To
a
LADY
of
QUALITY
,
Fitting
up
her
LIBRARY
,
1738.
By
the
Same
.
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
refin'd
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
flow'rs
.
Sages
,
with
irksome
waste
of
time
,
The
steep
ascent
of
Knowledge
climb
:
Then
,
from
the
tow'ring
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
unpleas'd
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
?