Friendly reply'd; plump gentleman,

Get out as fast as e'er you can:
Or ceafe 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 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 earneft Bays's dance.
L'Avare not ufing half his ftore,
Still grumbles, that he has no more;
Strikes not the prefent tun, for fear
The vintage should be bad next year;
And eats to-day with inward sorrow,
And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the fur-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 en his viol,

Unless he had the total gut,

Whence every ftring at firft was cut ?

When Rarus fhows

you his carton;

He always tell you, with a groan,
Where two of that fame hand were torn,
Long before you, or he were born.
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 ftrict 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, 1 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 Gregory make a paper kite.

And fimple odes too many fhow ye,
My fervile complaifance to Cloe.
Parents and lovers are decreed

By nature foolsThat's brave indeed!
Quoth Dick: fuch truths are worth receiving:

Yet ftill Dick look'd as not believing.

Now, Alma, to divines and profe

I leave thy frauds, and crimes, and woes;
Nor think to-night of thy ill-nature,

But of thy follies, idle creature,
The turns of thy uncertain wing,
And not the malice of thy fting:
Thy pride of being great and wife,
I do but mention, to defpife.
I view with anger and disdain,
How little gives thee joy or pain :
A print, a Bronze, a flow'r, a root,
A fhell, a butter-fly can do't.

Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhime,
Help thee to pass the tedious time,
Which elfe would on thy hand remain :
Though flown, it ne'er looks back again.
And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To cafe the pain of coward-thought.

Happy refult of human wit'!

That Alma may herself forget.

Dick, thus we act; and thus we are,
Or tofs'd by hope, or funk by care.
With endless pain this man pursues
What, if he gain'd, he could not use:
And t'other fondly hopes to fee
What never was, nor e'er fhall be.
We err by ufe, go wrong by rules,
In gefture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocrify to pride,

Doubling the faults, we ftrive to hide.
Or grant, that with extreme furprize,
We find ourselves at fixty wife;

And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one;
Whilft, as my fyftem fays, the mind
Is to these upper rooms confin'd :
Should I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd fenfe, her fond conceit;
The bede roll of her vicious tricks;
My poem would be too prolix.
For could I my remark fuftain,

Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne ;
Who in these times would read my books,
But Tom o' Stiles, or John o' Nokes?
As Brentford kings difcreet and wife,
After long thought and grave advice,
Into Lardella's coffin peeping,

Saw nought to cause their mirth or weeping:
So Alma now to joy or grief

Superior, finds her late relief:

Weary'd of being high, or great,

And nodding in her chair of state;
Stunn'd and worn out with endless chat,
Of Will did this, and Nan faid that;
She finds, poor thing, fome little crack,
Which nature forc'd by time, muft make;
Through which fhe wings her distant way:
Upward the foars: and down drops clay:
While fome furviving friend fupplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.

O Richard, till that day appears,
Which must decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her prefent rage,
And give us play-things for our age:

Would Clotho wafh her hands in milk,
And twist our thread with gold and filk:
Would the in friendship, peace and plenty,
Spin out our years to four times twenty:
And fhould we both in this condition,
Have conquer'd love, and worse ambition;
(Elfe thofe two paffions by the way,
May chance to fhow us fcurvy play :)
Then Richard, then should we fit down,
Far from the tumult of this town:
I fond of my well-chofen feat,
My pictures, medals, books compleat:
Or fhould we mix our friendly talk,
O'er-fhaded in that fav'rite walk;

Which thy own hand had whilom planted,
Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted
Yet then, ev'n then one cross reflexion
Would spoil thy grove, and my collection:
Thy fon, and his, e'er that, may die:
And time fome uncouth heir supply;
Who fhall for nothing else be known,
But fpoiling all, that thou haft done.
Who fet the twigs, fhall he remember,
That is in hafte to fell the timber?
And what fhall of thy woods remain,
Except the box that threw the main ?
Nay may not time and death remove
The near relations, whom I love?
And my coz Tom, or his coz Mary
(Who hold the plough, or fkim the dairy)

My fav'rite books and pictures fell

To Smart, or Doiley by the ell?