The fineft fparks and cleanest beaux
Drip from the shoulders to the toes :
How fleek their skins! their joints how casy!
There flovens only are not greasy.

I mention'd different ways of breeding:
Begin we in our children's reading.
To mafter John the English maid
A horn-book gives of gingerbread;
And, that the child may learn the better,
As he can name, he eats the letter.
Proceeding thus with vaft delight,
He fpells, and gnaws. from left to right.
But, fhow a Hebrew's hopeful fon
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 fo fast,
Great A would be referv'd the last.
An equal in@lance of this matter

Is in the manners of a daughter.
In Europe if a harmless maid,

By nature and by love betray'd,
Should, cre 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 fhips unmoor,
And jolly long-boat rows to fhore,
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,
Left her dear daughter fhould be flighted:
And poor miss Yaya dreads the fhame
Of going back the maid fhe came.

Obferve how cuftom, Dick, compels
The lady that in Europe dwells:
After her tea, fhe flips away,
And what to do, one need not fay.
Now fee how great Pomonque's queen
Behav'd herself amongst the men :
Pleas'd with her punch, the gallant foul
First drank, then water'd in the bowl;
And sprinkled in the captain's face
The marks of her peculiar grace-

To clofe this point, we need not roam
For inftances fo far from home.
What parts gay France from fober Spain?
A little rifing rocky chain.

Of men born fouth or north o' th' hill,
Thofe feldom move, thefe ne'er ftand ftill.
Dick, you love maps, and may perceive
Rome not far diftant from Geneve.
If the good Pope remains at home,
He's the first prince in Chriftendom.
Choose then, good Pope, at home to stay,
Nor weftward curious take thy way:
Thy way unhappy should't thou take,
From Tyber's bank to Leman lake,
Thou art an aged prieft no more,
But a young flaring painted whore:
Thy fex is loft, thy town is gone;
No longer Rome, but Babylon.

That fome few. leagues fhould make this change,
To men unlearn'd feems mighty strange.

But need we, friend, infift on this?
Since, in the very Cantons Swifs,
All your philofophers agree,
And prove it plain, that one may be
A heretic, or true believer,
On this, or t'other fide a river.

Here, with an artful smile, quoth Dick,
Your proofs come mighty full and thick-
The bard, on this extenfive chapter
Wound up into poetic rapture,
Continued: Richard, caft your eye
By night upon a winter-fky:
Caft it by day light on the ftrand,
Which compaffes fair Albion's land:
If you can count the fars that glow
Above, or fands 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.
Thefe I lay by for time of need,
And thou may'ft at thy leifure read.
For ftanding every critic's rage,

I fafely will to future age

My fyftem, as a gift, bequeath,
Victorious over fpight and death.

CANTO III.

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

As folks, quoth Richard, prone to leafing,
Say things at first, because they're pleasing,
Then prove what they have once afferted,
Nor care to have their lie deferted,
Till their own dreams at length deceive 'em,
And, oft' repeating, they believe 'em :
Or as, again, those amorous blades,
Who trifle with their mother's maids,
Though at the first their wild defire
Was but to quench a prefent fire;
Yet if the object of their love
Chance by Lucina's aid to prove,
They feldom let the bantling roar
In basket at a neighbour's door;
But, by the flattering glafs of nature
Viewing themselves in cake bread's feature,
With ferious thought and care fupport
What only was begun in fport:

Juft fo with you, my friend, it fares,
Who deal in philofophic wares.
Atoms you cut, and forms you measure,
To gratify your private pleafure;

Till airy feeds of cafual wit

Do fome fantastic birth beget;

And, pleas'd to find your fyftem mended

Beyond what you at firft intended,

The happy whirley you purfue,
Till you at length believe it true.
Caught by your own delufive art,
You fancy firft, and then affert.

Quoth Matthew: Friend, as far as I
Through art or nature caft my eye,
This axiom clearly I difcern,

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:
Elfe, may be, fome odd-thinking youth,
Lefs friend to doctrine than to truth,
Might have refus'd to let his ears
Attend the mufic of the fpheres;
Deny'd all tranfmigrating 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 fubtil matter,

You leave him neither fire nor water.
How oddly would Sir Ifaac look,
If

you, in answer to his book,
Say in the front of your discourse,
That things have no elastic force!
How could our chemic friends go on,
To find the pbilofophic ftone,

If you more powerful reasons bring,
To prove that there is no such thing?

Your chiefs in fciences and arts
Have great contempt of Alma's parts.
They find the giddy is, or dull;

She doubts if things are void, or full:
And who fhould be prefum'd to tell
What she herself should fee, or feel?
She doubts if two and two make four,
Though fhe 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 fyllogifm fet things right?
No majors foon with minors fight;
Or, both in friendly confort join'd,
The confequence limps falfe behind.
So to fome cunning man fhe goes,
And asks of him, how much she knows.
With patience grave he hears her speak,
And from his fhort notes gives her back
What from her tale he comprehended:
Thus the difpute is wifely ended,

From the account the lofer brings, The conjuror knows who stole the things. 'Squire (interrupted Dick) fince when Were you amongst thefe cunning men? Dear Dick, quoth Mat, let not thy force Of eloquence fpoil my difcourfe.

