12/02/2008

Voltaire

Poetical Dissertations

Table of Contents

Publication Information

On Equality of Conditions

On Liberty

On The Nature of Man

On Moderation in All Things

Notes

Publication Information

François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire: Poetical Dissertations.

Extracted from Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire: A Contemporary Version. Volume: 1.

Translated by William F. Fleming.

Publisher: E. R. DuMont. Place of Publication: Paris. Publication Year: 1901

On Equality of Conditions

Friend, o’er whose mind fair virtue still presides,

Whom reason still to nature’s instinct guides,

Who mak’st thy wishes with thy station meet,

Blessed without wealth, in pleasures still discreet:

Happy are those who thus their genius scan,

Whom prudence teaches to elect life’s plan:

His heart ne’er grieves repentance’ voice to hear,

He lives concentred in his proper sphere.

Men differ; one’s condition’s like the rest,

Folly miscarries where good sense is blessed.

Bliss is the port to which each mortal’s bound,

The wind’s uncertain, rocks of life abound:

Heaven to enable man the port to find

A bark to every mortal has assigned.

Various resources, equal dangers rise,

What boots it when the storm roars through the skies

That thy poop’s painted; that the changeful gales

Blow through thy silken shrouds and purple sails:

The pilot’s art alone the storm allays,

And not the ornaments our bark displays.

What doctrine strange, you’ll say, is here professed,

Is no state then beyond another blessed?

Has heaven given all of bliss an equal share?

A scrivener’s wife to a princess who’d compare?

Is it not for a priest a happier fate

To clap a scarlet hat on his bald pate,

Than to go after morn or evening prayer

To expose to discipline his shoulders bare?

In triple bonnet sure more blessed the judge

Than the clerk doomed in office still to drudge.

God’s justice, nature’s laws, this rule oppose,

Her gifts she with more equity bestows.

Think you she’ll ever be so partial found

As to have bliss to fortune’s chariot bound?

A colonel oft will impudently try

In pleasures even a marshal to outvie.

Blessed as a king, the ignorant vulgar say,

Yet monarchs dearly for their grandeur pay.

Vain confidence a king puts in his throne,

For grief and spleen to greatness’ self are known.

Heaven must to all the same attention pay,

It formed all mankind of one common clay.

Let’s own that heaven is just as well as kind,

It has a birthright to each child assigned;

Some crop must still be reaped from earth’s worst spot,

He’s disinherited who mourns his lot.

Let’s without pride possess; let’s bear with grace,

Since ’twas by God assigned our earthly place.

God meant arranging mundane things

To make us happy, not to make us kings.

Before Pandora, if we credit fame,

We all were equal, we are still the same.

Each having the same title to be blessed

Puts each upon a level with the rest.

Those slaves in yonder valley dost thou see,

Who cut a craggy rock, or lop a tree;

Who turn the course of streams; who, with a spade

The entrails of the fertile earth invade.

We do not find that model in those plains

On which were formed Fontenelle’s soft swains.

There Timaret and Tircis are not found

Beneath a myrtle shade with chaplets crowned,

Graving upon the oaken bark their names,

And ever talking of their amorous flames;

But some rough man endowed with stubborn heart,

Who knows through mire to drive the laden cart:

Soon as Aurora streaks the russet skies,

From her coarse bed Perrette is forced to rise,

They pant, with dust I see them covered o’er;

Each day they labour as the day before;

By toil to cold and heat alike inured,

Both are by them with equal ease endured:

And yet they sing in rude tone, without note,

Old ballads which by Pellegrin were wrote.

Strength, health, sound sleep, the mind’s serene repose,

To poverty and toil the labourer owes.

At Paris gay Colin no joy can find,

His ears are deafened, uninformed his mind:

No joy its splendour to the rustic yields;

He overlooks it, and regrets his fields.

Love’s voice excites him thither to repair,

Whilst. Damis running still from fair to fair

In proud apartments lolls at careless ease,

Intrigue his business, his desire to please,

By his wife hated, duped by his kept dame,

To every beauty tells his amorous flame;

Quits Aegle’s arms for Cloris coy, who flies,

And thinks all joy in noise and scandal lies.

The vigorous, faithful Colin, on love’s wing

Flies to Lisetta with return of spring.

Returning in three months, the rustic swain

Makes presents simple, like himself, and plain:

He does not bring those trinkets rich and rare

Which Hebert sells to the deluded fair.

Without these trifles he secures his joys,

He wants them not, they are the happy’s toys.

