Where I (who to my cost already am One of those strange creatures, man) A spirit free to choose, for my own share, What case of flesh & blood I pleased to wear, I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, Or anything but that vain animal Who is so proud of being rational. The senses are too gross, & he'll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five, And before certain instinct, will prefer Reason, which fifty times for one does err; Reason, & ignis fatuus in the mind, Which, leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless, & dangerous wandering ways it takes Though error's fenny bogs & thorny brakes; Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain; Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down Into doubt's boundless sea, where like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, & make him try To swim with bladders of philosophy; In hopes still to o'ertake th'escaping light, The vapour dances in his dazzling sight Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night. Then old age & experience, hand in hand, Lead him to death, & make him understand, After a searchso painfull & so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong. Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, & so wise. - John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester