Just definition! though by schools untaught. Ye deaf to truth! peruse this parson'd page, 840 And trust, for once, a prophet, and a priest; "Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die." THE RELAPSE. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF LICHFIELD. NIGHT FIFTH. THE RELAPSE. Lorenzo! to recriminate is just. Fondness for fame is avarice of air. I grant the man is vain who writes for praise. Praise no man e'er deserved, who sought no more. As just thy second charge. I grant the Muse Has often blush'd at her degenerate sons, Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause; To raise the low, to magnify the mean, And subtilize the gross into refined: As if to magic numbers' powerful charm 10 'Twas given, to make a civet of their song Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume. Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute, And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire. The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause. We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride. These share the man; and these distract him too; Draw different ways, and clash in their commands. Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars; But pleasure, lark-like, nests upon the ground. 20 Joys shared by brute creation, pride resents; 21 Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy, And both at once: a point so hard, how gain! But, what can't wit, when stung by strong desire? Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprise. Since joys of sense can't rise to reason's taste; In subtle sophistry's laborious forge, Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause. Wit calls the graces the chaste zone to loose; 30 Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl: A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells, A thousand opiates scatters, to delude, To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep, And the fool'd mind delightfully confound. Thus that which shock'd the judgment, shocks no more; That which gave Pride offence, no more offends. Pleasure and Pride, by nature mortal foes, At war eternal, which in man shall reign, By Wit's address, patch up a fatal peace, 40 And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch, From rank refined to delicate and gay. Art, cursed Art! wipes off th' indebted blush From Nature's cheek, and bronzes every shame. Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt, And infamy stands candidate for praise. All writ by man in favour of the soul, These sensual ethics far, in bulk, transcend. The flowers of eloquence, profusely pour'd O'er spotted vice, fill half the letter'd world. 50 Can powers of genius exorcise their page, And consecrate enormities with song?