The rapid eagle through the yielding skies

After his paramour with ardour flies.

The bull the heifer seeks with many a bound,

His lowing love makes all the vale resound.

Sweet Philomel, soon as the flowers appear,

Delights with songs his loved companion’s ear.

Forth from the bushes darts the buzzing fly,

Meets insects, and engenders in the sky;

To exist of all their wishes is the bound,

They grieve not others are more perfect found.

What need I care whilst in my present state

That other beings have a happier fate.

But can that wretch who lies upon the dust

Object at once of pity and disgust,

That breathing skeleton with woes oppressed,

Who lives to suffer, say, can he be blessed?

No; but can Thamas by a slave deposed,

A vizier in disgrace, a prince opposed,

Be happy deemed? When once they’re cast in chains,

A sad remembrance of their state remains.

Each state its ills, its disappointments knows;

Man’s state is varied, various are his woes;

Less fierce in peace, more active in the fight,

Charles had in English realms maintained his right.

And had Dufresny with more care applied,

Of want he had not like an author died.

We all are equal, men must bear fatigue,

Churches breed controversies, courts intrigue.

Too oft true merit lurks behind a screen,

Evil abounds, but bliss is often seen.

Nor youth, nor age, nor poverty, nor wealth,

Can e’er restore the wounded soul to health.

Irus of old, of poverty ashamed,

Loud against Croesus’ opulence declaimed:

“Honour and wealth by Croesus are possessed,”

Cried he, “and only I remain unblessed.”

While thus he spoke, while thus his rage prevailed,

The Carian king an armed host assailed.

Of all his courtly train not one remains,

In fight he’s taken, and he’s cast in chains;

His treasure’s lost, his mistress from him torn:

He weeps, but sees, when lost and quite forlorn,

Irus, poor Irus, who, the combat o’er,

Drinks with the victors, thinks of war no more.

“Oh! Jove,” exclaimed he, “Irus knows the worst;

Irus is happy, I alone am cursed.”

Mistaken both, they should dispute lay by;

He errs, who sees a man with envious eye:

External lustre fills us with surprise;

But man’s a mystery to human eyes.

All joy is transient, mirth must have an end;

Whither do then the cares of mortals tend?

In every clime grows happiness sincere,

’Tis nowhere to be found, or everywhere:

Nowhere entire, but everywhere the same;

In God alone exhaustless lasts the flame:

It’s like the pure, like the ethereal fires

To mix with other elements aspires;

Mounts to the clouds, descends to rocks below,

And in the sea’s abyss makes diamonds glow;

When snowy mountains load the frozen plains

Joy ever cheers the bosoms of the swains.

In whate’er state thou’rt born, O mortal, still

Resigned, submit to thy Creator’s will!

On Liberty

In transient life, which some few years comprise,

If happiness must be true wisdom’s prize,

Who shall to me this sacred treasure send,

Does it upon myself or heaven depend?

Is it like wit, like beauty, and high birth,

A lot which prudence can’t acquire on earth?

Say, am I free, or do my limbs and soul

Some other agent’s secret springs control?

Is will which ever hurries me away,

Slave to the soul, or bears she sovereign sway?

Plunged in this doubt, and hopeless of relief,

I raised to heaven my eyes obscured with grief.

A spirit then to whom the God is known,

Who holds his place by the Almighty’s throne,

Who still attends him, burns with constant flame,

From the high heavens celestial envoy came;

For oft propitiously those sons of light

Illume the soul obscured by error’s night.

And fly the doctor’s supercilious pride,

Who does in his professor’s chair confide;

Who quite elate, and of his system vain,

Mistakes for truth the phantom of his brain.

Listen, said he, in pity to your grief

I’ll now reveal what sure will bring relief.

What you desire to learn I shall disclose,

Instruction is his due to doubt who knows.

Know then, oh! man, that you are free as I,

This is the noblest gift of the Most High;

In the free will of each intelligence

That being’s life consists, its true essence.

That’s free which can conceive, will, act, design;

A glorious attribute, almost divine.

This great prerogative to God we owe,

His offspring we, His images below:

His word all powerful made heaven, earth, and seas,

The body thus the will’s command obeys.

Sovereign on earth, a powerful king by thought,

Nature by thee is to thy purpose brought;

The zephyr you command, the roaring main;

You can your will and even desires restrain.

Of liberty, if we the soul divest,

What is it? ’Tis a subtile flame at best.

Were we deprived once of the power to choose,

We should in fact our very being lose;

Machines we should be by the Almighty wrought,

Curious automatons endowed with thought.

