ALMA: OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND.

In Three Cantos.

THE FIRST CANTO.

Matthew met Richard; when or where
 From Story is not mighty clear:
 Of many knotty Points They spoke;
 And Pro and Con by turns They took. 
Ratts half the Manuscript have eat:
 Dire Hunger! which We still regret:
 O! may they ne'er again digest
 The Horrors of so sad a Feast. 
Yet less our Grief, if what remains,
 Dear Jacob, by thy Care and Pains
 Shall be to future Times convey'd. 
It thus begins:

Here Matthew said:
 Alma in Verse; in Prose, the Mind,
 By Aristotle's Pen defin'd,
 Throughout the Body squat or tall,
 Is, bonâ fide, All in All.
 And yet, slap dash, is All again
 In every Sinew, Nerve, and Vein. 
Runs here and there, like Hamlet's Ghost;
 While every where She rules the roast. 

This System, Richard, We are told,
 The Men of Oxford firmly hold. 
The Cambridge Wits, You know, deny
 With Ipse dixit to comply. 
They say (for in good truth They speak
 With small Respect of that old Greek)
 That, putting all his Words together,
 'Tis Three blew Beans in One blew Bladder. 

Alma, They strenuously maintain,
 Sits Cock-horse on Her Throne, the Brain;
 And from that Seat of Thought dispenses
 Her Sov'reign Pleasure to the Senses. 
Two Optic Nerves, They say, She tyes,
 Like Spectacles, a-cross the Eyes;
 By which the Spirits bring her Word,
 Whene'er the Balls are fix'd, or stirr'd;
 How quick at Park and Play they strike;
 The Duke they court; the Toast they like;
 And at St James's turn their Grace
 From former Friends, now out of Place. 

Without these Aids, to be more serious,
 Her Pow'r, They hold, had been precarious:
 The Eyes might have conspir'd her Ruin;
 And She not known, what They were doing. 
Foolish it had been, and unkind,
 That They shou'd see, and She be blind. 

Wise Nature likewise, They suppose,
 Has drawn two Conduits down our Nose:
 Cou'd Alma else with Judgment tell,
 When Cabbage stinks, or Roses smell? 
Or who wou'd ask for her Opinion
 Between an Oyster, and an Onion? 
For from most Bodies, Dick, You know,
 Some little Bits ask Leave to flow;
 And, as thro' these Canals They roll,
 Bring up a Sample of the Whole. 
Like Footmen running before Coaches,
 To tell the Inn, what Lord approaches. 

By Nerves about our Palate plac'd,
 She likewise judges of the Taste. 
Else (dismal Thought!) our Warlike Men
 Might drink thick Port for fine Champagne;
 And our ill-judging Wives and Daughters
 Mistake Small-beer for Citron-Waters. 

Hence too, that She might better hear,
 She sets a Drum at either Ear;
 And Loud or Gentle, Harsh or Sweet,
 Are but th' Alarums which They beat. 

Last, to enjoy her Sense of Feeling
 (A thing She much delights to deal in)
 A thousand little Nerves She sends
 Quite to our Toes, and Fingers Ends;
 And These in Gratitude again
 Return their Spirits to the Brain;
 In which their Figure being printed
 (As just before, I think, I hinted)
 Alma inform'd can try the Case,
 As She had been upon the Place. 

Thus, while the Judge gives diff'rent Journeys
 To Country Counsel, and Attornies;
 He on the Bench in quiet sits,
 Deciding, as They bring the Writs. 
The Pope thus prays and sleeps at Rome,
 And very seldom stirs from Home:
 Yet sending forth his Holy Spies,
 And having heard what They advise,
 He rules the Church's blest Dominions;
 And sets Men's Faith by His Opinions. 

The Scholars of the Stagyrite,
 Who for the Old Opinion fight,
 Would make their Modern Friends confess,
 The diff'rence but from More to Less. 
The Mind, say They, while You sustain
 To hold her Station in the Brain;
 You grant, at least, She is extended:
 Ergo the whole Dispute is ended. 
For, 'till To-morrow shou'd You plead
 From Form and Structure of the Head;
 The Mind as visibly is seen
 Extended thro' the whole Machine. 
Why shou'd all Honor then be ta'en
 From Lower Parts to load the Brain;
 When other Limbs we plainly see,
 Each in his way, as brisk as He? 
For Music, grant the Head receives it;
 It is the Artist's Hand that gives it. 
And tho' the Scull may wear the Laurel;
 The Soldier's Arm sustains the Quarrel. 
Besides, the Nostrils, Ears, and Eyes
 Are not his Parts, but his Allies. 
Ev'n what You hear the Tongue proclaim,
 Comes ab Origine from them. 
What could the Head perform Alone,
 If all Their friendly Aids were gone? 
A foolish figure He must make;
 Do nothing else, but sleep and ake. 

Nor matters it, that You can show,
 How to the Head that Spirits go. 
Those Spirits started from some Goal,
 Before they thro' the Veins cou'd roll. 
Now We shou'd hold Them much to blame,
 If They went back, before They came. 

If therefore, as We must suppose,
 They came from Fingers, and from Toes;
 Or Toes, or Fingers, in this Case,
 Of Num-scull's Self shou'd take the Place. 
Disputing fair, You grant thus much,
 That all Sensation is but Touch. 
Dip but your Toes into cold Water;
 Their Correspondent Teeth will chatter:
 And strike the Bottom of your Feet;
 You set your Head into a Heat. 
The Bully beat, and happy Lover
 Confess, that Feeling lies all over. 

Note here, Lucretius dares to teach
 (As all our Youth may learn from Creech)
 That Eyes were made, but cou'd not view;
 Nor Hands embrace, nor Feet pursue:
 But heedless Nature did produce
 The Members first, and then the Use. 
What Each must act, was yet unknown,
 'Till All is mov'd by Chance alone. 

