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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 swords,
Give the same death in different words.
To push this argument no further.;
To starve a man, in law is murther.

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 year,
Derive their secondary power
From that which simply points the hour,
For, though those gim-cracks were away,
(Quare would not swear, but Quare would say) 265 .
However more reduc'd and plain,
The watch would still a watch remain :
But, if the horal 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 man,
You find a hundred movements made
By fine devices in his head;
But''tis the stomach's solid stroke
That tells his being what's o'clock.

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If you take off this rhetoric trigger,
He talks no more in mode and figure;
Or, clog his mathematic-wheel,
His buildings fall, his ship stands ftill;
Or, lastly, break his politic-weight,
His voice no longer rules the state.
Yet, if these finer whims are gone,
Your clock, though plain, would still go on;
But spoil the engine of digestion,
And you entirely change the question.
Alma's affairs no power can mend;
The jest, alas! is at an end:
Soon ceases all the worldly bustle,
And you consign the corpse to Ruffel.

Now make your Alma come or go
From leg to hand, from top to toe,
Your system, without my addition,
Is in a very sad condition.
So Harlequin extoll’d his horse,
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'st of horses, clocks, and watches,
Quoth Mat, to me thou seem'it to mean,
That Alma is a mere machine : '
That, telling others what's o'clock, . .
She knows not what herself. has strucks...

But

But lehat is mark low, good for

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315

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But leaves to ftanders-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 songs in love :
They must describe ; they nothing prove.

Mat, who was here a little gravellid,
Toft up his nose, and would have cavillid;
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 see,
That you and I shall scarce agree.
Observe how oddly you behave:
The more I grant, the more you crave.
But, comrade, as I said just now,
I should affirm, and you allow.
We System-makers can sustain
The thesis, which you grant was plain ;
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 reason we can shew,
Why matters this or that way go,

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The

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The shortest way the thing we try,
And what we know not, we deny ;
True to our own o'erbearing 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.
Chrysippus, foil'd by Epicurus,
Makes bold (Jove bless him !) to assure 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 can clear ;
As nature Nily had thought fit,
For some by-ends, to crofs-bite wit :
Circles to square, and cubes to double,
Would give a man excessive trouble ;

360

The

The longitude uncertain roams,
In spite of Whifton and his bombs.
What system, 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 black ?
In points like these we must agree,
Our barbers know as much as we.
Yet still, unable to explain, i
We must persist the best we can ;
With care our system ftill renew,
And prove things likely, though not true.

I could, thou seest, in quaint dispute,
By dint of logic, strike thee mute;
With learned skill, now push, now parry,
From Darii to Bocardo vary,
And never yield ; or, what is worst,
Never conclude the point discours’d.
Yet, that you bic &* nunc may know.
How much you to my candour owe,
I'll from the disputant descend,
To shew thee, I affume the friend :
I'll take thy notion for my own-
(So most philosophers have done)
It makes my system, 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 first complain

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