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n Europe 'twould be hard to find n each degree one half so kind.

"Now turn we to the farthest east, And there observe the gentry drest. Prince Giolo, and his royal sisters, Scarr'd with ten thousand comely blisters; The marks remaining on the skin, To tell the quality within. Distinguish'd slashes deck the great : As each excels in birth or state, His oylet-holes are more and ampler The king's own body was a sampler. Happy the climate, where the beau Wears the same sult for use and show: And at a small expense your wife, If once well pink'd, is cloth'd with life. "Westward again, the Indian fair Is nicely smear'd with fat of bear: Before you see, you smell your toast; And sweetest she who stinks the most, The finest sparks and cleanest beaux Drip from the shoulders to the toes: How sleek their skins! their joints how easy! There slovens only are not greasy!

"I mention'd different ways of breeding:
Begin we in our children's reading.
To master John the English maid
A horn-book gives of gingerbread;
And, that the child may learn the better,
As he can name, he cats the letter.
Proceeding thus with vast delight,
He spells, and gnaws, from left to right.
But, shew a Hebrew's hopeful son
Where we suppose the book begun,
The child would thank you for your kindness,
And read quite backward from our finis.
Devour he learning ne'er so fast,
Great A would be reserv'd the last.

"An equal instance of this matter
Is in the manners of a daughter.
In Europe, if a harmless maid,
By Nature and by Love betray'd,
Should, ere a wife, become a nurse,
Her friends would look on her the worse,
In China, Dampier's Travels tell ye,
Look in his Index for Pagelli)
Soon as the British ships unmoor,
And jolly long-boat rows to shore,
Down come the nobles of the land:
Each brings his daughter in his hand,
Beseeching the imperious tar

To make her but one hour his care.
The tender mother stands affrighted,
Lest her dear daughter should be slighted:
And poor miss Yaya dreads the shame
Of going back the maid she came.

Observe how custom, Dick, compels
The lady that in Europe dwells:
After her tea, she slips away,
And what to do, one need not say,
Now see how great Pomonque's queen
Behav'd herself amongst the men:
Pleas'd with her punch, the gallant soul
First drank, then water'd in the bowl;
And sprinkled in the captain's face
The marks of her peculiar grace.-

"To close this point, we need not roam For instances so far from home.

What parts gay France from sober Spain?
A little rising rocky chain.

Of men born south or north o'th' hill,
Those seldom move, these ne'er stand still.
Dick, you love maps, and may perceive
Rome not far distant from Geneve.
If the good pope remains at home,
He's the first prince in Christendom.
Choose then, good pope, at home to stay,
Nor westward curious take thy way:
Thy way unhappy should'st thou take
From Tyber's bank to Leman lake,
Thou art an aged priest no more,
But a young flaring painted whore:
Thy sex is lost, thy town is gone;
No longer Rome, but Babylon.

'That some few leagues should make this change. To men unlearn'd seems mighty strange.

"Butneed we,

friend, insist on this?

Since, in the very Canton Swiss,

All your philosophers agree,

And prove it plain, that one may be
A heretic, or true believer,

On this, or t'other side a river."

"Herc," with an artful sinile, quoth Dick "Your proofs come mighty full and thick.' The bard, on this extensive chapter Wound up into poctic rapture, Continued: "Richard, cast your eye, By night, upon a winter-sky: Cast it by day-light on the strand, Which compasses fair Albion's land: If you can count the stars that glow Above, or sands that lie below, Into those common places look, Which from great authors I have took, And count the proofs I have collected, To have my writings well protected. These I lay by for time of need, And thou may'st at thy leisure read. For, standing every critic's rage, I safely will to future age My system, as a gift, bequeath, Victorious over Spite and Death,"


RICHARD, who now was half a sleep,
Rous'd, nor would longer silence keep,
And sense like this, in vocal breath,
Broke from his two-fold hedge of teeth.
Now, if this phrase too harsh be thought,
Pope, tell the world, 'tis not my fault.
Old Homer taught us thus to speak;
If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek.