A Man first builds a Country Seat;
 Then finds the Walls not good to eat. 
Another plants, and wond'ring sees
 Nor Books, nor Medals on his Trees. 
Yet Poet and Philosopher
 Was He, who durst such Whims aver. 
Blest, for his Sake, be human Reason,
 That came at all, tho' late, in Season. 

But no Man sure e'er left his House,
 And saddl'd Ball, with Thoughts so wild,
 To bring a Midwife to his Spouse,
 Before He knew She was with Child. 
And no Man ever reapt his Corn,
 Or from the Oven drew his Bread,
 E'er Hinds and Bakers yet were born,
 That taught him both to Sow, and Knead. 
Before They're ask'd, can Maids refuse? 
Can — Pray, says Dick, hold in your Muse. 
While You Pindaric Truths rehearse;
 She hobbles in Alternate Verse. 
Verse? MAT. reply'd: is that my Care? 
Go on, quoth Richard, soft and fair. 

This looks, friend Dick, as Nature had
 But exercis'd the Salesman's Trade:
 As if She haply had sat down,
 And cut out Cloaths for all the Town;
 Then sent them out to Monmouth-Street,
 To try, what Persons they wou'd fit. 
But ev'ry Free and Licenc'd Taylor
 Would in this Thesis find a Failure. 
Should Whims like these his Head perplex,
 How could he work for either Sex? 
His Cloaths, as Atomes might prevail,
 Might fit a Pismire, or a Whale. 
No, no: He views with studious Pleasure
 Your Shape, before He takes your Measure. 
For real Kate He made the Boddice,
 And not for an Ideal Goddess. 
No Error near his Shop-board lurk'd:
 He knew the Folks for whom He work'd. 
Still to Their Size He aim'd his Skill:
 Else, pr'ythee, who wou'd pay his Bill? 

Next, Dick, if Chance her self shou'd vary;
 Observe, how Matters would miscarry:
 Across your Eyes, Friend, place your Shoes;
 Your Spectacles upon your Toes:
 Then You and Memmius shall agree,
 How nicely Men would walk, or see. 

But Wisdom, peevish and cross-grain'd,
 Must be oppos'd, to be sustain'd. 
And still your Knowledge will increase,
 As You make other People's less. 
In Arms and Science 'tis the same:
 Our Rival's Hurts create our Fame. 
At Faubert's if Disputes arise
 Among the Champions for the Prize;
 To prove, who gave the fairer Butt,
 John shows the Chalk on Robert's Coat. 
So, for the Honor of your Book,
 It tells, where other Folks mistook:
 And, as their Notions You confound,
 Those You invent get farther Ground. 

The Commentators on old Ari-
 stotle ('tis urg'd) in Judgment vary:
 They to their own Conceits have brought
 The Image of his general Thought. 
Just as the Melancholic Eye
 Sees Fleets and Armies in the Sky;
 And to the poor Apprentice Ear
 The Bells sound Whittington Lord May'r. 
The Conj'rer thus explains his Scheme
 Thus Spirits walk, and Prophets dream:
 North Britons thus have Second Sight;
 And Germans free from Gunshot fight. 

Theodoret, and Origen,
 And fifty other Learned Men
 Attest, that if their Comments find
 The Traces of their Master's Mind;
 Alma can ne'er decay nor dye:
 This flatly t'other Sect deny,
 Simplicius, Theophrast, Durand;
 Great Names, but hard in Verse to stand. 
They wonder Men should have mistook
 The Tenets of their Master's Book;
 And hold, that Alma yields her Breath,
 O'ercome by Age, and seiz'd by Death. 
Now which were Wise? and which were Fools? 
Poor Alma sits between two Stools:
 The more She reads, the more perplext;
 The Comment ruining the Text:
 Now fears, now hopes her doubtful Fate:
 But, Richard, let her look to That —
 Whilst We our own Affairs pursue. 

These diff'rent Systems, Old or New,
 A Man with half an Eye may see,
 Were only form'd to disagree. 
Now to bring Things to fair Conclusion,
 And save much Christian Ink's Effusion;
 Let me propose an Healing Scheme,
 And sail along the Middle Stream:
 For, Dick, if We could reconcile
 Old Aristotle with Gassendus;
 How many would admire our Toil;
 And yet how few would comprehend us? 

Here, Richard, let my Scheme commence. 
Oh! may my Words be lost in Sense;
 While pleas'd Thalia deigns to write
 The Slips and Bounds of Alma's Flight. 

My simple System shall suppose,
 That Alma enters at the Toes;
 That then She mounts by just Degrees
 Up to the Ancles, Legs, and Knees:
 Next, as the Sap of Life does rise,
 She lends her Vigor to the Thighs:
 And, all these under-Regions past,
 She nestles somewhere near the Waste:
 Gives Pain or Pleasure, Grief or Laughter;
 As We shall show 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 Head her latest Stage. 

From the Feet upward to the Head;
 Pithy, and short, says Dick: proceed. 

Dick, this is not an idle Notion:
 Observe the Progress of the Motion. 
First I demonstratively prove,
 That Feet were only made to move;
 And Legs desire to come and go:
 For they have nothing else to do. 

Hence, long before the Child can crawl,
 He learns to kick, and wince, and sprawl:
 To hinder which, your Midwife knows
 To bind Those Parts extremely close;
 Lest Alma newly enter'd in,
 And stunn'd at her own Christ'ning's Din,
 Fearful of future Grief and Pain,
 Should silently sneak out again. 
Full piteous seems young Alma's Case:
 As in a luckless Gamester's Place,
 She would not play, yet must not pass. 

Again as She grows something stronger,
 And Master's Feet are swath'd no longer,
 If in the Night too oft He kicks,
 Or shows his Loco-motive Tricks;
 These first Assaults fat Kate repays Him,
 When half asleep She overlays Him. 

Now mark, Dear Richard, from the Age
 That Children tread this Worldly Stage,
 Broom-staff or Poaker they bestride,
 And round the Parlor love to ride;
 'Till thoughtful Father's pious Care
 Provides his Brood, next Smithfield Fair,
 With Supplemental Hobby-Horses:
 And happy be their Infant Courses! 

