Song LXXIII. the Comet

Had I old Homer here I wou'd make that wretch see, (Quoth Venus) whom 'tis he abuses; What business has any Verse-monger with me? Their Prudes let them stick to,—the Muses— And so I was wounded by rough Diomede? A pretty dress'd up sort of story; See Jupiter smiles—but Papa now, indeed, 'Tis not for your Honour and Glory.

Why will you permit these Mortality Frights, What Olympus has plann'd to review? Don't suffer such Reptiles to creep out at nights T'observe what we Deities do. Immensely impertinent 'twas, you must own, My Transit to see, and expose it; Because, t'other day, I just drove out of Town, Their Spectacles peep'd in my Closet.

A moment Jove laid his bright dignity down, And let Laughter illumine his face; To his Daughter reply'd—Cytharea, a frown Becomes not the Empress of Grace. Those Atoms of Clay which you see to and fro', Skip about on yon' Globular Crust, Like the blue on a plumb, are but Insects you know, A mere Animalculous Dust.

Those Emmets, 'tis true, scientifical prate, A race of half-reasoning Elves, Who all can account (as they think) for my State, Yet know not the State of themselves. They pretend to examine Eternity's rules,— The Cause of all Causes dispute:— I'll shew you these arrogant Earth-worms are Fools, And thus all their Systems confute.

Away, at his word, the vast COMET rush'd forth, And swift thro' immensity blaz'd; Yet Attraction went on, tho' it girdl'd the Earth— On Earth, how the Star-peepers gaz'd. Each circl'd, and circl'd a scheme of his own, And reason'd about, and awry; It derision, a moment, Immortals look down, 'Twas a Jest for the Sons of the Sky.

Be humble ye Beings of feeble Threescore, Shall Finites,—Infinity scan? The best of us only are Men, and no more— And, at best, only think what is Man? A contrary mixture of Pity and Scorn, Pride, Servility, Sorrow, and Mirth; In a Moment he's made, in a Moment he's born, In a Moment again he is Earth.

Sons of Error; for that's all the birthright ye share, As ev'ry day's actions make known; No longer let Vanity gaze into Air, But think of itself and look down— Yet hold!—let us think,—to look down did I say? I did so,—and so seize my Cup, Come, do as I do, and I'll shew you the way, The best way, my Lads, to look up.