"As folks," quoth Richard, "prone to leasing,
Say things at first, because they're pleasing,
Then prove what they have once asserted,
Nor care to have their lie deserted,
Till their own dreams at length deceive 'em,
And, oft repeating, they believe 'em :
Or as, again, those amorous blades,
Who tride with their mothers' maids,
Though at the first their wild desire
Was but to quench a present fire;
Yet if the object of their love
Chance by Lucina's aid to prove,
They seldom let the bantling roar
In basket at a neighbour's door;
But, by the flattering glass of Nature
Viewing themselves in cake-bread's feature;

With serious thought and care support
What only was begun in sport:

"Just so with you, my friend, it fares,
Who deal in philosophic wares.
Atoms you cut, and forms you measure,
To gratify your private pleasure;
Till airy seeds of casual wit

Do some fantastic birth beget;

And, pleas'd to find your system mended
Beyond what you at first intended,
The happy whimsey you pursue,
Till you at length believe it true.
Caught by your own delusive art,
You fancy first, and then assert "

Quoth Matthew: " Friend, as far as I
Through Art or Nature cast my eye,
This axiom clearly I discern,
That one must teach, and t'other learn.
No fool Pythagoras was thought;
Whilst he his weighty doctrines taught,
He made his listening scholars stand,
Their mouth still cover'd with their hand:
Else, may be, some add-thinking youth,
Less friend to doctrine than to truth,
Might have refus'd to let his ears
Attend the music of the spheres;
Deny'd all transmigrating scenes,
And introduc'd the use of beans.
From great Lucretius take his void,
And all the world is quite destroy'd,
Deny Des-cart his subtil matter,
You leave him neither fire nor water.
How oddly would sir Isaac look,
If you, in answer to his book,
Say in the front of your discourse,
That things have no elastic force!
How could our chymic friends go on,
To find the philosophic stone,
If you more powerful reasons bring,
To prove that there is no such thing?
"Your chiefs in sciences and arts
Have great contempt of Alma's parts.
They find she giddy is, or dull;
She doubts if things are void, or full:
And who should be presum❜d to tell
What she herself should see, or feel?
She doubts if two and two make four,
Though she has told them ten times o'er,
It can't it may be-and it must:
To which of these must Alma trust?
Nay further yet they make her go
in doubting, if she doubts, or no,
Can syllogism set things right?
No: majors soon with minors fight;
Or, both in friendly consort join'd,
The consequence limps false behind.
So to some cunning man she goes,
And asks of him, how much she knows.
With patience grave he hears her speak,
And from his short notes gives her back
What from her tale be comprehended;
Thus the dispute is wisely ended.

"From the account the loser brings, The conjuror knows who stole the things." "'Squire," interrupted Dick, "since when

Were you amongst these cunning men?"

Who does his mind in words reveal,
Which all must grant, though few can spell.
You tell your doctor that y're ill:
And what does he, but write a bill?
Of which you need not read one letter:
The worse the scrawl, the dose the better.
For if you knew but what you take,
Though you recover, he must break,
"Ideas, forms, and intellects,

Have furnish'd out three different sects,
Substance, or accident, divides,

All Europe into adverse sides.

"Now, as, engag'd in arms or laws, You must have friends to back your cause; In philosophic matters so

Your judgment must with others' go:
For as in senates, so in schools,
Majority of voices rules.


Poor Alma, like a lonely deer,

O'er hills and dales docs doubtful err:
With panting haste, and quick surprise,
From every leaf that stirs, she flies;
Till, mingled with the neighbouring herd,
She slights what erst she singly fear'd:
And now, exempt from doubt and dread,
She dares pursue, if they dare lead ;
As their example still prevails,

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She tempts the stream, or leaps the pales,"
"He then," quoth Dick, who by your rule
Thinks for himself, becomes a fool;
As party man, who leaves the rest,
Is call'd but whimsical' at best.

"Now, by your favour, master Mat, Like Ralpho, here I smell a rat.

I must be listed in your sect,


Who, though they teach not, can protect.»
Right, Richard," Mat in triumph cry'd:
"So put off all mistrust and pride.
And, while my principles I beg,
Pray answer only with your leg.
Believe what friendly I advise:
Be first secure, and then be wise.
Then an within the coach that sits,
And to another's skill submits,
Is safer much, (whate'er arrives)
And warmer too, than he that drives.
"So Dick Adept, tuck back thy hair,
And I will pour into thy ear
Remarks, which none did e'er disclose
In smooth-pac'd verse, or hobbling prose.
Attend, dear Dick; but don't reply:
And thou may'st prove as wise as I.
"When Alma now, in different ages,
Has finish'd her ascending stages,
Into the head at length she gets,
And there in public grandeur sits,
To judge of things, and censure wits

"Here, Richard, how could I explain
The various labyrinths of the brain!
Surprise my readers, whilst I tell 'em
Of cerebrum, and cerebellum!
How could I play the commentator
On dura and on pia mater!

