What should fond Man , in all his Works persuade
To Noise, Solemnity , or vain Parade ?
Since Nature , where the Bus'ness does intend,
Silence , and Secrecy , does most commend.
If we look up, the Heavens seem to flye
In rouling swift, the measures of the Eye .
They strike no Hours , nor in their Motions chime ,
Though we with Noise , distinguish silent Time ,
And boast, we hear the measur'd Howers run,
Told by no Larum , how whole Dayes are gone.
Nay, Years , are past our count , and notice fled,
As silently , as Night , does Day succeed.
If we look down, what Eye distinctly sees
The growing Shade , and rising Height , of Trees .
Or, by what crooked Steps , in winding slow,
Rivers , wash neighb'ring Meadows , as they goe.
Still while deep Waters are , the shallow Stream ,
Does louder , in its prating Murmurs seem.

Hollow , and empty things , are only found,
To yield, and empty Air , to spread a Sound .
And none but such, as hollow Places , ring
With Sounds , which first from hollow Causes spring.
As void of Substance , is an airy Fame ,
And vain as He , who does that Nothing claim,
Or as the hollow World , which still employs
Its empty Eccho's , to return the Noise .

Fame , grows from Opposition , and like Sound ,
Seems only from Resistance , to rebound.
And as two solid Bodies , set at jar,
Produce a Bounce , in their unglorious War ;
Such is that , nobler Fights , and Combats give,
And which the Brave , from clashing Arms derive.
The Noise , which does from warlike Actions come,
Is but the empty Loudness , of a Drum .
The Brave , are led thus to maintain their Fame ,
For which they fought , the same way , that it came .
Meer Sound , does them to greater Deeds excite,
Who were encourag'd with a Sound , to fight .
Vain , as alas! that dying Man would sport,
Who boasts his murd'ring Canon's loud Report ;
So vain is He, who all his Art employes,
Living , or dying still, to make a Noise .