I know them not, not therefore am I short Of knowing what I ought. He who receives Light from above, from the Fountain of Light, No other doctrine needs, though granted true; 290 But these are false, or little else but dreams, Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm. The first and wisest of them all professed To know this only, that he nothing knew; The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits; A third sort doubted all things, though plain sense; Others in virtue placed felicity, But virtue joined with riches and long life; In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease; The Stoic last in philosophic pride, 300 By him called virtue, and his virtuous man, Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing, Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer, As fearing God nor man, contemning all Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life— Which, when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can; For all his tedious talk is but vain boast, Or subtle shifts conviction to evade. Alas! what can they teach, and not mislead, Ignorant of themselves, of God much more, 310 And how the World began, and how Man fell, Degraded by himself, on grace depending? Much of the Soul they talk, but all awry; And in themselves seek virtue; and to themselves All glory arrogate, to God give none; Rather accuse him under usual names, Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite Of mortal things. Who, therefore, seeks in these True wisdom finds her not, or, by delusion Far worse, her false resemblance only meets, 320 An empty cloud. However, many books, Wise men have said, are wearisome; who reads Incessantly, and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior, (And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?) Uncertain and unsettled still remains, Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself, Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge, As children gathering pebbles on the shore. 330 Or, if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace? All our Law and Story strewed With hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscribed, Our Hebrew songs and harps, in Babylon That pleased so well our victor’s ear, declare That rather Greece from us these arts derived— Ill imitated while they loudest sing The vices of their deities, and their own, 340 In fable, hymn, or song, so personating