I tell thee, this is Alma's cafe,

Still afking what fome wife man fays,
Who does his mind in words reveal,

Which all muit grant, though few can spell.
You tell your doctor that y'are ill:
And what does he, but write a bill?

Of which you need not read one letter:
The worse the fcrawl, the dofe the better.

VOL. VII.

For if you knew but what you take,
Though you recover, he must break.

Ideas, forms, and intellects,

Have furnish'd out three different fects.
Subftance, or accident, divides

All Europe into adverfe fides.

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

Your judgment must with others' go:
For as in fenates, fo in fchools,
Majority of voices rules.

Poor Alma, like a lonely deer,
O'er hills and dales does doubtful err:
With panting hafte, and quick surprise,
From every leaf that ftirs, fhe flies;
Till, mingled with the neighbouring herd,
She flights what erft the fingly fear'd:
And now, exempt from doubt and dread,
She dares purfue, if they dare lead;
As their example ftill prevails,
She tempts the ftream, 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, mafter Mat, Like Ralpho, here I smell a rat.

I must be listed in your fect,

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 advife: Be first fecure, and then be wife. The man within the coach that fits, And to another's skill submits, Is fafer much (what'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 fmooth-pac'd verfe, or hobbling profe. Attend, dear Dick; but don't reply: And thou may'ft prove as wife as I. When Alma now, in different ages, Has finish'd her afcending stages, Into the head at length fhe gets, And there in public grandeur fits, To judge of things, and cenfure wits.

Here, Richard, how could I explain
The various labyrinths of the brain!
Surprife my readers, whilft 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 inceffant toil and ftrife,
Would keep poffeflion during life.
I could demonftrate every pore,
Where memory lays up all her ftore;

+ Some of the Tories, in the Queen's reign, were diftinguithed by that appeliation. G g

And to an inch compute the ftation
'Twixt judgment and imagination.
O friend! I could difplay much learning,
At least to men of fmall difcerning.
The brain contains ten thousand cells:
In each fome active fancy dwells;
Which always is at work, and framing
The feveral follies I was naming.
As in a hive' vimineous deme
Ten thousand bees enjoy their home,
Each does her ftudious actions vary,
To go and come, to fetch and carry;
Each till renews her little labour,
Nor juftles her affiduous neighbour:
Each whilft this thefis I maintain,
I fancy, Dick, I know thy brain.
O, with the mighty theme affected,
Could I but fee thy head diffected!

My head quoth Dick, to ferve your whim!
Spare that, and take fome other limb.
Sir, in your nice affairs of fyftem,
Wife men propofe; but fools allift '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 fafteft walks, but walks aftray,
Is only furthest from his way.
Blefs your conceits must I believe,
Howe'er abfurd, what you conceive;
And, for your friendship, live and die
A papist in philosophy?

blood

I fay, whatever you maintain Of Alma in the heart or brain, The plainest man alive may tell ye, Her feat of empire is the belly: From hence she sends out those supplies, Which makes us either ftout or wife; The ftrength of every other member Is founded on your belly-timber; The qualms or raptures of your Rife 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 ftrength defign'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 fat, and quiet : Strange product of a cheese-cake dict! Now give my argument fair play, And take the thing the other way: The youngster, who at nine and three Drinks with his filters milk and tea, From breakfast reads till twelve o'clock, Burnet, and Heylin, Hobbes, and Locke : He pays due vifits after noon To cousin Alice and uncle John ; At ten from coffee-houfe or play Returning, finishes the day.

Bur, give him port and potent fack,
From milkfop he starts up Mback;
Holds that the happy know no hours;
So through the freet at midnight fcowers,
Breaks watchmen's heads and chairinen's glaffee,
And thence proceeds to nicking fashes;
Till, by fome tougher hand o'ercome,
And fira krock'd down, and then led home,
He damns the footman, ftrikes the maid,
And decently reels up to bed.

Obferve the various operations

Of food and drink in several nations.
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel
Upon the strength of water-gruel ?
But who fhall ftand his rage and force,
If first he rides, then eats his horse?
Sallads, and eggs, and lighter fare,
Tune the Italian fpark's guitar.
And, if I take Dan Congreve right,
Tudding and beef make Britons fight.
Tokay and coffee cause this work
Between the German and the Turk;
And both, as they provifions want,
Chicane, avoid, retire and faint.

Hunger and thirst, or guns and fwords,
Give the fame death in different words.
To push this argument no further;
To ftarve a man, in law is murther.

