To A Lady Of Quality, Fitting Up Her Library

Ah! what is science, what is art, Or what the pleasure these impart? Ye trophies, which the learn'd pursue Through endless, fruitless toils, adieu! What can the tedious tomes bestow, To soothe the miseries they show? What like the bliss for him decreed, Who tends his flock and tunes his reed? Say, wretched Fancy! thus refined From all that glads the simplest hind, How rare that object which supplies A charm for too discerning eyes! The polish'd bard, of genius vain, Endures a deeper sense of pain; As each invading blast devours The richest fruits, the fairest flowers. Sages, with irksome waste of time, The steep ascent of knowledge climb; Then, from the towering heights they scale, Behold contentment range-the vale. Yet why, Asteria, tell us why We scorn the crowd when you are nigh? Why then does reason seem so fair, Why learning, then, deserve our care? Who can unpleased your shelves behold, While you so fair a proof unfold, What force the brightest genius draws From polish'd wisdom's written laws? Where are our humbler tenets flown? What strange perfection bids us own That Bliss with toilsome Science dwells, And happiest he who most excels?