His mouth was foft; his eye was good:
His foot was fure as ever trod:

One fault he had, a fault indeed;

And what was that? the horse was dead.
Dick, from thefe inftances and fetches,
Thou mak'st of horses, clocks, and watches,
Quoth Mat, to me thou seem'ft to mean,
That Alma is a mere machine:

That telling others what's a clock,
She knows not what herself has ftruck;
But leaves to ftanders-by the trial,
Of what is mark'd upon her dial.

Here hold a blow, good friend, quoth Dick,
And rais'd his voice exceeding quick:
Fight fair, Sir: what I never meant
Don't you infer. In argument

Similies are like fongs in love:

They much describe; they nothing prove.
Mat, who was here a little gravell'd;
Toft up his nofe, and would have cavil'd:
But, calling Hermes to his aid,

Half pleas'd, half angry, thus he said:

Where mind ('tis for the author's fame)
That Matthew call'd, and Hermes came..
In danger heroes, and in doubt
Poets find gods to help 'em out.

Friend Richard, I begin to fee,
That you and I fhall scarce agree.
Obferve how odly you behave:

The more I grant, the more you crave.

But, comrade, as I said just now,

I should affirm, and you allow.
We Syftem-makers can fuftain

The Thefis, which you grant, was plain;

And with remarks and comments teaze ye;

In cafe the thing before was eafy.
But in a point obfcure and dark,
We fight as Leibnitz did with Clarke;
And when no reason we can fhow,
Why matters this or that way go,
The shortest way the thing we try,
And what we know not, we deny:
True to our own o'erbearing pride,
And false to all the world befide;

That old philofopher grew cross,
Who could not tell what motion was:
Because he walk'd against his will;
He fac❜d men down, that he stood still.
And he who reading on the heart
(When all his Quodlibets of art

Could not expound its pulfe and heat)
Swore, he had never felt it beat.
Chryfippus, foil'd by Epicurus,

Makes bold (Jove bless him !) to assure us,
That all things which our mind can view,
May be af once both falfe, and true.
And Malebranche has an odd conceit,
As ever enter'd Frenchman's pate:
Says he, fo little can our mind.
Of matter, or of spirit find,

That we by guess, at least, may gather
Something, which may be both, or neither.
Faith, Dick, I must confefs, 'tis true

(But this is only entre nous)

That many knotty points there are,
Which all discuss, but few can clear.

As nature flily had thought fit,

For fome by-ends, to cross-bite wit.

Circles to fquare, and cubes to double,
Would give a man excessive trouble:
The longitude uncertain roams,

In fpite of Wh

-n and his bombs. What fyftem, Dick, has right aver'd

The caufe, why woman has no beard;

Or why, as years our frame attack,

Our hair grows white, our teeth grow black?
In points like thefe, we must agree,
Our barber knows as much as we.
Yet ftill unable to explain,
We must perfift the best we can;
With care our systems still renew,
And prove things likely, tho' not true.

I could, thou fee'ft, in quaint difpute,
By dint of Logic strike thee mute;
With learned skill, now push, now parry,
From Darii to Bocardo vary,

And never yield, or what is worft,
Never conclude the point difcours'd.
Yet, that you hic et nunc may know,
How much you to my candor owe;
I'll from the difputant defcend,
To show thee, I affume the friend:
I'll take thy notion for my own
(So most philofophers have done)
It makes my system more complete:
Dick, can it have a nobler fate?
Take what thou wilt, said Dick, dear friend;
But bring thy matters to an end.

I find, quoth Mat, reproof is vain :
Who first offend will first complain.
Thou wifheft, I should make to fhoar;
Yet ftill put'ft in thy thwarting oar.

What I have told thee fifty times
In profe, receive for once in rhimes:
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church, (no matter where) ·
Labour'd and push'd amidst the croud,
Still bauling out extremely loud;
Lord fave us! why do people prefs!
Another marking his distress,
Friendly reply'd; plump gentleman,
Get out as fast as e'er you can :
Or cease to push, or to exclaim:
You make the very croud you blame..
Says Dick, your moral does not need
The leaft return; fo e'en proceed:
Your tale, howe'er apply'd was short:
So far, at least, I thank you for❜t.
Mat. took his thanks, and in a tone
More magifterial, thus went on.

Now Aima fettles in the head:
As has before been fung, or faid:
And here begins this farce of life;
Enter revenge, ambition, ftrife:
Behold on both fides men advance,
To form in earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avare not using half his ftore,
Still grumbles, that he has no more;
Strikes not the present tun, for fear
The vintage should be bad next year:
And eats to-day with inward forrow,
And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the Sur-tout you wear
Repells the rigor of the air;
Would you be warmer, if at home

You had the fabric, and the loom? :

And if two boots keep out the weather;
What need you have two hides of leather?
Could Pedro, think you, make no trial
Of a Sonata on his viol,

Unless he had the total gut,

Whence every ftring at firft was cut?
When Rarus shows you his carton;
He always tells you, with a groan,
Where two of that fame hand were torn,
Long before you, or he were born.
Poor Vento's mind so much is croft,

For part of his Petronius loft;
That he can never take the pains
To understand what yet remains.
What toil did honeft Curio take?
What strict enquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman fett?
'Tis found: and O his happy lot!
'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot:
Of these no more you hear him speak:
He now begins upon the Greek.

These rang'd and fhow'd, fhall in their turns

Remain obfcure, as in their urns.

My copper-lamps at any rate,

For being true antique, I bought; Yet wifely melted down my plate, On modern models to be wrought: And trifles I alike pursue;

Because they're old; because they're new.
Dick, I have feen you with delight,

For Georgy make a paper-kite.
And fimple odes too many show ye,
My fervile complaifance to Cloe.