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And, if I take Dan Congreve right;
Pudding and beef make Britons fight.
Tokay and Coffee cause this work,
Between the German and the Turk:
And both, as they provisions want,
Chicane, avoid, retire, and faint.
Hunger and thirst, or guns and (words:
Give the same death in diff'rent words
To push this argument no further ;
To starve a man, in law, is murder.
As in a watch's fine machine,
Though many artful springs are seen ;
The added movements, which declare
How full the moon, how old the yearg
Derive their secondary pow'r
From that, which fimply points the hour;
For, though these gim-cracks were away
(Quare would not fwcar ; but Quare would say)'
However more reduc'd and plain,
The watch would still a watch remain :
But if the Heral orbit ceases;
The whole stands still, or breaks to pieces ;-
Is now no longer what it was ;
And you may e'en go sell the case ;-
So if unprejudic'd you scan
The goings of this clock-work, mans
You find a hundred movements made
By fine devices in his head :
But 'tis the stomach's folid stroke,
That tells his being, what's a clock.
If you take off his Rhet'ric-trigger ;
He talks no more in mode and figure::.
Or clog his Mathematic wheel :
His buildings fall; his ship stands still,
Or lastly, break his Politic weight;
His voice no longer rules the state.
Yet if these finer whims were gone;
Your clock, though plain, would fill go otza
But spoil the engine of digestion ;
And you entirely change the question ;
Alma's affairs no pow'r can mend;
The jest alas L. is at an end :
Soon ceases all this worldly bustle ;
And you confign the corps to-Russek
Now make your Alma come or gogu ir
From leg to hand, from top to toe;
Your System, without my addition,
Is in a very sad condition.
So Harlequin extolld his horfe.
Fit for the war, or road, or course;
His mouth was soft; his eye was good;
His foot was sure' as ever trod :
One fault he had, a fault indeed ;
And what was that the horse was dead.
Dick, from these instances and fetches, Thou mak'lt of horses, clocks, and watches, Quoth Mat, to me thou feem'it 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 standers-by the trial, Of what is mark'd upon her dial.
Here hold a blow, good friend, quoth Di And rais'd bis voice exceeding quick:
Fight fair, Sir : what I never meant
Don't you infer. In argument,
Similies are like songs in love:
They much deseribe; they nothing prove:
Mat, who was here a little gravell’dz.
Toft up his nose, and would have cavild:
But, calling Hermes to his aid,
Hall-pleas'd, half angry, thus he faid:
Where mind luis for the author's fame) That Matthew call's, and Hermes camé. In danger heroes, and in doubt Poets find gods to help 'em out.
Friend Richard, I begin to see; That you and I shaH scarce agree. : Observe how odly you behave : The more I grant, the more you craves. But, comrade, as I said juft now, I should affirm, and you allow, We System-makers can suftain : The Thesis, which you grant, was plains And with remarks and comments teaze ye; In case the thing before was easy. But in a point obscure and dark, We fight as Leibnitz did with Clarke ; And when no reafon we can show, 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'er bearing pride, And false to all the world beside.
That old philosopher 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 pulse and heat)
Swore, he had never felt it beat.
Chryfippus, foil'd by Epicurus,
Makes bold (Jove bless him !) to afsure us,
That all things which our mind can view,
May be at once both false, and true.
And Malebranche has an odd conceit,
As ever enter'd Frenchman's pate:
Says he, so 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 confess, 'tis true
(But this is only entre nous)
That many knotty points there are,
Which all discuss, but few are clear..
As nature llily had thought fit,
For some by-ends, to cross-bite wit,
Circles to square, and cubes to doublé,
Would give a man excessive trouble :
The longitude uncertain roams,
In spite of Whn and his bombs.
What system, Dick, has right aver'd
The cause, why woman has no beard ;
Or why, as yeats our frame attack,
Our hair grows white, our teeth grow black?
In points like these, we must agree,
Our barber knows as much as we.
Yet ftill unable to explain,
We must peräst the best we can;
With care our fyftems still renew,
And prove things likely, though not true.
I could, thou see'st, in quaint dispute,
By dint of Logic strike thee mute;
With learned (kill, now push, now parry,
From Darjieto Bocardo vary,
And never yield, or, what is worst,
Never conclude the point discours'd.
Yet, that you hic et nunc may know,
How much you to my candor owe;
I'll from the disputant descend,
To show thee, I affume the friend.:
I'll take thy notion for my own
(So most philosophers have done)
It makes my system more compleat:
Dick, can it have a nobler fate?
Take what thou wilt, said Dick, dear friend,
But bring thy matter to an end.
I find, quoth Mat, reproof is vain :
Who first offend will first complain.
Thou wilheft, i should make to shoar;
Yet still put'lt in thy thwarting oar.
What I have told thee fifty times
In prose, 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 save us! why.do people press!
Another marking his-distress,