Through every scene of ridicule in things To lead the tenor of my devious lay; Through every swift occasion, which the hand Of Laughter points at, when the mirthful sting Distends her sallying nerves and chokes her tongue; What were it but to count each crystal drop Which Morning's dewy fingers on the blooms Of May distil? Suffice it to have said, [Endnote FF] Where'er the power of Ridicule displays Her quaint-eyed visage, some incongruous form, 250 Some stubborn dissonance of things combined, Strikes on the quick observer: whether Pomp, Or Praise, or Beauty, mix their partial claim Where sordid fashions, where ignoble deeds, Where foul Deformity are wont to dwell; Or whether these with violation loathed, Invade resplendent Pomp's imperious mien, The charms of Beauty, or the boast of Praise. Ask we for what fair end, [Endnote GG] the Almighty Sire In mortal bosoms wakes this gay contempt, 260 These grateful stings of laughter, from disgust Educing pleasure? Wherefore, but to aid The tardy steps of Reason, and at once By this prompt impulse urge us to depress The giddy aims of Folly? Though the light Of Truth slow dawning on the inquiring mind, At length unfolds, through many a subtile tie, How these uncouth disorders end at last In public evil! yet benignant Heaven, Conscious how dim the dawn of truth appears 270 To thousands; conscious what a scanty pause From labours and from care, the wider lot Of humble life affords for studious thought To scan the maze of Nature; therefore stamp'd The glaring scenes with characters of scorn, As broad, as obvious, to the passing clown, As to the letter'd sage's curious eye.