Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mafs, 



The mere materials, with which wifdom builds, 



Till fmoothed, and fquared, and fitted to its place, 



Does but incumber, whom it feems t'enrich. 



Knowledge is proud, that it has learned fo much : 



Wifdom is humble, that it knows no more. 



Books are not feldom talifmans, and fpells, 



By which the magic arts of ihrewder wits 



Holds an unthinking multitude inthrall'd. 



Some to the fafcination of a name 



Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the Jtih 



Infatuates ; and through labyrinths, and wilds 



Of error, leads them by a tune entranc'd. 



While floth feduces more, too weak to bear 



The infupportable fatigue of thought; 



And fwallowing therefore, without paufe, or choice, 



The total grift unfifted; hulks, and all. 



But trees, and rivulets, and haunts of deer, 



And fheep-walks, populous with bleating lambs, 



And groves, in which the primrofe e'er her time 



Peeps through the mofs, that cloaths the haw-thorn root, 



Deceive no ftudent. Wifdom there, and truth, 



Not my as in the world, and to be won 



By flow felicitation, feize at once 



The roving thought, and fix it on themfelves. 



SECT. 



