A satire AGAINST MANKIND.  Written by a Person of HONOUR. 

Were I, who to my cost, already am,  
One of those strange, prodigious creatures Man;  
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,  
What sort of Flesh and Blood I pleased to wear,  
I'd be a Dog, a ●onkey or a Bear:  
Or any thing, but that vain Animal,  
Who is so proud of being rational.  
His Senses are too gross; and he'll contrive  
A sixth, to contradict the other five:  
And before certain Instinct, will prefer  
Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.  
Reason, an Ignis fatuus of the mind,  
Which leaves the Light of mature Sense behind.  
Pathless, and dangerous, wandr'ing ways, it takes,  
Through errors fenny Bogs, and Thorny Brakes:  
Whilst the misguided follower thinks, with pain,  
Mountains of Whimsies, heaped in his own brain;  
Stumbling from thought, to thought, falls headlong down  
Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown,  
Books bear him up a while, and make him try  
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy:  
In hopes still to o'ertake the skipping Light,  
The Vapour dances, in his Dazzling sight,  
Till spent, it leaves him to Eternal night.  
Then Old Age, and Experience, hand in hand,  
Leads him to Death, makes him to understand,  
After a search so painful, and so long,  
That all his Life, he has been in the wrong.  
Huddled in Dirt, the reasoning Engine lies,  
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise:  
Pride drew him in, as Cheats their Bubbles catch,  
And made him venture, to be made a wretch:  
His Wisdom did his happiness destroy,  
Aiming to know, what World he should enjoy.  
And Wit was all his frivolous pretence,  
Of pleasing others at his own expense.  
For Wits are treated just like Common Whores;  
First they're enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors.  
The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains,  
That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains.  
Women, and men of Wit, are dangerous Tools,  
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.  
Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape,  
'Tis not that they're beloved, but fortunate;  
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.  
But now methinks some formal Band and Beard,  
Takes me to Task; Come on Sir, I'm prepared:  
Then by your favour, any thing that's writ  
Against this gibing, gingling knack, called Wit,  
Likes me abundantly, but you'll take care  
Upon this point, not to be too severe,  
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part,  
For I profess, I can be very smart  
On Wit, which I abhor, with all my heart:  
I long to lash it, in some sharp Essay,  
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,  
And turns my Tide of Ink, another way.  
What rage foments, in your degenerate mind,  
To make you rail at reason, ●●d mankind?  
Blessed Glorious man, to whom alone kind Heaven  
An Everlasting Soul hath freely given:  
Whom his great Maker took such care to make,  
That from himself he did the Image take,  
And this fair frame in shining reason dressed,  
To dignify his Nature above Beast.  
Reason, (by whose aspiring influence,  
We take a flight beyond material sense,)  
Dives into Mysteries, than soaring pierce  
The flaming limits of the Universe,  
Search Heaven and Hell, find out what's acted there,  
And give the World true ground of hope and fear.   

Hold mighty man I cry; all this we know,  
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo,  
From Patrick's Pilgrim, Sibbs Soliloquies,  
And 'tis this very Reason I despise,  
This supernatural gift, that makes a mite  
Think he's the Image of the Infinite;  
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,  
To the Eternal, and the ever blessed,  
This busy pushing stirrer up of doubt,  
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,  
Filling with Frantic crowds, of thinking Fools,  
The Reverend Bedlams, Colleges and Schools,  
Born on whose wings, each heavy Sot can pierce  
The Limits of the boundless Universe:  
So Charming Ointments make an old Witch fly,  
And bear a crippled Carcase through the Sky.  
'Tis the exalted poor, whose business lies  
In Nonsense and Impossibilities:  
This made a Whimsical Philosopher,  
Before the spacious World his Tub prefer:  
And we have many modern Coxcombs, who  
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.  
But thoughts were given for actions Government;  
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent  
Our Sphere of action is life's happiness,  
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an ass.  
Thus whilst against false reas'ning I inveigh,  
I own right reason, which I would obey;  
That reason, which distinguishes by sense,  
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence:  
That bounds desires, with a reforming will,  
To keep them more in vogue, and not to kill:  
Your Reason hinders; mine helps to enjoy,  
Renewing Appetites, yours would destroy.  
My Reason is my friend, yours is a Cheat:  
Hunger calls out, my Reason bids me eat;  
Perversely yours, your Appetite does mock:  
This asks for food, that answers what's a Clock.   

This plain distinction, Sir, your doubt secures:  
'Tis not true Reason I despise, but yours.  
Thus, I think Reason righted; ●ut for man,  
I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can.  
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy,  
'Tis evident Beasts are, in their own Degree,  
As Wise at least, and Better far, than he,  
Those Creatures are the wisest, who attain  
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.  
If therefore Jowler finds, and kills, the Hares  
Better than man supplies Committee Chairs;  
Though one's a Statesman, th' other but a Hound;  
Jowler in Justice will be wiser found.  
You see how far man's Wisdom here extends:  
Look next if Human Nature makes amends;  
Whose principles are most Generous and Just;  
And to whose morals, you would sooner trust:  
Be Judge yourself, I'll bring it to the Test,  
Which is the basest Creature, Man, or Beast:  
Birds feed on Birds, Beasts on each other prey;  
But savage Man alone, does Man Betray.  
Pressed by Necessity, they kill for food;  
Man undoes man, to do himself no good.  
With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature armed, they Hunt,  
Nature's allowance, to supply their want:  
But man with Smiles, Embrances, Friendships, Praise,  
Inhumanly, his fellows life betrays,  
With voluntary pains, works his distress,  
Not through Necessity, but Wantonness  
For hunger, or for love they bite or tear,  
Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear.  
For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid:  
From fear, to fear, successively betrayed.  
Base fear, the source, whence his best passions came,  
His boasted Honour, and his dear bought Fame:  
The Lust of Power, to which he's such a slave,  
And for the which alone, he dares be brave:  
To which his various projects are designed,  
Which makes him Generous, Affable and Kind:  
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,  
And screws his actions, in a forced disguise:  
Leads a most tedious life, in misery,  
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisy,  
Look to the Bottom of his vast design,  
Wherein man's Wisdom, Power and Glory join;  
The Good he acts, the Ill he does endure,  
'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.  
Merely for safety, after fame they thirst,  
For all men would be Cowards if they durst:  
And honesty's against all common sense,  
Must men be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence,  
Mankind's dishonest; if you think it fair,  
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,  
You'll be undone.—  
Nor can weak Truth, your reputation save;  
The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave.  
Wronged shall he live, insulted o'er, oppressed,  
Who dares be lesser Villain, than the rest.  
Thus here you see, what Human Nature craves,  
Most men are Cowards, all men should be Knaves.  
The Difference lies, as far as I can see,  
Not in the thing itself, but the Degree:  
And all the subject matter of Debate,  
Is only who's a Knave, of the first Rate.   
FINIS.