Where hot and cold, and dry and wet,
Strive each the other's place to get;
And, with incessant toil and strife,

"Dear Dick," quoth Matt, "let not thy force Would keep possession during life.

Of eloquence spoil my discourse.

I tell thee, this is Alma's case,

Still asking what some wise man says,

1 Some of the Tories, in the queen's reign, were distinguished by that appellation.

I could demonstrate every pore,
Where memory lays up all her store;
And to an inch compute the station
'Twixt judgment and imagination.

O friend! I could display much learning,
At least to men of small discerning.
The brain contains ten thousand cells:
In each some active fancy dwells;
Which always is at work, and framing
The several follies I was naming.
As in a hive's vimineous dome
Ten thousand bees enjoy their home,
Each does her studious actions vary,
To go and come, to fetch and carry ;
Fach still renews her little labour,
Nor justles her assiduous neighbour:
Each whilst this thesis I maintain,
I fancy, Dick, I know thy brain.

O, with the mighty theme affected,
Could I but see thy head dissected !"

Holds that the happy know no hours;
So through the street at midnight scowers,
Breaks watchmen's heads and chairmen's glasses,
And thence proceeds to nicking sashes;
Till, by some tougher hand o'ercome,
And first knock'd down, and then led home,
He damns the footman, strikes the maid,
And decently reels up to bed.

"Observe the various operations
Of food and drink in several nations.
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel
Upon the strength of water-grnel?
But who shall stand his rage and force,
If first he rides, then eats his horse?
Sallads, and eggs, and lighter fare,
Tune the Italian spark's guitar.
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;

"My head!" quoth Dick, "to serve your whim! And both, as they provisions want,

Spare that, and take some other limb.

Sir, in your nice affairs of system,
Wise men propose; but fools assist 'em."

Says Matthew, "Richard, keep thy head,
And hold thy peace; and I'll proceed.".
"Proceed!" quoth Dick: "Sir, I aver,
You have already gone too far.
When people once are in the wrong,
Each line they add is much too long.
Who fastest walks, but walks astray,.
Is only furthest from his way.
Bless your conceits! must I believe,
Howe'er absurd, what you conceive;
And, for your friendship, live and die
A papist in philosophy?

I say, whatever you maintain
Of Alma in the heart or brain,
The plainest man alive may tell ye,
Her seat of empire is the belly:

From hence she sends out those supplies,
Which makes us either stout or wise;
The strength of every other member
Is founded on your belly-timber;
The qualms or raptures of your blood
Rise in proportion to your food;

And, if you would improve your thought,
You must be fed as well as taught.
Your stomach makes your fabric roll,
Just as the bias rules the bowl.
The great Achilles might employ
The strength design'd to ruin Troy;
He din'd on lion's marrow, spread
On toasts of ammunition bread:
But, by his mother sent away,
Amongst the Thracian girls to play,
Effeminate he sat, and quiet:
Strange product of a cheese-cake diet!
Now give my argument fair play,
And take the thing the other way:
The youngster, who at nine and three
Drinks with his sisters milk and tea,
From breakfast reads till twelve o'clock,
Burnet and Heylin, Hobbes, and Locke:
He pays due visits after noon

To cousin Alice and uncle John.
At ten from coffee-house or play
Returning, finishes the day.
But. give him port and potent sack,
From milksop he starts up Mohack s

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)
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.

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 still;

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 consigu the corpse to Russel.
"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 herses, clocks, and watches," Quoth Mat," to me thou seem'st to mean, That Alma is a mere machine:

That, telling others what's o'clock,

She knows not what herself has struck;
But leaves to standers-by the trial

Of what is mark'd upon her dial."

"Here hold a blom, 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 much describe; they nothing prove."
Mat, who was here a little gravell'd,
Tost up his nose, 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 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 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'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, wh ch 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 slily had thought fit,
For some by-ends, to cross-bite wit:
Circles to square, and cubes to double,
Would give a man excessive trouble;
The longitude uncertain roams,
In spite of Whiston 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,

We must persist the best we can;
With care our system still 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 hic & nunc may know
How much you to my candour owe,
I'll from the disputant descend,
To show thee, I assume 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," said Dick, "dear friend? But bring thy matters to an end."

