53 



On waxen wings then tries a lofty pitch, 



But tumbles, headlong, in a common ditch ; 



There floundering, gropes about in vain, 



Some very simple niyst ry to explain, 



Drags common sense down with him to his puddle, 



And her, as well as self, doth strangely muddle. 



He to be great, all, surely, must agree, 



He s wrote a book ! and taken a degree ! 



Up gape the audience at the wondrous man, 



And long to understand him if they can 



And if they can t bemoan their want of sense, 



While lauding still his vast intelligence. 



So Folly reigns, when blockheads are the Judges ; 



And Wisdom seems what nothing else but fudge is. 



Thus Dullness, under vizor of Minerva, 



Will ever find some wiseacres to serve her. 



Others, with morbid fantasies imbued, 

 Delight to potter o er congenial wood 

 Of previous stores their feeble cranium s dry, 

 They rap o er tables, for a fresh supply 

 Too lofty, mundane things to understand, 

 They grope for knowledge in a spirit-land 

 There, all at home where nothing can be clear, 

 Nonsense exalt, obscurity revere. 



