ABSTRACT
Like Attoms, danc’d and wanton’d in my Crimes, Strong Vice Opinion of my Wisdom bred, Which round the World, those false Apostles led, Whilst scandal hourly I on Vertue threw, Nor would be witty, unless wicked too; All thy pernicious Tenets then I own’d, And Wit prophane with circling Bays I crown’d, Proud of short-sighted Reason, my design Was still to blast the Mysteries Divine; Defame Religion with unhallow’d wit, And ridicule the Laws of Sacred Writ: But Oh, you foolish, fond, and apish Crew, Ye learned Idiots that my Tracts pursue, Ye crawling Worms that bask in the Sun’s Ray, And yet the Sun’s great Maker disobey. Pernicious Snakes that by Celestial Fire, Reliev’d from frozen Ignorance, conspire Against your God, and think frail Eyes can see Through the Arcana of the Trinity, Reflect how false your Notions are, by me. And thou, poor Heathen, that hadst wit to write, Yet not the Truth, hadst Eyes, and yet no sight, That wert in th’ dawn of our Redemption driven Through moral Mists to grope the way to Heaven, Thou that with one poor glimpse of Reason blest, Given only as distinction from the Beast; Prophanely dar’st affirm there nothing is Beyond the Grave, of Misery or Bliss: But that the Soul and Body, like a Tree, Rest undisturb’d in Earth’s Obscurity.