Hence for some Years they ne'er stand still:
 Their Legs, You see, direct their Will. 
From opening Morn 'till setting Sun,
 A-round the Fields and Woods They run:
 They frisk, and dance, and leap, and play;
 Nor heed, what Friend or Snape can say. 

To Her next Stage as Alma flies,
 And likes, as I have said, the Thighs:
 With Sympathetic Pow'r She warms,
 Their good Allies and Friends, the Arms.
 While Betty dances on the Green;
 And Susan is at Stool-ball seen:
 While John for Nine-pins does declare;
 And Roger loves to pitch the Bar;
 Both Legs and Arms spontaneous move:
 Which was the Thing I meant to prove. 

Another Motion now She makes:
 O need I name the Seat She takes? 
His Thought quite chang'd the Stripling finds;
 The Sport and Race no more He minds:
 Neglected Tray and Pointer lye;
 And Covies unmolested fly. 
Sudden the jocund Plain He leaves;
 And for the Nymph in Secret grieves. 
In dying Accents He complains
 Of cruel Fires, and raging Pains. 
The Nymph too longs to be alone;
 Leaves all the Swains; and sighs for One. 
The Nymph is warm'd with young Desire;
 And feels, and dies to quench His Fire. 
They meet each Evening in the Grove:
 Their Parley but augments their Love. 
So to the Priest their Case They tell:
 He ties the Knot; and all goes well. 

But, O my Muse, just Distance keep:
 Thou art a Maid, and must not peep. 
In nine Months Time the Boddice loose,
 And Petticoats too short, disclose,
 That at This Age the active Mind
 About the Waste lies most confin'd;
 And that young Life, and quick'ning Sense
 Spring from His Influence darted thence. 
So from the Middle of the World
 The Sun's prolifick Rays are hurl'd:
 'Tis from That Seat He darts those Beams,
 Which quicken Earth with genial Flames. 

Dick, who thus long had passive sat,
 Here stroak'd his Chin, and cock'd his Hat;
 Then slapp'd his Hand upon the Board;
 And thus the Youth put in his Word. 
Love's Advocates, sweet Sir, would find Him
 A higher Place, than You assign'd Him. 
Love's Advocates, Dick, who are those? —
 The Poets, You may well suppose. 
I'm sorry, Sir, You have discarded
 The Men, with whom 'till now You herded. 
Prose-Men alone, for private Ends,
 I thought, forsook their ancient Friends. 
In cor stillavit, crys Lucretius;
 If He may be allow'd to teach Us.
 The self-same Thing soft Ovid says
 (A proper Judge in such a Case.) 
Horace his Phrase is torret Jecur;
 And happy was that curious Speaker. 
Here Virgil too has plac'd this Passion:
 What signifies too long Quotation? 
In Ode and Epic plain the Case is,
 That Love holds One of these Two Places. 

Dick, without Passion or Reflection,
 I'll strait 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 Use;
 And, in the Structure of their Feasts,
 They seek to feed, and please their Guests:
 But One may balk this good Intent,
 And take Things otherwise than meant. 
Thus, if You Dine with my Lord May'r,
 Roast-Beef, and Ven'son is your Fare;
 Thence You proceed to Swan, and Bustard,
 And persevere in Tart, and Custard:
 But Tulip-leaves, and Limon-peel
 Help only to adorn the Meal;
 And painted Flags, superb and neat,
 Proclaim You welcome to the Treat. 
The Man of Sense his Meat devours;
 But only smells the Peel, and Flow'rs:
 And He must be an idle Dreamer,
 Who leaves the Pie, and gnaws the Streamer. 

That Cupid goes with Bow and Arrows,
 And Venus keeps her Coach and Sparrows,
 Is all but Emblem, to acquaint One,
 The Son is sharp, the Mother wanton. 
Such Images have sometimes shown
 A Mystic Sense, but oft'ner None. 
For who conceives, what Bards devise,
 That Heav'n is plac'd in Celia's Eyes? 
Or where's the Sense, direct or moral,
 That Teeth are Pearl, or Lips are Coral? 

Your Horace owns, He various writ,
 As wild, or sober Maggots bit:
 And, where too much the Poet ranted,
 The Sage Philosopher recanted. 
His grave Epistles may disprove
 The wanton Odes He made to Love. 

Lucretius keeps a mighty Pother
 With Cupid, and his fancy'd Mother:
 Calls her great Queen of Earth and Air;
 Declares, that Winds and Seas obey Her;
 And, while Her Honor he rehearses,
 Implores Her to inspire his Verses. 

Yet, free from this Poetic Madness;
 Next Page, He says in sober Sadness,
 That She and all her fellow-Gods
 Sit idling in their high Abodes,
 Regardless of this World below,
 Our Health or Hanging, Weal or Woe;
 Nor once disturb their Heav'nly Spirits
 With Scapin's Cheats, or Cæsar's Merits. 

Nor e'er can Latin Poets prove,
 Where lies the real Seat of Love. 
Jecur they burn, and Cor they pierce,
 As either best supplies their Verse:
 And, if Folks ask the Reason for't,
 Say, one was long, and t'other short. 
Thus, I presume, the British Muse,
 May take the Freedom Strangers use. 
In Prose our Property is greater:
 Why should it then be less in Metre? 
If Cupid throws a single Dart;
 We make him wound the Lover's Heart:
 But if He takes his Bow, and Quiver;
 'Tis sure, He must transfix the Liver:
 For Rhime with Reason may dispense;
 And Sound has Right to govern Sense. 

But let your Friends in Verse suppose,
 What ne'er shall be allow'd in Prose:
 Anatomists can make it clear,
 The Liver minds his own Affair:
 Kindly supplies our publick Uses;
 And parts, and strains the Vital Juices:
 Still lays some useful Bile aside,
 To tinge the Chyle's insipid Tide:
 Else We should want both Gibe and Satyr;
 And all be burst with pure Good-nature. 
Now Gall is bitter with a Witness;
 And Love is all Delight and Sweetness. 
My Logic then has lost it's Aim,
 If Sweet and Bitter be the same:
 And He, methinks, is no great Scholar,
 Who can mistake Desire for Choler. 

