Page:An Essay on Criticism - Pope (1711).pdf/34

 Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night; But always think the last Opinion right. A Muse by these is like a Mistress us'd, This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd, While their weak Heads, like Towns unfortify'd, 'Twixt Sense and Nonsense daily change their Side. Ask them the Cause; They're wiser still, they say; And still to Morrow's wiser than to Day. We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once School-Divines our zealous Isle o'erspread; Who knew most Sentences was deepest read; Faith, Gospel, All, seem'd made to be disputed, And none had Sense enough to be Confuted. Scotists and Thomists, now, in Peace remain, Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane. If Faith it self has diff'rent Dresses worn, What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd take their Turn? Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit, The current Folly proves the ready Wit, And