33
That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly sav'd,Has choicest prints by famous Hands engrav'd;Has choicest notes by famous Heads made out,That teach the simple reader where to doubt;That make him stop, to reason why? and how?And where he wonder'd then, to cavil now.Oh! rather give me Commentators plain,Who with no deep researches vex the brain;Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun;Who simple Truth with nine-fold Reasons back,And guard the point, no enemies attack.Bunyan's fam'd Pilgrim rests that shelf upon,A genius rare but rude was honest John;Not one who, early by the Muse beguil'd,Drank from her well, the waters undefil'd;Not one who slowly gain'd the hill sublime,Then often sipp'd, and little at a time;But one who dabbled in the sacred springs,And drank them muddy, mix'd with baser things.Here to interpret Dreams we read the rules,Science our own! and never taught in schools;In moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern,And Fate's fixt will, from Nature's wanderings learn.Of Hermit Quarle we read in island rare,Far from mankind and seeming far from Care;Safe from all want and sound in every limb,Yes! there was he, and there was Care with him.Unbound and heap'd these valued works beside,Laid humbler works, the Pedlar's pack supplied;