The like may of the Heart be said:
 Courage and Terror there are bred. 
All those, whose Hearts are loose and low,
 Start, if they hear but the Tattoo:
 And mighty Physical their Fear is:
 For, soon as Noise of Combat near is,
 Their Heart, descending to their Breeches,
 Must give their Stomach cruel twitches. 
But Heroes who o'ercome or dye,
 Have their Hearts hung extremely high;
 The Strings of which, in Battel's Heat,
 Against their very Corslets beat;
 Keep Time with their own Trumpet's Measure;
 And yield 'em most excessive Pleasure. 

Now if 'tis chiefly in the Heart,
 That Courage does it self exert;
 'Twill be prodigious hard to prove,
 That This is eke the Throne of Love. 
Would Nature make One Place the Seat
 Of fond Desire, and fell Debate? 
Must People only take Delight in
 Those Hours, when They are tir'd with Fighting? 
And has no Man, but who has kill'd
 A Father, right to get a Child? 
These Notions then I think but idle:
 And Love shall still possess the Middle. 

This Truth more plainly to discover,
 Suppose your Hero were a Lover. 
Tho' He before had Gall and Rage,
 Which Death, or Conquest must asswage;
 He grows dispirited and low:
 He hates the Fight, and shuns the Foe. 

In scornful Sloth Achilles slept;
 And for his Wench, like Tall-boy, wept:
 Nor would return to War and Slaughter;
 'Till They brought back the Parson's Daughter. 

Antonius fled from Actium's Coast,
 Augustus pressing, Asia lost:
 His Sails by Cupid's Hand unfurl'd,
 To keep the Fair, he gave the World. 

Edward our Fourth, rever'd and crown'd,
 Vig'rous in Youth, in Arms renown'd;
 While England's Voice, and Warwick's Care
 Design'd him Gallia's beauteous Heir;
 Chang'd Peace and Pow'r for Rage and Wars,
 Only to dry One Widow's Tears. 

France's fourth Henry we may see,
 A Servant to the fair d'Estree;
 When quitting Coutras prosp'rous Field,
 And Fortune taught at length to yield,
 He from his Guards and Mid-night Tent,
 Disguis'd o'er Hills and Vallies went,
 To wanton with the sprightly Dame;
 And in his Pleasure lost his Fame. 

Bold is the Critic, who dares prove,
 These Heroes were no Friends to Love;
 And bolder He, who dares aver,
 That they were Enemies to War. 
Yet, when their Thought should, now or never,
 Have rais'd their Heart, or fir'd their Liver;
 Fond Alma to those Parts was gone,
 Which Love more justly calls his own. 

Examples I could cite You more;
 But be contented with these Four:
 For when One's Proofs are aptly chosen;
 Four are as valid as four Dozen. 
One came from Greece, and one from Rome;
 The other Two grew nearer Home. 
For some in Antient Books delight:
 Others prefer what Moderns write:
 Now I should be extremely loath,
 Not to be thought expert in Both. 

THE SECOND CANTO.

But shall we take the Muse abroad,
 To drop her idly on the Road? 
And leave our Subject in the middle;
 As Butler did his Bear and Fiddle? 
Yet He, consummate Master, knew
 When to recede, and where pursue:
 His noble Negligences teach,
 What Others Toils despair to reach. 
He, perfect Dancer, climbs the Rope,
 And balances your Fear and Hope:
 If after some distinguish'd Leap,
 He drops his Pole, and seems to slip;
 Straight gath'ring all his active Strength,
 He rises higher half his Length. 
With Wonder You approve his Slight;
 And owe your Pleasure to your Fright. 
But, like poor Andrew, I advance,
 False Mimic of my Master's Dance:
 A-round the Cord a while I sprawl;
 And thence, tho' low, in earnest fall. 

My Preface tells You, I digress'd:
 He's half absolv'd who has confess'd. 

I like, quoth Dick, your Simile:
 And in Return, take Two from Me. 
As Masters in the Clare-obscure,
 With various Light your Eyes allure:
 A flaming Yellow here They spread;
 Draw off in Blew, or charge in Red:
 Yet from these Colors odly mix'd,
 Your Sight upon the Whole is fix'd. 
Or as, again, your Courtly Dames,
 (Whose Cloaths returning Birth-Day claims,)
 By Arts improve the Stuffs they vary;
 And Things are best, as most contrary. 
The Gown with stiff Embroid'ry shining,
 Looks charming with a slighter Lining:
 The Out-, if Indian Figures stain;
 The In-side must be rich and plain. 
So You, great Authors, have thought fit,
 To make Digression temper Wit:
 When Arguments too fiercely glare;
 You calm 'em with a milder Air:
 To break their Points, You turn their Force;
 And Furbelow the plain Discourse. 

Richard, quoth Mat, these Words of Thine,
 Speak something sly, and something fine:
 But I shall e'en resume my Theme;
 However Thou may'st praise, or blame. 

As People marry now, and settle;
 Fierce Love abates his usual Mettle:
 Worldly Desires, and Household Cares
 Disturb the Godhead's soft Affairs:
 So now, as Health or Temper changes,
 In larger Compass Alma ranges,
 This Day below, the next above;
 As light, or solid Whimsies move. 
So Merchant has his House in Town,
 And Country-Seat near Bansted Down:
 From One he dates his Foreign Letters,
 Sends out his Goods, and duns his Debtors:
 In t'other, at his Hours of Leisure,
 He smokes his Pipe, and takes his Pleasure. 