We should delusion suffer every hour,

Tools of the Deity’s despotic power.

Could man, not free, God’s image be esteemed?

Could works like these be profitable deemed?

Can’t he then please God, can’t he give offence,

Can God not punish us nor recompense?

Justice in heaven and earth must cease to dwell,

Desfontaines is not bad, not good Pucelle. [1]

Fate’s impulse actuates each human breast,

And the world’s chaos is by vice possessed.

The proud oppressor, miser hard of heart,

Cartouche, Mirivis, skilled in fraudful art;

The slanderer, more criminal than all,

May God the causer of his baseness call.

If I am perjured, ’tis by his command,

He plunders, robs, and murders by my hand:

’Tis thus the God who first ordained all laws,

Is made of horrors and black crimes the cause.

Could those who such a dogma dire maintain,

Speak of the devil himself in blacker strain:

Surprise seized on me, as on one at night

Who wakes surprised to see a sudden light,

Whilst yet a heavy and half-opened eye

With difficulty can the light descry.

I answered: Can it, heavenly spirit, be

That mortal man’s so weak whilst he is free,

Why cannot reason’s torch direct his way,

He follows it, yet often goes astray?

Why should this paragon so wise and brave,

Be always thus to vice an abject slave?

This answer straight returned the spirit kind,

What groundless grief has thus o’erwhelmed your mind?

Liberty sometimes is impaired in you,

But was eternal liberty your due?

Should it be equal in each time and state

You’d be a God, to be a man’s your fate.

Shall a drop in the vast unbounded sea

Exclaim: Immensity was made for me?

No; all is weak in thee, to change inclined

Thy beauty, strength, the talents of thy mind.

All nature has its limits fixed below,

Shall then man’s power be boundless here below?

But when your heart which various passions sway

To their strong impulse overpowered gives way;

When to their force you find your free-will bend,

You had it sure, since you perceive it end.

Whene’er you feel the burning fever’s flame

By slow degrees it undermines your frame;

But that attack no sure destruction brings,

Though for a time it wears life’s feeble springs.

You oft return from death’s half-opened gate

More healthy, temperate, and more sedate,

Your great prerogative more strictly scan,

Liberty is the soul’s health in a man.

Sometimes its efficacy may subside

Subdued by rage, ambition, love, or pride.

The thirst for knowledge may its power control,

Many are the diseases of the soul.

But you against them may yourself defend,

Open this book, consult that learned friend;

A friend’s the gift of heaven, a blessing rare,

To Sylva, [2] Vernage, Helvetius repair.

May heaven, when men are into vice betrayed,

Send such assistants powerful to their aid.

Is there that idiot among humankind

Who wishes not in danger, aid to find?

Behold the mortal who free-will arraigns,

And blindly a blind destiny maintains,

See how he ponders, weighs, deliberates;

See how he loads with blame the man he hates;

How he seeks vengeance when with passion warm;

How he corrects his son and would reform.

From hence ’tis evident he thought him free,

His system and his actions disagree.

His heart belied his tongue at every word

In striving to explain this dogma so absurd:

He owns the sentiment he seems to brave;

He acts as free, discourses as a slave.

Since free, thank God who freedom did bestow,

To him the bliss that makes you blessed you owe;

Avoid with caution all the vain contest

Of those that tyrannize the human breast;

Firm in thy principles, and just in heart,

Error compassionate, with truth take part.

Do not to zeal’s suggestions fierce give way,

He is a brother who is led astray;

To be humane as well as prudent strive;

From others’ bliss thy happiness derive.

The angel’s words resounding in my ear,

My mind was raised above this mortal sphere;

I had inquired, at length presumptuous grown,

Of things revealed to heavenly minds alone:

Of spirit pure, of matter, light, and space

The elastic spring, eternity, time’s race,

Strange questions, which so frequently confound

Mairant the subtle, Gravesende the profound, [3]

And which Descartes in vain strove to explore,

Whose vortices are now believed no more.

But then the spirit vanished from my sight

And sought the regions of eternal light.

He was not sent me from the ethereal sky,

To teach the secrets deep of the Most High:

My eyes by too great light had been oppressed,

He said enough, in saying, man be blessed.

On The Nature of Man

Virtue presides still over thy delights,

To thee she by the charm of verse invites.

Your study’s man, that labyrinth you explore,

Your guide the clue of wisdom’s sacred lore.

