Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/50

But, doubtful as I am, I'll entertain
This Faith, There can be no Mistake in Gain.
For the dull World most Honour pay to those
Who on their Understanding most impose.
First Man creates, and then he fears the Elf,
Thus others cheat him not but he himself:
He loaths the Substance and he loves the Show;
You'll ne'er convince a Fool, Himself is so:
He hates Reallities, and hugs the Cheat,
And still the only Pleasure's the Deceit.
So Meteors flatter with a dazling Dye
Which no Existence has, but in the Eye.
At distance Prospects please us, but when near,
We find but desart Rocks, and fleeting Air.
From Stratagem to Stratagem we run,
And he knows most, who latest is undone.

Mankind one Day serene and free appear;
The next, they're cloudy, sullen, and severe:
New Passions, new Opinions still excite,
And what they like at Noon, they leave at Night.
They gain with Labour, what they quit with Ease,
And Health, for want of Change, becomes Disease.
Religion's bright Authority they dare,
And yet are Slaves to Superstitious Fear.
They Counsel others, but themselves Deceive,
And tho' they're Cozen'd still, they still Believe.
So proud of Praise, for That their Ease they slight;
Yet never think the Rabble in the right.
Thus Priests their Pagan Gods profanely mock;
And know that Sacrifice is only Smoke.
They find, if some great Enterprise they view.
Oft more to Folly, than to Prudence due.