And now your Matrimonial Cupid,
 Lash'd on by Time, grows tir'd and stupid. 
For Story and Experience tell Us,
 That Man grows cold, and Woman jealous. 
Both would their little Ends secure:
 He sighs for Freedom, She for Pow'r. 
His Wishes tend abroad to roam;
 And Her's, to domineer at Home. 
Thus Passion flags by slow Degrees;
 And ruffl'd more, delighted less,
 The busy Mind does seldom go
 To those once charming Seats below:
 But, in the Breast incamp'd, prepares
 For well-bred Feints, and future Wars. 
The Man suspects his Lady's crying
 (When he last Autumn lay a-dying)
 Was but to gain him to appoint Her
 By Codicil a larger Jointure. 
The Woman finds it all a Trick,
 That He could swoon, when She was sick;
 And knows, that in That Grief he reckon'd
 On black-ey'd Susan for his Second. 

Thus having strove some tedious Years
 With feign'd Desires, and real Fears;
 And tir'd with Answers, and Replies,
 Of John affirms, and Martha lies;
 Leaving this endless Altercation,
 The Mind affects a higher Station. 

Poltis, that gen'rous King of Thrace,
 I think, was in this very Case. 
All Asia now was by the Ears:
 And Gods beat up for Voluntiers
 To Greece, and Troy; while Poltis sat
 In Quiet, governing his State. 
And whence, said the Pacific King,
 Does all this Noise, and Discord spring? 
Why, Paris took Atrides' Wife —
 With Ease I could compose this Strife:
 The injur'd Hero should not lose,
 Nor the young Lover want a Spouse:
 But Helen chang'd her first Condition,
 Without her Husband's just Permission. 
What from the Dame can Paris hope? 
She may as well from Him elope. 
Again, how can her old Good-man
 With Honor take Her back again? 
From hence I logically gather,
 The Woman cannot live with Either. 
Now I have Two right honest Wives,
 For whose Possession No Man strives:
 One to Atrides I will send;
 And t'other to my Trojan Friend. 
Each Prince shall thus with Honor have,
 What Both so warmly seem to crave:
 The Wrath of Gods and Man shall cease;
 And Poltis live and die in Peace. 

Dick, if this Story pleaseth Thee,
 Pray thank Dan Pope, who told it Me. 

Howe'er swift Alma's Flight may vary;
 (Take this by way of Corollary:)
 Some Limbs She finds the very same,
 In Place, and Dignity, and Name:
 These dwell at such convenient Distance,
 That each may give his Friend Assistance. 
Thus He who runs or dances, begs
 The equal Vigor of Two Legs:
 So much to both does Alma trust,
 She ne'er regards, which goes the first. 
Teague could make neither of them stay,
 When with Himself he ran away. 
The Man who struggles in the Fight,
 Fatigues left Arm, as well as right:
 For whilst one Hand exalts the Blow,
 And on the Earth extends the Foe;
 T'other would take it wond'rous ill,
 If in your Pocket He lay still. 
And when you shoot, and shut one Eye,
 You cannot think, He would deny
 To lend the t'other friendly Aid,
 Or wink, as Coward, and affraid. 
No, Sir; whilst He withdraws his Flame,
 His Comrade takes the surer Aim. 
One Moment if his Beams recede;
 As soon as e'er the Bird is dead,
 Opening again, He lays his Claim,
 To half the Profit, half the Fame,
 And helps to Pocket up the Game. 
'Tis thus, One Tradesman slips away,
 To give his Part'ner fairer Play. 

Some Limbs again in Bulk or Stature
 Unlike, and not a-kin by Nature,
 In Concert act, like modern Friends;
 Because one serves the t'other's Ends.
 The Arm thus waits upon the Heart,
 So quick to take the Bully's Part,
 That one, tho' warm, decides more slow,
 Than t'other executes the Blow. 
A Stander-by may chance to have it,
 E'er Hack himself perceives, He gave it. 

The am'rous Eyes thus always go
 A-stroling for their Friends below:
 For long before the 'Squire and Dame
 Have tête à tête reliev'd their Flame;
 E'er Visits yet are brought about,
 The Eye by Sympathy looks out;
 Knows Florimel, and longs to meet Her;
 And, if He sees, is sure to greet Her,
 Tho' at Sash-Window, on the Stairs,
 At Court, nay (Authors say) at Pray'rs. —

The Funeral of some valiant Knight
 May give this Thing it's proper Light. 
View his Two Gantlets: these declare,
 That Both his Hands were us'd to War. 
And from his Two gilt Spurs 'tis learn'd,
 His Feet were equally concern'd. 
But have You not with Thought beheld
 The Sword hang dangling o'er the Shield? 
Which shows the Breast, That Plate was us'd to,
 Had an Ally right Arm to trust to. 
And by the Peep-holes in his Crest,
 Is it not virtually confest,
 That there his Eye took distant Aim,
 And glanc'd Respect to that bright Dame,
 In whose Delight his Hope was center'd,
 And for whose Glove his Life he ventur'd? 

Objections to my general System
 May 'rise, perhaps, and I have mist them:
 But I can call to my Assistance
 Proximity (mark that!) and Distance:
 Can prove, that all Things, on Occasion,
 Love Union, and desire Adhesion;
 That Alma merely is a Scale;
 And Motives, like the Weights, prevail. 
If neither Side turn down or up,
 With Loss or Gain, with Fear or Hope;
 The Balance always would hang ev'n,
 Like Mah'met's Tomb, 'twixt Earth and Heav'n. 

This, Richard, is a curious Case:
 Suppose your Eyes sent equal Rays
 Upon two distant Pots of Ale,
 Not knowing, which was Mild or Stale:
 In this sad State your doubtful Choice
 Would never have the casting Voice:
 Which Best, or Worst, You could not think;
 And die You must, for want of Drink:
 Unless some Chance inclines your Sight,
 Setting one Pot in fairer Light;
 Then You prefer or A, or B,
 As Lines and Angles best agree:
 Your Sense resolv'd impells your Will;
 She guides your Hand, — So drink your Fill. 

Have you not seen a Baker's Maid
 Between two equal Panniers sway'd? 
Her Tallies useless lie, and idle,
 If plac'd exactly in the Middle:
 But forc'd from this unactive State,
 By virtue of some casual Weight;
 On either Side You hear 'em clatter,
 And judge of right and left-hand Matter. 