Ashamed of ignorance, to study man

I strive, myself, my being I would scan;

To satire Pascal and Boileau inclined,

Have dipped their pen in gall and lashed mankind,

Leibnitz and Pope, at once both learned and sage,

Observe a medium in their moral page;

Wisely the latent tracts of man explore,

And to the Deity sublimely soar.

But nature’s ways they strove to find in vain,

Man is a riddle man cannot explain;

Upon the subject all their wit have shown,

But still the riddle’s sense remains unknown.

By prostitutes, I know, and rakes professed,

The disquisition’s treated as a jest.

At supper these loose verses read aloud,

Which charm the sprightly, gay, unthinking crowd.

But study pleases when our mirth is past,

Reason succeeds to witty jests at last.

Upon ourselves we turn a curious eye,

And into our own nature strive to pry.

Thought is to those who live in crowds unknown,

We seriously reflect when left alone.

With thee I fain would soar on wisdom’s wing

From this vile world to its Eternal King.

That wondrous chain discover, if you can,

Which links the heavens with earth, with angels man:

That world of beings subject to one law,

Which Plato and which Pope in fancy saw.

In vain you press me, such a great design

My genius must in silent awe decline:

Gallic correctness all my flights restrains,

Ours are not free like Greek or British strains.

’Tis Pope’s to speak, I am to silence bound,

Bachelors of Bourges may mysteries expound.

I’ve taken no degree, nor will engage

In fierce debate or war polemic wage.

Hear a recital with instruction fraught,

Which by Fourmont may be a fable thought;

But which I in a Chinese author found

Translated by a Jesuit profound.

A mouse did once thus to another say,

“O’er what a noble empire bear we sway!

This palace’s deep foundations erst were laid

For us; for us by God these holes were made.

See you those hams in yon vault closely pent?

By God they thither for our use were sent.

Those hills of bacon, an unfailing store,

Shall last for us till time shall be no more.

A mouse, great God, the sages all declare

Creation’s end: A work beyond compare!

Vicious are cats, to eat us much inclined,

But ’tis from error to reclaim our kind.”

Not far a multitude of geese are seen,

Drawn up near woods and streams upon the green;

Of pampered turkeys, troops that strut in state,

And flocks that bend beneath their fleeces’ weight,

They cried: “The universe is ours alone,

Whatever the Almighty made, we own.”

In the clear watery image whilst he grazed,

The ass his beauty saw, and was amazed.

He cries: “For asses God has made the earth,

Man still attends me, he’s my slave from birth;

He curries, washes me, and, more, to please,

Builds my seraglio, for my joys purveys;

And happy to procure me soft delight,

Brings a she-ass to crown my bliss at night:

Often I laugh when I behold him pass,

With haughty airs, as if he were an ass.”

Man came the next, his plea was much the same,

He cried: “Heaven, earth, and elements, I claim:

To waft me ocean rolls and winds arise;

To give me light, stars glitter in the skies;

Night’s argent globe through heaven’s clear azure glides,

Increases, wanes, and o’er the stars presides;

O’er all presides my vast, capacious mind,

In the wide universe too close confined:

But though I’m oracle and master here,

I should be raised to a more glorious sphere.”

The angels then, who in high heaven control

The wandering orbs, and teach them how to roll,

Exclaimed, whilst at their will they moved each ball:

“God for our pleasure has created all.”

Then earth with pity and with scorn they eyed,

And laughed at mortals and at human pride.

Their secret thoughts were all to Fien [4] known,

He summoned them before the eternal throne.

Each varied being, angel, beast, and man,

All that compose the Almighty’s wondrous plan,

“You are my creatures, I call you all mine,

You bear,” said He, “my character divine;

To me you all, as to your centre, tend;

For me you all were made, on me depend:

I rule at once o’er Nature, Time, and Fate;

By me each being is assigned its state.

Imperfect creatures! you aspire in vain,

In your own stations satisfied remain.”

Man still was discontented with his place,

Still at their lot repined the human race.

A learned Chinese, grown old in fierce dispute,

Who reason could by argument confute,

With logic of Confucius quite possessed,

In form to God presented his request:

“Why is my time a second? Why my space

A point? Why falls so soon the human race?

Why am I not a hundred cubits high?

Why can’t I travel swiftly through the sky?

Why can’t I teach the erring moon her way?

Why am I not awake both night and day?

Why can’t I prove, inflamed by amorous fire,

In one month, of a hundred sons, the sire?

Why, in one day, was all my ardour past?”

