A Letter from Cambridge to a young Gentleman at Eton School . By Dr. LITTLETON . THO' plagu'd with algebraic lectures , And astronomical conjectures , Wean'd from the sweets of poetry To scraps of dry philosophy , You see , dear sir , I've found a time T' express my thoughts to you in rhime . For why , my friend , shou'd distant parts , Or times , disjoin united hearts , Since , tho' by intervening space Depriv'd of speaking face to face , By faithful emissary letter We may converse as well , or better ? And not to stretch a narrow fancy , To shew what pretty things I can say , ( As some will strain at simile , First work it fine , and then apply ; Tag Butler's rhimes to Prior's thoughts , And chuse to mimic all their faults , By head and shoulders bring in a stick , To shew their knack at hudibrastic , ) I'll tell you as a friend , and crony , How here I spend my time , and money ; For time , and money , go together As sure as weathercock , and weather ; And thrifty guardians all allow This grave reflection to be true , That whilst we pay so dear for learning Those weighty truths we've no concern in , The spark who squanders time away In vain pursuits , and fruitless play , Not only proves an arrant blockhead , But , what's much worse , is out of pocket . Whether my conduct bad , or good is , Judge from the nature of my studies . No more majestic Virgil's heights , Nor tow'ring Milton's loftier flights , Nor courtly Flaccus's rebukes , Who banters vice with friendly jokes , Nor Congreve's life , nor Cowley's fire , Nor all the beauties that conspire To place the greenest bays upon Th' immortal brows of Addison ; Prior's inimitable ease , Nor Pope's harmonious numbers please ; Homer indeed ( for critics shew it ) Was both philosopher , and poet , But tedious philosophic chapters Quite stifle my poetic raptures , And I to Phoebus bade adieu When first I took my leave of you . Now algebra , geometry , Arithmetic , astronomy , Optics , chronology , and statics , All tiresome parts of mathematics ; With twenty harder names than these Disturb my brain , and break my peace . All seeming inconsistencies Are nicely solv'd by a's , and b's ; Our eye-sight is disprov'd by prisms , Our arguments by syllogisms . If I shou'd confidently write This ink is black , this paper white , Or , to express myself yet fuller , Shou'd say that black , or white's a colour ; They'd contradict it , and perplex one With motion , rays , and their reflexion , And solve th' apparent falsehood by The curious texture of the eye . Shou'd I the poker want , and take it , When't looks as hot , as fire can make it , And burn my finger , and my coat , They'd flatly tell me , 'tis not hot ; The fire , say they , has in't , 'tis true , The pow'r of causing heat in you ; But no more heat's in fire that heats you , Than there is pain in stick that beats you . Thus too philosophers expound The names of odour , taste , and sound ; The salts , and juices in all meat Affect the tongues of them that eat , And by some secret poignant power Give them the taste of sweet , and sour . Carnations , violets , and roses Cause a sensation in our noses ; But then there's none of us can tell The things themselves have taste , or smell . So when melodious Mason sings , Or Gethring tunes the trembling strings , Or when the trumpet's brisk alarms Call forth the cheerful youth to arms , Convey'd thro' undulating air The music's only in the ear . We're told how planets roll on high , How large their orbits , and how nigh ; I hope in little time to know Whether the moon's a cheese , or no ; Whether the man in't , as some tell ye , With beef and carrots fills his belly ; Why like a lunatic confin'd He lives at distance from mankind ; When he at one good hearty shake , Might whirl his prison off his back ; Or like a maggot in a nut Full bravely eat his passage out . Who knows what vast discoveries From such inquiries might arise ? But feuds , and tumults in the nation Disturb such curious speculation . Cambridge from furious broils of state , Foresees her near-approaching fate ; Her surest patrons are remov'd , And her triumphant foes approv'd . No more ! this due to friendship take , Not idly writ for writing's sake ; No longer question my respect , Nor call this short delay neglect ; At least excuse it , when you see This pledge of my sincerity ; For one who rhimes to make you easy , And his invention strains to please you , To shew his friendship cracks his brains , Sure is a mad-man if he feigns .