Now, Richard, this coercive Force,
 Without your Choice, must take it's Course. 
Great Kings to Wars are pointed forth,
 Like loaded Needles to the North. 
And Thou and I, by Pow'r unseen,
 Are barely Passive, and suck'd in
 To Henault's Vaults, or Celia's Chamber,
 As Straw and Paper are by Amber. 
If we sit down to play or set
 (Suppose at Ombre or Basset)
 Let People call us Cheats, or Fools;
 Our Cards and We are equal Tools. 
We sure in vain the Cards condemn:
 Our selves both cut and shuffl'd them. 
In vain on Fortune's Aid rely:
 She only is a Stander-by. 
Poor Men! poor Papers! We and They
 Do some impulsive Force obey;
 And are but play'd with: — Do not play. 
But Space and Matter we should blame:
 They palm'd the Trick that lost the Game. 

Thus to save further Contradiction,
 Against what You may think but Fiction;
 I for Attraction, Dick, declare:
 Deny it those bold Men that dare. 
As well your Motion, as your Thought
 Is all by hidden Impulse wrought:
 Ev'n saying, that You Think or Walk,
 How like a Country 'Squire you talk? 

Mark then; — Where Fancy or Desire
 Collects the Beams of Vital Fire;
 Into that Limb fair Alma slides,
 And there, pro tempore, resides. 
She dwells in Nicholini's Tongue,
 When Pyrrhus chants the Heav'nly Song. 
When Pedro does the Lute command,
 She guides the cunning Artist's Hand. 
Thro' Macer's Gullet she runs down,
 When the vile Glutton dines alone. 
And void of Modesty and Thought,
 She follows Bibo's endless Draught. 
Thro' the soft Sex again She ranges;
 As Youth, Caprice, or Fashion changes. 
Fair Alma careless and serene,
 In Fanny's sprightly Eyes is seen;
 While they diffuse their Infant Beams,
 Themselves not conscious of their Flames. 
Again fair Alma sits confest,
 On Florimel's experter Breast;
 When She the rising Sigh constrains,
 And by concealing speaks her Pains. 
In Cynthia's Neck fair Alma glows;
 When the vain Thing her Jewels shows:
 When Jenny's Stays are newly lac'd,
 Fair Alma plays about her Waste;
 And when the swelling Hoop sustains
 The rich Brocard, fair Alma deigns
 Into that lower Space to enter,
 Of the large Round, Her self the Center. 

Again: That Single Limb or Feature
 (Such is the cogent Force of Nature)
 Which most did Alma's Passion move,
 In the first Object of her Love,
 For ever will be found confest,
 And printed on the am'rous Breast. 

O Abelard, ill-fated Youth,
 Thy Tale will justify this Truth:
 But well I weet, thy cruel Wrong
 Adorns a nobler Poet's Song. 
Dan Pope for thy Misfortune griev'd,
 With kind Concern, and Skill has weav'd
 A silken Web; and ne'er shall fade
 It's Colors: gently has He laid
 The Mantle o'er thy sad Distress:
 And Venus shall the Texture bless. 
He o'er the weeping Nun has drawn,
 Such artful Folds of Sacred Lawn,
 That Love with equal Grief and Pride,
 Shall see the Crime, He strives to hide:
 And softly drawing back the Veil,
 The God shall to his Vot'ries tell
 Each conscious Tear, each blushing Grace,
 That deck'd Dear Eloisa's Face. 

Happy the Poet, blest the Lays,
 Which Buckingham has deign'd to praise. 

Next, Dick, as Youth and Habit sways,
 A hundred Gambols Alma plays. 
If, whilst a Boy, Jack run from Schole,
 Fond of his Hunting-horn, and Pole;
 Tho' Gout and Age his Speed detain,
 Old John halloo's his Hounds again. 
By his Fire-side he starts the Hare;
 And turns Her in his Wicker-Chair:
 His Feet, however lame, You find,
 Have got the better of his Mind. 

If while the Mind was in her Leg,
 The Dance affected nimble Peg;
 Old Madge, bewitch'd at Sixty one,
 Calls for Green Sleeves, and Jumping Joan. 
In public Mask, or private Ball,
 From Lincoln's Inn, to Goldsmith's Hall,
 All Christmas long away She trudges;
 Trips it with Prentices and Judges:
 In vain her Children urge her Stay;
 And Age or Palsey bar the Way. 
But if those Images prevail,
 Which whilom did affect the Tail;
 She still reviews the ancient Scene;
 Forgets the forty Years between:
 Awkwardly gay, and odly merry,
 Her Scarf pale Pink, her Head-Knot Cherry;
 O'er heated with Ideal Rage,
 She cheats her Son, to wed her Page. 

If Alma, whilst the Man was young,
 Slip'd up too soon into his Tongue:
 Pleas'd with his own fantastic Skill,
 He lets that Weapon ne'er lie still. 
On any Point if You dispute;
 Depend upon it, He'll confute:
 Change Sides; and You increase your Pain:
 For He'll confute You back again. 
For One may speak with Tully's Tongue;
 Yet all the while be in the wrong. 
And 'tis remarkable, that They
 Talk most, who have the least to say. 
Your dainty Speakers have the Curse,
 To plead bad Causes down to worse:
 As Dames, who Native Beauty want,
 Still uglier look, the more They paint. 

Again: If in the Female Sex
 Alma should on this Member fix;
 (A cruel and a desp'rate Case,
 From which Heav'n shield my lovely Lass!) 
For evermore all Care is vain,
 That would bring Alma down again. 
As in habitual Gout, or Stone,
 The only Thing that can be done,
 Is to correct your Drink and Diet,
 And keep the inward Foe in Quiet:
 So, if for any Sins of Our's,
 Or our Forefathers, Higher Pow'rs,
 Severe tho' just, afflict our Life
 With that Prime Ill, a talking Wife;
 'Till Death shall bring the kind Relief,
 We must be Patient, or be Deaf. 

