If Freedom did not crown them all. By Providence forbid to stray, Brutes never can mistake their way; Determined still, they plod along By instinct, neither right nor wrong; But man, had he the heart to use His freedom, hath a right to choose; 240 Whether he acts, or well, or ill, Depends entirely on his will. To her last work, her favourite Man, Is given, on Nature's better plan, A privilege in power to err. Nor let this phrase resentment stir Amongst the grave ones, since indeed The little merit man can plead In doing well, dependeth still Upon his power of doing ill. 250 Opinions should be free as air; No man, whate'er his rank, whate'er His qualities, a claim can found That my opinion must be bound, And square with his; such slavish chains From foes the liberal soul disdains; Nor can, though true to friendship, bend To wear them even from a friend. Let those, who rigid judgment own, Submissive bow at Judgment's throne, 260 And if they of no value hold Pleasure, till pleasure is grown cold, Pall'd and insipid, forced to wait For Judgment's regular debate To give it warrant, let them find Dull subjects suited to their mind. Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan, To live as merry as I can, Regardless, as the fashions go, Whether there's reason for't or no: 270 Be my employment here on earth To give a liberal scope to mirth, Life's barren vale with flowers to adorn, And pluck a rose from every thorn. But if, by Error led astray, I chance to wander from my way, Let no blind guide observe, in spite, I'm wrong, who cannot set me right. That doctor could I ne'er endure Who found disease, and not a cure; 280 Nor can I hold that man a friend Whose zeal a helping hand shall lend To open happy Folly's eyes, And, making wretched, make me wise: For next (a truth which can't admit Reproof from Wisdom or from Wit) To being happy here below, Is to believe that we are so. Some few in knowledge find relief; I place my comfort in belief. 290 Some for reality may call; Fancy to me is all in all. Imagination, through the trick Of doctors, often makes us sick; And why, let any sophist tell, May it not likewise make us well? This I am sure, whate'er our view, Whatever shadows we pursue, For our pursuits, be what they will, Are little more than shadows still; 300 Too swift they fly, too swift and strong, For man to catch or hold them long; But joys which in the fancy live, Each moment to each man may give: True to himself, and true to ease, He softens Fate's severe decrees, And (can a mortal wish for more?) Creates, and makes himself new o'er, Mocks boasted vain reality, And is, whate'er he wants to be. 310 Hail, Fancy!--to thy power I owe Deliverance from the gripe of Woe; To thee I owe a mighty debt,