“Your questions,” said the God, “will always last:

Soon will your doubts and scruples all be o’er,

For truth you must the ideal world explore.”

Even then an angel bore him from the place,

Far as the centre of unbounded space;

O’er suns, which circling planets still surround,

Moons, rings and comets, which no limits bound:

A globe he entered, where the hand divine

Of nature’s God had traced his great design;

The eye can there each real system scan,

And of each system possible the plan.

Now animating hopes the sage inspire,

He seeks a world made to his heart’s desire:

He sought in vain; the angel made him know,

That what he wished could ne’er exist below;

For could man, giant-like, with heaven engage,

Or rather war against right reason wage.

Had God extended in this earthly sphere

His life up to his twenty-thousandth year,

This mass of earth and water ne’er could find

Room for the overgrown, gigantic kind.

Reasons like these the cavillers confound,

He owns, each being has its proper bound;

That ’tis a folly to aspire below,

Since life and pleasure both their limits know;

That man should not of grief or toil complain,

And less of death, which frees him from his chain:

That he should not fatigue the heavenly throne,

Since to the Almighty change was never known.

Convinced, not satisfied, the sage his flight

Bent to the earth, and owned that all is right;

But still he murmured, ’midst the earthly throng,

A doctor never can be in the wrong.

More flexible was Matthew Garo’s mind,

To praise for all things God his soul inclined.

Perhaps God erst on men more wealth bestowed,

Perhaps their plains with milk and honey flowed;

The night, perhaps, was lightsome as the day,

And winter bloomed with all the flowers of May;

Whilst man, the king of earth, in peace retired,

Wrapt up in self, himself alone admired.

But let us rest contented with our fate,

Our bliss is suited to our present state:

Against our Maker murmurs must prove vain,

Mortals should not the laws of God arraign:

Let us to serve him all our lives employ,

And gratefully the bliss he gives, enjoy.

If to two days the Almighty had confined

The time allotted to all humankind,

We should to God those two short days consign,

And consecrate the time to love divine.

He who assiduous every call attends,

Never complains that life too quickly ends

A man in little time may sure live long,

This I could prove by reasons very strong;

But authors should not to instruct aspire,

Who speaks too much is ever sure to tire.

Thus did my muse, in simple, artless strain,

And various tones, strive nature to explain;

Whilst Frenchmen wandered, and, with piercing eyes,

At Quito hoped to see new stars arise;

Whilst Maupertuis and Clairaut Europe praised,

And Lapland at their new meridian gazed;

While rival of the old Prometheus fame,

Vacanson brings to man celestial flame,

Boldly to copy nature’s self aspires,

And bodies animates with heavenly fires.

Remote from cities, on Parnassus’ shore

I passed my days, intent on learned lore;

And from the sphere, where Milton, unconfined,

At pleasure roved, where pierced great Newton’s mind,

I saw them soar, with emulation fired,

Genius sublime and arts my soul admired;

Slanderers in me beheld their foes professed,

Fanatics wild, informers I detest;

I know no envy, or perfidious art,

I worship God with pure and upright heart;

And though my body’s with diseases spent,

My active mind on study is intent;

I live convinced that while we here remain,

To hope for perfect happiness is vain.

On Moderation in All Things

Fools by excess make varied pleasures pall,

The wise man’s moderate, and enjoys them all;

Pleasure and business to combine he knows,

And makes joy terminate in due repose.

To all things no one mortal can aspire,

From early youth to know was your desire:

Nature’s your book, you strive with curious eye

In nature more than others to descry,

Guided by reason nature try to sound,

But set to curiosity a bound.

Stop on infinity’s dread verge thy course,

And pry not into nature’s awful source,

Réaumur and Buffon who with piercing sight,

Athwart her veil discerned truth’s sacred light,

Cannot by philosophic process state

The wondrous laws by which plants vegetate.

Was it e’er known to the profoundest sage

Why panthers, tigers, and why vipers rage?

Wherefore to man the dog still lifts his eyes,

And licks his feeder’s hand before he dies?

Why on a hundred legs, with motion slow,

Does yonder insect ever trembling go?

Why does the reptile which entombed now lies,

Revived, from thence with a new body rise?

Why does it, crowned like flame, ascending spring,

And in the air expand its gorgeous wing?

Can even Dufay, whose head with plans is filled,

Dufay in vegetables deeply skilled,

Tell why the plant, which sensitive we name,

Shrinks from the touch of man its trembling frame?

Languid with sickness, on your bed reclined,

From Sylva’s eloquence relief you find,

He makes the tortured patient cease to groan,

To him the happy art to please is known.