You know, a certain Lady, Dick,
 Who saw Me, when I last was sick:
 She kindly talk'd, at least three Hours,
 Of Plastic Forms, and Mental Pow'rs:
 Describ'd our pre-existing Station,
 Before this vile Terrene Creation:
 And lest I should be weary'd, Madam,
 To cut Things short, came down to Adam;
 From whence, as fast as She was able,
 She drowns the World, and builds up Babel;
 Thro' Syria, Persia, Greece She goes;
 And takes the Romans in the Close. 

But We'll descant on gen'ral Nature:
 This is a System, not a Satyr. 

Turn We this Globe; and let Us see,
 How diff'rent Nations disagree,
 In what We wear, or eat and drink;
 Nay, Dick, perhaps in what We think. 
In Water as You smell and tast
 The Soyls, thro' which it rose and past:
 In Alma's Manners You may read
 The Place, where She was born and bred. 

One People from their swadling Bands
 Releas'd their Infants Feet and Hands:
 Here Alma to these Limbs was brought;
 And Sparta's Offspring kick'd and fought. 

Another taught their Babes to talk,
 E'er they could yet in Goe-carts walk:
 There Alma settl'd in the Tongue;
 And Orators from Athens sprung. 

Observe but in these Neighb'ring Lands,
 The diff'rent Use of Mouths and Hands:
 As Men repos'd their various Hopes,
 In Battles These, and Those in Tropes. 

In Britain's Isles, as Heylyn notes,
 The Ladies trip in Petticoats;
 Which, for the Honor of their Nation,
 They quit but on some great Occasion. 
Men there in Breeches clad You view:
 They claim that Garment, as their due. 
In Turkey the Reverse appears;
 Long Coats the haughty Husband wears,
 And greets His Wife with angry Speeches;
 If She be seen without her Breeches. 

In our Fantastic Climes the Fair
 With cleanly Powder dry their Hair:
 And round their lovely Breast and Head
 Fresh Flow'rs their mingl'd Odors shed. 
Your nicer Hottentotes think meet
 With Guts and Tripe to deck their Feet:
 With down-cast Looks on Totta's Legs,
 The ogling Youth most humbly begs,
 She would not from his Hopes remove
 At once his Breakfast, and his Love:
 And if the skittish Nymph should fly;
 He in a double Sense must die. 

We simple Toasters take Delight
 To see our Women's Teeth look white. 
And ev'ry saucy ill-bred Fellow
 Sneers at a Mouth profoundly yellow. 
In China none hold Women sweet,
 Except their Snags are black as Jett. 
King Chihu put Nine Queens to Death,
 Convict on Statute, Iv'ry Teeth. 

At Tonquin if a Prince should die;
 (As Jesuits write, who never lye)
 The Wife, and Counsellor, and Priest,
 Who serv'd Him most, and lov'd Him best;
 Prepare, and light his Fun'ral Fire,
 And chearful on the Pile expire. 
In Europe 'twould be hard to find
 In 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 excells in Birth, or State;
 His Oylet-holes are more, and ampler:
 The King's own Body was a Samplar. 
Happy the Climate, where the Beau
 Wears the same Suit for Use, and Show:
 And at a small Expence your Wife,
 If once well pink'd, is cloth'd for 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 diff'rent Ways of Breeding:
 Begin We in our Children's Reading. 
To Master John the English Maid
 A Horn-book gives of Ginger-bread:
 And that the Child may learn the better,
 As He can name, He eats 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 e'er 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 unmoore,
 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, compells
 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 sprinkl'd 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 Christendome. 
Choose then, good Pope, at Home to stay;
 Nor Westward curious take Thy Way. 
Thy Way unhappy should'st Thou take
 From Tiber'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. 

But need We, Friend, insist on This? 
Since in the very Cantons 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. 

Here with an artful Smile, quoth Dick,
 Your Proofs come mighty full, and thick —

The Bard on this extensive Chapter,
 Wound up into Poetic Rapture,
 Continu'd: 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 Spight, and Death. 

THE THIRD CANTO.

Richard, who now was half a-sleep,
 Rous'd; nor would longer Silence keep:
 And Sense like this, in vocal Breath
 Broke from his twofold 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 am'rous Blades,
 Who trifle with their Mother's Maids;
 Tho' 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 flatt'ring 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 gratifie 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
 Thro' 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 list'ning Scholars stand,
 Their Mouth still cover'd with their Hand:
 Else, may be, some odd-thinking Youth,
 Less Friend to Doctrine than to Truth,
 Might have refus'd to let his Ears
 Attend the Musick 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 odly 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 pow'rful 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 Her self should see, or feel? 
She doubts, if two and two make four;
 Tho' 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 Syllogysm 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 He comprehended:
 Thus the Dispute is wisely ended. 

From the Account the Loser brings,
 The Conj'ror knows, who stole the Things. 

 'squire (interrupted Dick) since when
 Were You amongst these Cunning-Men? 

Dear Dick, quoth Mat, let not Thy Force
 Of Eloquence spoil my Discourse. 
I tell Thee, this is Alma's Case,
 Still asking, what some Wise-man says,
 Who does his Mind in Words reveal,
 Which All must grant; tho' 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 Scrawl, the Dose the better. 
For if You knew but what You take;
 Tho' You recover, He must break. 

Ideas, Forms, and Intellects,
 Have furnish'd out three diff'rent 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 Scholes,
 Majority of Voices rules. 

Poor Alma, like a lonely Deer,
 O'er Hills and Dales does doubtful err:
 With panting Haste, and quick Surprise,
 From ev'ry Leaf that stirs, She flies;
 'Till mingl'd with the neighb'ring 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;
 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, tho' They teach not, can protect. 
Right, Richard, MAT. in Triumph cri'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. 
The Man 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 hobling Prose. 
Attend, Dear Dick; but don't reply:
 And Thou may'st prove as Wise as I. 

