Wont to disdain poor bigots caught by Heaven! Stand by thy scorn, and be reduced to nought: For what art thou?--Thou boaster! while thy glare, Thy gaudy grandeur, and mere worldly worth, Like a broad mist, at distance, strikes us most; And, like a mist, is nothing when at hand; His merit, like a mountain, on approach, Swells more, and rises nearer to the skies, By promise now, and, by possession, soon, (Too soon, too much, it cannot be) his own. 1220 From this thy just annihilation rise, Lorenzo! rise to something, by reply. The world, thy client, listens, and expects; And longs to crown thee with immortal praise. Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine; And Wit talks most, when least she has to say, And Reason interrupts not her career. She'll say--that mists above the mountains rise; And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse; She'll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust, 1230 And fly conviction, in the dust she raised. Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste! 'Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense; But, as its substitute, a dire disease. Pernicious talent! flatter'd by the world, By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare. 1236 Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds; Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails. Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs, Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown. For thy renown, 'twere well was this the worst; Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more, 1243 See Dulness, blundering on vivacities, Shakes her sage head at the calamity, Which has exposed, and let her down to thee. But Wisdom, awful Wisdom! which inspects, Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers, Seizes the right, and holds it to the last; How rare! In senates, synods, sought in vain; 1250 Or if there found, 'tis sacred to the few; While a lewd prostitute to multitudes, Frequent, as fatal, Wit: in civil life, Wit makes an enterpriser; Sense, a man. Wit hates authority; commotion loves, And thinks herself the lightning of the storm. In states, 'tis dangerous; in religion, death: Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe? Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. 1260 Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still. Wit, widow'd of good sense, is worse than nought; It hoists more sail to run against a rock. Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool; Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit. How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun, Where syrens sit, to sing thee to thy fate! A joy, in which our reason bears no part, 1270 Is but a sorrow, tickling, ere it stings.