On a Grave Sir retiring to Write in Order to undeceive the World.

On a Grave Sir retiring to Write in Order to undeceive the World.

CErtis of all well-meaning Fools, thy Fate Is most deplorably Unfortunate. Hadst Thou Domitian-like in catching Flies Employ'd thy Privacy, thou'dst past for Wise; For what shou'd hinder thee, but thou mayst catch As fast as He, and be the Emperour's Match? But whilst thy solitary Hours are spent In scribling tedious Systems, to prevent The Worlds Mistakes, its Follies to Reform, Thou mayst as well pretend to lay a Storm. Go, cut the Caspian Lake a Road to th'Ocean; Contrive an Engine with perpetual Motion, Make Machiavillians of the Red-Bull Rout, Jilts Constant, Breakers Honest, Bawds Devout; If these Adventures seem unfeazable, At least enough to pose Don Sidrophel. Then think how frantickly thou dost devise, To make this Hair-brain'd World grow staid and wise. In Youth and Prime when likeliest to improve, No Precepts this besotted World cou'd move; And wilt thou at these Years begin to School, (Dull Moralist!) the crazy doating Fool? Go dreaming Stoick, once again Retire; And since thou art Ambitious to acquire Repute for Judgment — Set thy Works on Fire.