When Alma now in diff'rent 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 Lab'rinths 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 t'other's Place to get;
 And with incessant Toil and Strife,
 Would keep Possession during Life. 
I could demonstrate every Pore,
 Where Mem'ry 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 Action vary,
 To go and come, to fetch and carry:
 Each still renews her little Labor;
 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! 

My Head, quoth Dick, to serve your Whim? 
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 dye
 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 make Us either stout, or wise:
 The Strength of ev'ry 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 Biass rules the Bowl. 
That great Achilles might imploy
 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 t'other Way:
 The Youngster, who at Nine and Three
 Drinks with his Sisters Milk and Tea,
 From Break-fast reads, 'till twelve a Clock,
 Burnet and Heylyn, Hobbes and Lock:
 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 Milk-sop He starts up Moback:
 Holds that the Happy know no Hours;
 So thro' the Street at Midnight scow'rs:
 Breaks Watch-men's Heads, and Chair-men'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 Foot-man, 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-Gruel? 
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:
 And Both, as They Provisions want,
 Chicane, avoid, retire, and faint. 

Hunger and Thirst, or Guns and Swords,
 Give the same Death in diff'rent Words. 
To push this Argument no further;
 To starve a Man, in Law, is Murther. 

As in a Watche's fine Machine,
 Tho' many artful Springs are seen;
 The added Movements, which declare,
 How full the Moon, how old the Year,
 Derive their secondary Pow'r
 From that, which simply points the Hour. 
For, tho' these 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 Orbite 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 a Clock. 
If You take off his Rhet'ric-Trigger;
 He talks no more in Mood 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 were gone;
 Your Clock, tho' plain, would still go on:
 But spoil the Engine of Digestion;
 And You entirely change the Question. 
Alma's Affairs no Pow'r can mend;
 The Jest, alas! is at an End:
 Soon ceases all this worldly Bustle;
 And you consign the Corps 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 Horses, Clocks, and Watches,
 Quoth Mat, to Me thou seem'st to mean,
 That Alma is a mere Machine;
 That telling others what's a Clock,
 She knows not what Her self has struck;
 But leaves to Standers-by the Tryal,
 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 much describe; they nothing prove. 

Mat, who was here a little gravel'd,
 Tost up his Nose, and would have cavil'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 'em out. 

Friend Richard, I begin to see,
 That You and I shall scarce agree. 
Observe how odly 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 Leibnits did with Clark;
 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 it's 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 Malbranch 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 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 spight of Wh—n 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 Hair grows white, our Teeth grow black? 
In Points like These We must agree,
 Our Barber knows as much as We. 
Yet still unable to explain,
 We must persist the best We can;
 With Care our Systems still renew,
 And prove Things likely, tho' not true. 

I could, Thou see'st, 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 Candor 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 Shoar;
 Yet still put'st in Thy thwarting Oar. 
What I have told Thee fifty times
 In Prose, receive for once in Rhimes:
 A huge fat Man in Countrey-Fair,
 Or City-Church, (no matter where)
 Labor'd and push'd amidst the Croud,
 Still bauling out extremely loud;
 Lord save Us! why do People press? 
Another marking his Distress,
 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 Croud 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 Sour-tout You wear,
 Repells the Rigor 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 Tryal
 Of a Sonata on his Viol,
 Unless he had the total Gut,
 Whence every String at first was cut? 

When Rarus shows You his Carton;
 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 Enquiries did He make,
 To get one Medal wanting yet,
 And perfect all his Roman Sett? 
'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 Odes too many show Ye,
 My servile Complaisance to Cloe. 
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 Flow'r, a Root,
 A Shell, a Butter-fly can do't. 
Ev'n a Romance, a Tune, a Rhime
 Help Thee to pass the tedious Time,
 Which else would on thy Hand remain:
 Tho' 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 Her self 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 use:
 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 Hypocrisie to Pride,
 Doubling the Faults, We strive to hide. 
Or grant, that with extreme Surprize,
 We find our selves 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;
 The Bede-roll of her vicious Tricks;
 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 discrete and wise,
 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;
 Stun'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;
 Thro' 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 compleat:
 Or should We mix our friendly Talk,
 O'er-shaded in that Fav'rite 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, e'er 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 Hast 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 Fav'rite Books and Pictures sell
 To Smart, or Doiley by the Ell? 
Kindly throw in a little Figure,
 And set their Price upon the bigger? 
Those who could never read their 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 Ballance, Otho's Head
 May be thrown in; And for the Mettle,
 The Coin may mend a Tinker's Kettle —

Tir'd with these Thoughts — Less tir'd than I,
 Quoth Dick, with Your Philosophy —
 That People live and dye, I knew
 An hour ago, as well as You. 
And if Fate spins Us longer Years,
 Or is in haste to take the Shears;
 I know, We must Both Fortunes try,
 And bear our Evils, wet or dry. 
Yet let the Goddess smile, or frown;
 Bread We shall eat, or white, or brown:
 And in a Cottage, or a Court,
 Drink fine Champaigne, or muddl'd Port. 
What need of Books these Truths to tell,
 Which Folks perceive, who cannot spell? 
And must We Spectacles apply,
 To view, what hurts our naked Eye? 

Sir, if it be Your Wisdom's Aim,
 To make Me merrier than I am;
 I'll be all Night at Your Devotion —
 Come on, Friend; broach the pleasing Notion:
 But if You would depress my Thought;
 Your System is not worth a Groat —

For Plato's Fancies what care I? 
I hope You would not have me die,
 Like simple Cato in the Play,
 For any Thing that He can say? 
E'en let Him of Ideas speak
 To Heathens in his Native Greek. 
If to be sad is to be wise;
 I do most heartily despise
 Whatever Socrates has said,
 Or Tully writ, or Wanley read. 

Dear Drift, to set our Matters right,
 Remove these Papers from my Sight;
 Burn Mat's Des-cart', and Aristotle:
 Here, Jonathan, Your Master's Bottle.