Can Sylva’s self the economy explain

Which works digestion, and makes food sustain?

How the bile through so many channels flows,

How, by degrees, it’s filtrated, and goes

To pour into my veins a purple tide,

By which both strength and spirits are supplied,

Which makes the pulse of life incessant beat,

And makes the brain intelligence’s seat?

Lost in amaze, he lifts to heaven his eye

And bids you for the truth to God apply.

Return, Maupertuis, to these realms of light,

From realms where half the year day’s hid in night;

You, who alone the praise of Newton share,

Who know the truth, the truth to man declare.

You who forego in search of knowledge ease,

Who traverse mountains, and who pass the seas,

Who could the mind and body’s toil sustain,

Who could our planet’s figure ascertain;

Who scan all nature’s laws with minds profound,

The cause from whence attraction springs expound.

To men like you all nature’s laws are known,

Tell me how, seated on His heavenly throne,

The great first mover can with power control

Those orbs which in the heavens incessant roll,

Direct their motions, make them gravitate

Towards each other with responsive weight?

Why towards the sun is this our nether world

Forever pulled, and round its axis hurled,

Why in twelve years does Jove the heavens go round,

Why of his day is ten hours’ space the bound?

These subtle disquisitions all are vain,

Mars measures heaven, but nature can’t explain.

Thus by sure art, and by perspective’s law,

You may the front of some proud palace draw,

Its architecture’s to the eye revealed,

The inside of the structure is concealed.

Why should I grieve then, if my feeble sight

Cannot pierce through this veil of darkest night?

I would not, like Empedocles, aspire

To know the nature of famed Aetna’s fire,

Who to walk o’er sulphurous vaults presumed,

Who fire would know, and was by fire consumed,

Let then ambition’s sallies be repressed,

It is the ruling passion of the breast.

The farmer-general rude, the magistrate

Who struts with the imperious airs of state,

All these to court, contempt to suffer go,

Contempt which they to all at Paris show.

Have been deluded by that phantom fame,

Plato was Dionysius’ humble guest,

Louis Racine turned Jansenist caressed.

Horace, in loose and prostituted lays,

Sang Glycera and sold Octavius praise.

At court these pawned integrity for gain,

But opulence and ease made light their chain;

Horace, the sage, with affluence lived blessed,

Who grasps at all, is sure to be distressed.

You who have introduced in Gallia’s court

All Sybaris’ luxury and wanton sport,

Who even on the down of ease reclined,

To luxury dedicate the vacant mind,

You frantic men, who vainly bliss pursue,

Learn to enjoy it, and to know it too;

Pleasure’s the God from whom we claim our birth,

Starved ’midst the weeds and brambles of the earth.

Pleasures are various in each varied stage

Of life, and some we taste when chilled by age.

But prudently the soul should feast on joy,

Pleasures are always transient soon they cloy.

Present not to your senses when they fail,

All the perfumes which Flora can exhale;

Let us not strive of all joys to partake,

But let us pleasure quit, for pleasure’s sake;

Who labours hard true pleasure still obtains,

I pity him whom indolence enchains.

True wisdom yields true happiness below,

On earth no harvests without culture grow:

Good by laborious search must here be sought,

Success by industry alone is bought.

Behold Lucullus critic in nice fare,

To supper from the opera repair,

Pleasure in luxury he hopes to find,

But vapours still o’ercast his clouded mind.

His soul o’erwhelmed, no rays of light pervade,

He sleeps supine in dark oblivion’s shade;

He grasps at joy, to rapture he aspires

In vain; he’s dead to pleasure and desires.

Caressed by ease, officious and o’erkind

Pleasure long since on sloth’s soft lap reclined:

Love, music, poetry, no more could please,

Man was enslaved by indolence and ease.

But God in pity to man’s helpless kind

Labour with pleasure, joy with pain’s combined.

Awaked by fear, man strives his bliss to gain;

Toil ever follows in fair pleasure’s train.

Notes

[1] The abbé Pucelle, a celebrated counsellor of parliament. The abbé Desfontaines, a man who often incurred the censure of the law. He kept open shop, where he sold panegyric and satire to those who bid highest.

[2] A famous physician of Paris.

[3] Mr. Gravesende, professor at Leyden; the first who taught Newton’s discoveries. Mr. Dortous de Mairant, a gentleman of Béziers, secretary to the Academy of Sciences at Paris.

[4] God is called by this name in the Chinese language.

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Date:

12/02/2008