As in a watch's fine machine,
Though many artful fprings are seen;
The added movements, which declare
How full the moon, how old the year,
Dirive their fecondary power

From that which fimply points the hour.
For, though thofe gim-cracks were away,
(Quare would not fwear, but Quare would fay
However more reduc'd and plain,

The watch would ftill a watch remain :
But, if the oral orbit ceafes,

The whole ftands ftill, or breaks to pieces;
Is now no longer what it was,

And you may e'en go fell the cafe.
So, if unprejudic'd you fcan
The goings of this clock-work man,
You find a hundred movements made
By fine devices in his head:

But 'tis the ftomacy's folid froke
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 fhip ftands ftill;
Or, laftly 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 fpoil the engine of digestion,

And you entirely change the question.
Alma's affairs no power can mend;
The jeft, alas! is at an end:
Soon ceases all the workly buftle,
And you confign the corpfe to Ruffel.

Now make your Alma come or go
From leg to hand, from top to tʊc,
Your fyftem, without my addition,
Is in a very fad condition.

Dick, from thefe inftances and fetches, Thou mak'st of horses, clocks, and watches, Quoth Mat, to me thou feem'ft to mean, That Alma is a mere chine: {

That, telling others what's c'clock,

She knows not what herfelf has struck;
But leaves to ftanders-by the trial

Of what is mark'd upon her dial.

Here bold 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 fongs in love:

They must defcribe; they nothing prove.

Mat, who was here a little gravell❜d,
Toft 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
Puets find gods to help them out.)

Friend Richard, I begin to fee,
That you and I fhall scarce agrée.
Obferve how oddly you behave:
The more I grant, the more you crave.
But, comrade, as I faid juft now,
I fhould affirm, and you allow.
We fyftem-makers can sustain

The thefis, which you grant was plain;
And with remarks and comments teaze ye,'
In cafe the thing before was eafy.
But, in a point obscure and dark,
We fight as Leibnitz did with Clarke;
And, when no reafon we can fhow,
Why matters this or that way go,
The shorteft 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 crofs,
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 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 Malebranche has an odd conceit,

As ever enter'd Frenchman's pate:

Says he, fo little can our mind

Of matter or of fpirit find

That we by guess at least may gather
Something, which may be both, or neither.
Faith, Dick, I muft confefs, '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 bye-ends, to crofs-bite wit:
Circles to fquare, and cubes to double,
Would give a man exceffive trouble
The longitud: urtertain roams,
In spite of Whifton and his bombs.
What fyllem, Dick. bas 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 perült the best we can;
With care our system still renew,
And prove things likely, though not true.
I could, thou feeft, in quaint difpute,
By dint of logic, ftrike thee mute;
With learned skill, now pufh, now parry,
From Darii to Bocardo vary,

And never yield; or, what is worft,
Never e nclude the point difcours'd.
Yet, that you bic 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 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 firl offend will first complain.
Thou wifheft I fhould make to thore;
Yet ftill putt'it 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 push'd amidst the crowd,
Still bawling out extremely loud,
Lord fave us! why do people prefs!
Another, marking his diftrefs,
Friendly reply'd, plump gentleman,
Get out as fast as e'er you can;
Or cease to push, or to exclaim:
You make the

crowd you
very crowd blame.
Says Dick, your moral does not need
The least return; fo e'en proceed:
Your tale, howe'er apply'd, was fhort:

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 earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avare, not using half his store,
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 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 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 fonate on his viol,
Unless he had the total gut
Whence every ftring at firft 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 flrict 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 these no more you hear him fpeak :
He now begins upon the Greek.

Thefe, 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, I bought;
Yet wifely melted down my plate,

On modern models to be wrought:
And trifies 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 fimple odes too many fhow ye
My fervile complaifance to Chloe.
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:

Thy pride of being great and wife
I do but mention, to defpife;
I view with anger and difdain
How little gives thec joy or pain;
A print, a bronze, a flower, a root,
A fhell, a butterfly, can do't;
Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhyme,
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,

*Mr. Shelton's fon,

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 shall be.
We err by use, go wrong by rules,
In gefture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocrify to pride,
Doubling the faults we strive to hide.
Or grant that, with extreme furprise,
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 bead-roll of her vicious tricks,
My poem would be too prolix.
For, could I my remarks 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 the wings her deftin'd 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 twilt our thread with gold and silk;
Would fhe, 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 worfe ambition
(Elfe thofe two paffions, by the way,
May chance to show us scurvy play);
Then, Richard, then fhould we fit down,
Far from the tumult of this town;

I fond of my well-chofen feat,

My pictures, medals, books complete.
Or, fhould we mix our friendly talk,
O'erfhaded in that favourite walk,

Which thy own hand had whilom planted,

Both pleas'd with all we thought we want

ed:

Yet then, ev'n then, one cross reflection

Would spoil thy grove, and my collection :

Thy fon, and his, ere that, may die,

And time fome uncouth heir fupply,