But if fhe has deform'd this earthly Life
With murd'rous Rapine, and feditious Strife:
Amaz'd, repuls'd, and by thofe Angels driv'n
From the aethereal Seat, and blissful Heav'n,
In everlasting darkness must She lie,
Still more unhappy, that She cannot die?
Amid Two Seas on One fmall Point of Land
Weary'd, uncertain, and amaz'd We ftand:
On either Side our Thoughts incessant turn:
Forward We dread, and looking back, We mourn.
Lofing the Present in this dubious Haft;
And loft purselves betwixt the Future, and the Paft.
Thefe diff'rent fyftems, old or new,
A man with half an eye may see,
Were only form'd to disagree.
Now, to bring things to fair conclufion,
And fave much Chriftian ink's effufion,
Let me propofe an healing fcheme,
And fail along a middle stream.
For, Dick, if we could reconcile
Old Ariftotle with Gaffendus,
How many would admire our toil,
And yet how few would comprehend us!
Here, Richard, let my fcheme commence;
Oh! may my words be loft in fense,
While pleased Thalia deigns to write
The flips and bounds of ALMA's flight!
My fimple fyftem shall suppose,
That Alma enters at the toes;
That then fhe mounts, by just degrees,
Up to the ancles, legs, and knees;
Next, as the fap of life does rife,
She lends her vigour to the thighs;
And, all these under regions paft,
She neftles fomewhere near the waift;
Gives pain or pleasure, grief or laughter,
As we fhall fhow at large hereafter:
Mature, if not improv'd by time,
Up to the heart she loves to climb;
From thence, compell'd by craft and age,
She makes the heart her latest stage.
From the feet upwards to the head
Pithy and short, fays Dick, proceed!
Dick, this is not an idle notion:
Obferve the progrefs of the motion:
First, I demonstratively prove,
That feet were only made to move,
And legs defire to come and go;
For they have nothing else to do.
Hence, long before the child can craw
He learns to kick, and wince, and sprawl,
To hinder which, your midwife knows
To bind those parts extremely close,
Left Alma, newly enter'd in,
And stunn'd at her own chrift'ning's din,
Fearful of future grief and pain,
Should filently fneak out again.
Full piteous feems young Alma's cafe,
As in a luckless gamefter's place,
She would not play, yet muft not país.
Again, as fhe grows fomething stronger,
And master's feet are fwath'd no longer,
If in the night too oft he kicks,
Or fhows his loco-motive tricks,
These first assaults fat Kate repays him,
When half afleep she over-lays him.
Now mark, dear Richard, from the age
That chi dren tread this worldly stage,
Broomftaff or poker they beftride,
And round the parlour love to ride,
Till thoughtful father's pious care
Provides his brood, next Smithfield fair
With fupplemental hobby horfes,
And happy be their infant courses!
Hence for fome years they ne'er ftand still; Their legs you fee direct their will;
From op'ning morn till fetting fun
Around the fields and woods they run;
They frifk, and dance, and leap, and play,
Nor heed what Freind or Snape *) can fay.
To her next ftage as Alma flies,
And likes, as I have faid, the thighs,
With fympathetic power fhe warms"
Their good allies and friends, the arms;
While Betty dances on the green,
And Sufan is at ftoolball feen;
While John for ninepins does declare,
And Roger loves to pitch the bar,
Both legs and arms fpontaneous move,
Which was the thing I meant to prove.
Another motion now fhe makes;
O, need I name the feat fhe takes?
His thought quite chang'd the stripling finds
The iport and race no more he minds;
Neglected Tray and Pointer lie,
And covies unmolefted fly;
Sudden the jocund plain he leaves,
And for the nymph in fecret grieves:
In dying accents he complains
Of cruel fires and raging pains.
The nymph, too, longs to be alone,
Leaves all the fwains, and fighs for one.
The nymph is warm'd with young defire,
And feels, and dies to quench the fire.
They meet each ev'ning in the grove;
Their parley but augments their love:
So to the priest their cafe they tell;
He ties the knot, and all goes well.
But, O my Mufe, just distance keep,
Thou art a Maid, and must not peep.
`In nine months time the bodice loofe,
And petticoats too fhort, difclose,
That at this age the active mind
About the waift lies moft confin'd
And that young life and quick'ning sense
Spring from his influence darted thence:
So from the midd'e of the world
The fun's prolifick rays are hurl'd;
'Tis from that feat he darts those beams
Which quicken earth with genial flames,
Dick, who thus long had paffive fat,
Here stroked his chin, and cock'd his hat,
Then flapp'd his hand upon the board,
And thus the youth put in his word:
Love's advocates, fweet Sir, would find him
A higher place than you affign'd him.
Love's advocats, Dick, who are those? -
The poets, you may well fuppofe.
I'm forry, Sir, you have difcarded
The men, with whom till now you herded,
Profemen alone, for private ends,
I thought, forfook their ancient friends,
In cor ftillavit, cries Lucretius,
If he may be allow'd to teach us.
The feif-fame thing foft Ovid fays,
(A proper judge in fuch a cafe.)
Horace his phrafe is: torret jecur;
And happy was the curious fpeaker.
Here Virgil too has plac'd this passion;
What fignifies too long quotation?
In ode and epick plain the cafe is,
That Love holds one of those two places.
Dick, without paffion or reflection,
I'll ftraight demolish this objection,
First, poets, all the world agrees,
Write half to profit, half to please;
Matter and figure they produce,
For garnish this, and that for ufe;
And, in the structure of their feafts,
They feek to feed and please their guests;
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