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Anne Kingsmill Finch - Democritus And His Neighbors
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IN Vulgar Minds what Errors do arise! 
How diff`ring are the Notions, they possess, 
  From theirs, whom better Sense do`s bless, 
Who justly are enroll`d amongst the Learn`d and Wise! 
Democritus, whilst he all Science taught, 
  Was by his foolish Neighbors thought 
    Distracted in his Wits; 
  Who call his speculative Flights, 
  His solitary Walks in starry Nights, 
    But wild and frantick Fits. 
Bless me, each cries, from such a working Brain! 
  And to Hippocrates they send 
  The Sage`s long-acquainted Friend, 
To put in Tune his jarring Mind again, 
    And Pericranium mend. 
Away the Skilful Doctor comes 
  Of Recipes and Med`cines full, 
To check the giddy Whirl of Nature`s Fires, 
  If so th` unruly Case requires; 
Or with his Cobweb-cleansing Brooms 
To sweep and clear the over-crouded Scull, 
If settl`d Spirits flag, and make the Patient dull. 
  But asking what the Symptoms were, 
  That made `em think he was so bad? 
  The Man indeed, they cry`d, is wond`rous Mad. 
You, at this Distance, may behold him there 
  Beneath that Tree in open Air, 
Surrounded with the Engines of his Fate, 
  The Gimcracks of a broken Pate. 
    Those Hoops a Sphere he calls, 
    That Ball the Earth; 
And when into his raving Fit he falls, 
`Twou`d move at once your Pity, and your Mirth, 
  To hear him, as you will do soon, 
Declaring, there`s a Kingdom in the Moon; 
  And that each Star, for ought he knows, 
  May some Inhabitants enclose: 
Philosophers, he says, may there abound, 
Such Jugglers as himself be in them found; 
Which if there be, the World may well turn round; 
  At least to those, whose Whimsies are so strange, 
  That, whilst they`re fixt to one peculiar Place, 
  Pretend to measure far extended Space, 
  And `mongst the Planets range. 
  Behold him now contemplating that Head, 
From which long-since both Flesh, and Brains are fled; 
Questioning, if that empty, hollow Bowl 
Did not ere while contain the Human Soul: 
Then starts a Doubt, if `t were not to the Heart 
That Nature rather did that Gift impart. 
Good Sir, employ the utmost of your Skill, 
To make him Wiser, tho` against his Will; 
Who thinks, that he already All exceeds, 
And laughs at our most solemn Words and Deeds: 
Tho` once amongst us he wou`d try a Cause, 
  And Bus`ness of the Town discuss, 
  Knowing as well as one of us, 
The Price of Corn, and standing Market-Laws; 
  Wou`d bear an Office in his Turn, 
For which good Purposes all Men were born; 
Not to be making Circles in the Sand, 
And scaling Heav`n, till they have sold their Land; 
Or, when unstock`d below their Pasture lies, 
To find out Bulls and Rams, amidst the Skies. 
From these Mistakes his Madness we conclude; 
And hearing, you was with much Skill endu`d, 
Your Aid we sought. Hippocrates amaz`d, 
Now on the Sage, now on the Rabble gaz`d; 
And whilst he needless finds his artful Rules, 
Pities a Man of Sense, judg`d by a Croud of Fools. 
Then how can we with their Opinions join, 
Who, to promote some Int`rest, wou`d define 
The People`s Voice to be the Voice Divine?
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