you take off his rhet'rick trigger,
He talks no more in mood and figure;
Or, clog his mathematic wheel,
His buildings fall, his fhip ftands ftill:
Or, laftly, break his politic weight,
His voice no longer rules the ftate:
Yet if thefe finer whims were gone,
Your clock, tho' plain would still
But fpoil the engine of digeftion,
And you entirely change the queftion.
Alma's affairs no pow'r can mend ;
The jeft, alas! is at an end;
Soon ceafes all this worldy buftle,
And you confign the corpfe to Ruffel.
Now make your Alma come or go,
From leg to hand, from top to toe,
Your fyftem, without my addition,
Is in a very fad condition.
So Harlequin extoll'd his horfe
Fit for the war, or road, or course:
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'ft of horfes, clocks, and watches,
Quoth Matt. to me thou feem'st to mean
That Alma is a mere machine :
That telling others what's o'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, 310
And rais'd his voice exceeding quick,
Fight fair Sir: what I never meant
Don't you infer. In argument
Similes are like songs in love:
They much describe, they nothing prove.
Matt. who was here a little gravell'd,
Tofs'd up his nofe, and would have cavill'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
But in a point obfcure and dark
We fight as Leibnitz did with Clarke
And when no reafon 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 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,
He fac'd men down that he stood ftill
And he who reading on the heart
(When all his quodlibets of art
Could nor expound its pulfe and heat)
Swore he had never felt it beat.
Chryfippus, foil'd by Epicurus,
Makes bold (Jove blefs him!) to affure us,
That all things which our mind can view
May be at once both falfe and true;
And Malbranche 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 conceive 'tis true
(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:
The longitude uncertain roams
In fpite of Wh-n and his bombs.
What Syftem Dick has right averr'd
The cause why woman has no beard?
Or why, as years 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 perfift the best we can;
With care our fyftems ftill renew,
And prove things likely, tho' not true.
I could, thou feeft, in quaint dispute,
By dint of logic, ftrike thee mute;
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 hic et nunc may know
How much you to my candour owe,
I'll from the difputant defcend,
To fhow thee I affume the friend;
I'll take thy notion for my own-
(So moft philofophers have done)
It makes my fyftem 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 Matt. reproof is vain,
Whe fift offend will firft complain.
Thou wifheft I should make to shore,
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 pufh'd amidst the crowd,
Still bawling out extremely loud,
Lord fave us! why do people press!
Another, marking his diftrefs,
Friendly reply'd; Plump gentleman,
Get out as faft as e'er you can;
Or ceafe to push or to exclaim;
You make the very crowd you blame.
Says Dick, Your moral does not need
The leaft return, fo e'en proceed:
Your tale, howe'er apply'd, was fhort:
So far at least I thank you for't.
Matt. took his thanks, and in a tone
More magisterial 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, Strife;
Behold on both fides men advance,
To form in earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avre, not ufing half his store,
Still grumbles that he has no more ;
Strikes not the prefent tun, for fear
The vintage fhould be bad next year,
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
You had the fabrick and the loom ?
And if two boots kept out the weather
What need you have two hides of leather?
Could Pedro, think you, make no trial
Of a fonata on his viol,
Unless he had the total gut,
Whence ev'ry ftring at firit was cut?
When Rarus fhows you his Cartone,
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 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 inquiries did he make,
To get one medal, wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman fet?
'Tis found and O his happy lot!
'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot:
Of thefe no more you hear him speak;
He now begins upon the Greek.
Thefe rang'd and fhow'd, shall 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
For Georgy make a paper kite,
And fimple odes, too many, fhow ye
My fervile complaifance to Cloc.
Parents and lovers are decreed
By Nature fools-That'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.
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