Paradise, Preserved by wonder from the flood, Long wandering through the deep, as we are told Famed Delos[3] did of old; And the transported Muse imagined it To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit, Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove; When, with amazing joy, she hears An unknown music all around, Charming her greedy ears With many a heavenly song Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love; While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue. In vain she catches at the empty sound, In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, And courts the wanton echoes as they fly. 

      III Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, The wild excursions of a youthful pen; Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse, Whom blind and eager curiosity            (Yet curiosity, they say, Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse)            Has forced to grope her uncouth way, After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye:      No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense For a dear ramble through impertinence; Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind. And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, Though we be of two different factions still, Both the good-natured and the ill, Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit. In me, who am of the first sect of these, All merit, that transcends the humble rules Of my own dazzled scanty sense, Begets a kinder folly and impertinence Of admiration and of praise. And our good brethren of the surly sect, Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools:        For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; Yet the same want of brains produces each effect. And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd, Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud, Who both our follies and impertinences see, Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me. 

      IV But censure's to be understood Th'authentic mark of the elect, The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good, Our shallow search and judgment to direct. The war, methinks, has made Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy A stock of wisdom and philosophy, We fondly stay at home, in fear Of every censuring privateer;      

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