But leaves to standers-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 gravel'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 them out..)

Friend Richard, I begin to fee,

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That you and I shall scarce agree.

Obferve how oddly you behave :

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The more I grant, the more you crave,

The shortest way the thing we try,
And what we know not, we deny ;
True to our own o'erbearing pride,
And falfe to all the world befide.

That old philofopher grew cross,
Who could not tell what motion was:
Because he walk'd against his will,

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He fac'd men down, that he ftood still.

Makes bold (Jove blefs him!) to affure us,

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That all things, which our mind can view,

May be at 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

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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

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(But this is only entre nous),

That many knotty points there are,
Which all difcufs, 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 exceffive trouble;

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The

The longitude uncertain roams,
In spite of Whiston and his bombs.
What fyftem, Dick, has right averr'd
The cause why woman has no beard?
Or why, as years our frame attack,
Our hairs grow white, our teeth grow
In points like thefe, we must agree,
Our barbers know as much as we.
Yet ftill, unable to explain,

black?

"We must perfift the best we can;

With care our fyftems still renew;

And prove things likely, though not true.
I could, thou fee'ft, in quaint difpute,

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By dint of logic, strike thee mute;

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With learned fkill, now pufh, now parry,

From Darii to Bocardo vary,

And never yield; or, what is worst,

Never conclude the point difcours’d.

Yet, that you bic & nunc may know,
How much you to my candour owe,
I'll from the difputant descend,

To fhew thee, I affume the friend:
I'll take thy notion for my own —
(So moft philofophers have done);
It makes my fiem more complete :
Dick, can it have a nobler fate?

Take what thou wilt, faid Dick, dear friend;

But bring thy matters to an end.

I find, quoth Mat, reproof is vain:

Who first offend will firft complain.

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Thou

Thou wishest I should make to fhore;
Yet ftill putt'ft in thy thwarting oar.
What I have told thee fifty times
In profe, receive for once in rhymes:
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church (no matter where),
Labour'd and push'd amidst the croud,
Still bawling out extremely loud,
Lord fave us! why do people prefs!
Another, marking his distress,
Friendly reply'd, Plump gentleman,
· Get out as faft as e'er you can;
Or cease to pufh, or to exclaim:
You make the very croud you blame.

Says Dick, Your moral does not need
The least 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, Alma 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 ufing half his store, Still grumbles that he has no more; Strikes not the prefent tun, for fear

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The vintage fhould be bad next year;

VOL. II.

G

And

And eats to-day with inward forrow,
And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the furtout you wear
Repels the rigour of the air;
Would you be warmer, if at home

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You had the fabric and the loom ?

And, if two boots keep out the weather,

Poor Vento's mind fo 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 ftri&t enquiries did he make,

To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman fet!

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'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 shew'd, fhall in their turns
Remain obfcure as in their urns.

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