as in the fairy land of dreams, Or images that sink in streams; No wonder, then, we talk amiss Of truth, and what, or where it is; Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st, Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost? 

      III If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be      (High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee, If a mind fix'd to combat fate With those two powerful swords, submission and humility, Sounds truly good, or truly great; Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest, In the divinity of retreat, Be not the brightest pattern earth can show Of heaven-born Truth below; But foolish man still judges what is best In his own balance, false and light, Following opinion, dark and blind, That vagrant leader of the mind, Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight. 

      IV And some, to be large ciphers in a state, Pleased with an empty swelling to be counted great, Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space, Rapt through the wide expanse of thought, And oft in contradiction's vortex caught, To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place; Errors like this did old astronomers misguide, Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride, Who, like hard masters, taught the sun Through many a heedless sphere to run, Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make, And thousand incoherent journeys take, Whilst all th'advantage by it got, Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still; But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate, By gazing upward giddy grow, And think the church itself does so; Thus fools, for being strong and num'rous known, Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own; And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears, Because 'tis opposite to theirs. 

      V In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise, Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies In gath'ring follies from the wise; Rather put on thy anger and thy spite, And some kind power for once dispense Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense, To make them understand, and feel me when I write; The muse and I no more revenge desire, Each line shall stab, shall blast, 

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