fly. 
  Reaching above our nature does no good; 100
  We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
  As by our little Machiavel we find
  That nimblest creature of the busy kind,
  His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes;
  Yet his hard mind which all this bustle makes,
  No pity of its poor companion takes. 
  What gravity can hold from laughing out,
  To see him drag his feeble legs about,
  Like hounds ill-coupled?  Jowler lugs him still
  Through hedges, ditches, and through all that’s ill. 110
  ’Twere crime in any man but him alone,
  To use a body so, though ’tis one’s own: 
  Yet this false comfort never gives him o’er,
  That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar;
  Alas! that soaring to those few that know,
  Is but a busy grovelling here below. 
  So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
  Whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: 
  So modern fops have fancied they could fly. 
  As the new earl,[59] with parts deserving praise, 120
  And wit enough to laugh at his own ways,
  Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
  Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights;
  Striving against his quiet all he can,
  For the fine notion of a busy man. 
  And what is that at best, but one whose mind
  Is made to tire himself and all mankind? 
  For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
  For if some odd, fantastic lord would fain
  Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do, 130
  I’ll not only pay him, but admire him too. 
  But is there any other beast that lives,
  Who his own harm so wittingly contrives? 
  Will any dog that has his teeth and stones,
  Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones,
  To turn a wheel, and bark to be employ’d,
  While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy’d? 
  Yet this fond man, to get a statesman’s name,
  Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.

    Though satire, nicely writ, with humour stings 140
  But those who merit praise in other things;
  Yet we must needs this one exception make,
  And break our rules for silly Tropos’[60] sake;
  Who was too much despised to be accused,
  And therefore scarce deserves to be abused;
  Raised only by his mercenary tongue,
  For railing smoothly, and for reasoning wrong,
  As boys, on holidays, let loose to play,
  Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way;
  Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress 150
  Some silly cit in her flower’d foolish dress: 
  So have I mighty satisfaction found,
  To see his tinsel reason on the ground: 
  To see the florid fool despised, and know it,
  By some who scarce have words enough to show it: 
  For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker