And here the drone lethargic loves to ftay,
Slumb'ring the dull, inactive hours away;
For ftill, unless by foreign force impreft,
The languid Goddess holds her state of rest.
Their habitation here those monsters keep,
Whom Matter father'd on the God of Sleep:
Here Zoilus, with cank'ring envy pale,
Here Mævius bids his brother Bavius, hail;
Spinoza, Epicure, and all thofe mobs
Of wicked wits, from Pyrrho down to Hobbes.
How can the Mufe recount the numerous crew
Of frequent fools that crowd upon the view?
Nor can learn'd Albion's fun that burns fo clear,
Disperse the dulness that involves them here.
Boeotia thus remain'd, in days of yore,
Senseless and stupid, tho' the neighb'ring shore
Afforded falutary hellebore:
No cure exhal'd from Zephyr's buxom breeze,
That gently brush'd the bosom of the seas,
As oft to Lesbian fields he wing'd his way,
Fanning fair Flora, and in airy play
Breath'd balmy fighs, that melt the foul away.
Behold that portico! how vaft, how wide!
The pillars Gothic, wrought with barb'rous pride :
Sponte fuâ nihil aggreditur, dormitat in horas,
Et, fine vi, nullo gaudet Dea languida motu.
Hìc ea monftra habitant, quæ olim fub luminis auras Materies peperit, fomno patre, lividus iste
Zoilus, & Bavio non impar Mævius; audax
Spinoza, & Pyrrho, cumque Hobbefio Epicurus.
Ast omnes valeat quæ mufa referre? frequentes
Ufque adeo videas Hebetes properáre ?----nec adfert]
Quidquam opis Anglorum docte vicinia gentis.
Sic quondam, ut perhibent, ftupuit Boeotica tellus
Vicina licet Antycirâ, nihil inde falutis,
Nil tulit hellebori Zephyrus,, cum fæpe per æquor
Felicem ad Lesbon levibus volitaverit alis,
Indigenæ mellita ferens fufpiria Flora.
Porticus illa vides? Gothicis fuffulta columnis, Templi aditus, quàm laxa patet! cuftodia qualis
And here the drone lethargic loves to ftay,
Slumb'ring the dull, inactive hours away;
For ftill, unless by foreign force impreft,
The languid Goddess holds her state of rest.
Their habitation here those monsters keep,
Whom Matter father'd on the God of Sleep :
Here Zoilus, with cank'ring envy pale,
Here Mævius bids his brother Bavius, hail;
Spinoza, Epicure, and all those mobs
Of wicked wits, from Pyrrho down to Hobbes.
How can the Mufe recount the numerous crew
Of frequent fools that crowd upon the view?
Nor can learn'd Albion's fun that burns fo clear,
Disperse the dulnefs that involves them here.
Boeotia thus remain'd, in days of yore,
Senfeless and ftupid, tho' the neighb'ring shore
Afforded falutary hellebore:
No cure exhal'd from Zephyr's buxom breeze,
That gently brush'd the bofom of the feas,
As oft to Lesbian fields he wing'd his way,
Fanning fair Flora, and in airy play
Breath'd balmy fighs, that melt the foul away.
Behold that portico! how vaft, how wide!
The pillars Gothic, wrought with barb'rous pride :
Ante fores! quatuor formæ fua tollere miris
Ora modis! en! torva tuens stat limine in ipso
Perfonam Logices induta Sophiftica, denis
Cincta Categoriis, matrem quæ maxima natu
Filia materiem agnofcit---quantum inftar in ipfâ eft! 35
Grande caput, tenues oculi, cutis arida produnt
Fallacem : rete una manus tenet, altera fustem.
Veftis arachneis fordit circumdata telis,
Queis gaudet labyrinthæos Dea callida nodos.
Afpicias jam funereo gradientem inceffu---
Quàm lentè cælo Saturni volvitur aftrum,
Quàm lentè faltaverunt poft Orphea montes,
Quàm lentè, Oxonii, folennis pondera cænæ
Geftant tergeminorum abdomina bedellorum.
45
Proxima deinde tenet loca forte infana Mathefis, Nuda pedes, chlamydem difcincta, incompta capillos, Immemor externi, punctoque innixa reclinat.
Four monftrous fhapes before the portal wait,
Of horrid afpect, centry to the gate :
Lo! in the entrance, with difdainful eye,
In Logick's dark difguife, ftands Sophiftry :
Her very front would common sense confound,
Encompass'd with ten categories round:
She from Old Matter, the great mother, came,
By birth the eldest---and how like the dame !
Her shrivel'd skin, fmall eyes, prodigious pate,
Denote her fhrewd, and fubtle in debate :
This hand a net, and that sustains a club,
T'entangle her antagonist, or drub.
The fpider's toils, all o'er her garment spread,
Imply the mazy errors of her head.
Behold her marching with funereal pace,
Slow as old Saturn rolls thro' boundless space,
Slow as the mighty mountains mov'd along,
When Orpheus rais'd the lyre-attended fong:
Or, as at Oxford, on fome Gaudy day,
Fat Beadles, in magnificent array,
With big round bellies bear the pond'rous treat,
And heavily lag on, with the vast load of meat.
The next, mad Mathefis; her feet all bare,
Ungirt, untrim'd, with diffoluted hair :
No foreign object can her thoughts disjoint;
Reclin'd fhe fits, and ponders o'er a point.
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