"I find," quoth Mat, "reproof is vain :
Who first offend, will first complain.
Thou wishest I should make to shore;
Yet still putt'st in thy thwarting oar,
What I have told thee fifty times
In prose, receive for once in rhymes:
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church, (no matter where)
Labour'd and push'd amidst the crowd,
Still bawling out extremely loud,
'Lord save us! why do people press!
Another, marking his distress,

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Friendly reply'd, Plump gentleman,
Get out as fast as e'er you can;

Or cease to push, or to exclaim:
You make the very crowd you blame."
Says Dick," Your moral does not need
The least return; so 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 magisterial, thus went on.

"Now Alma settles in the head,
As has before been sung or said:
And here begins this farce of life;
Enter Revenge, Ambition, Strife:
Behold on both sides men advance,
To form in earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avare, not using half his store,
Still grumbles that he has no more;
Strikes not the present 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 surtout you wear
Repels the rigour 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 on his viol,

Unless he had the total gut
Whence every string at first was ent?

"When Rarus shows you his cartone, He always tells you, with a groan,

Where two of that same hand were torn,
Long before you or he were born.

"Poor Vento's mind so much is crost
For part of his Petronius lost,
That he can never take the pains
To understand what yet remains.
"What toil did honest Curio take,
What strict inquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman set!
'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 show'd, shall in their turns
Remain obscure as in their urns.
My copper lamps, at any rate,

For being true antique, I bought;
Yet wisely 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 seen you with delight,
For Georgy' make a paper kite.
And simple ode too many show ye
My servile complaisance to Chloe.
Parents and lovers are decreed

By Nature fools."-" That's brave indeed!"
Quoth Dick: "such truths are worth receiving,"
Yet still Dick look'd as not believing.

"Now, Alma, to divines and prose

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 sting:
Thy pride of being great and wise
I do but mention, to despise;
I view, with anger and disdain,
How little gives thee joy or pain,
A print, a bronze, a flower, a root,
A shell, a butterfly, can do't:
Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhyme,
Help thee to pass the tedious tiine,
Which else would on thy hand remain ;
Though, flown, it ne'er looks back again ;
And cards are dealt, and chess-boards brought,
To ease the pain of coward Thought:
Happy result of human wit!
That Alma may herself forget.

"Dick, thus we act; and thus we are,
Or toss'd by hope, or sunk by care.
With endless pain this man pursues
What, if he gain'd, he could not uşʊ:
And t'other fondly hopes to see
What never was, nor e'er shall be.
We err by use, go wrong by rules,
In gesture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocrisy to pride,
Doubling the faults we strive to hide.
Or grant that, with extreme surprise,
We find ourselves at sixty wise,
And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one;
Whilst, as my system says, the Mind
Is to these upper rooms confin'd.
Should I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd sense, her fond conceit,

2 Mr. Skelton's so

The bead-roll of her vicious trieks,
My poem would be too prolix.
For, could I my remarks sustain,
Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne,
Who in these times would read my books,
But Tom o'Stiles, or John o'Nokes?
"As Brentford kings, discreet and wise,
After long thought aud 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 said that;
She finds, poor thing, some little crack,
Which Nature, forc'd by Time, must make,
Through which she wings her destin'd way
Upward she soars, and down drops clay:
While some surviving friend supplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.


O Richard, till that day appears,
Which must decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her present rage,
And give us play-things for our age:
Would Clotho wash her hands in milk,
And twist our thread with gold and silk ;
Would she, in friendship, peace and plenty,
Spin out our years to four times twenty;
And should we both, in this condition,
Have conquer'd Love, and worse Ambition,
(Else those two passions, by the way,
May chance to show us scurvy play)
Then, Richard, then should we sit down,
Far from the tumult of this town;
I fond of my well-chosen seat,
My pictures, medals, books complete,
Or, should we mix our friendly talk,
O'ershaded in that favourite walk,
Which thy own hand had whilom planted,
Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted:
Yet then, ev'n then, one cross reflection
Would spoil thy grove, and my collection
Thy son, and his, ere that, may die,
And Time some uncouth heir supply,
Who shall for nothing else be known
But spoiling all that thou hast done.
Who set the twigs shall he remember
That is in haste to sell the timber?
And what shall 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 skim the dairy)
My favourite books and pictures sell
To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell?
Kindly throw in a little figure,
And set the price upon the bigger?
Those who could never read the grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books best, as richest bound;
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned justice weigh'd;
To turn the balance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and, for the metal,
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle--

"Tir'd with these thoughts"-" Less tir'd than Ę;" Quoth Dick, "with your philosophy→→→

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