But have you not with thought beheld
The fword 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 creft,
Is it not virtually confeft,
That there his eyes took diftant aim,
And glanc'd refpect to that bright dame,
In whofe delight his hope was center'd,
And for whofe glove his life he ventur'd ?
Objections to my general fyftem
May rife, perhaps; and I have mift them:
But I can call to my affiftance
Proximity (mark that!) and distance:
Can prove, that all things, on occafion,
Love union, and defire adhesion;
That Alma merely is a scale;
And motives, like the weights, prevail.
If neither fide turn down or up,
With lofs 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 cafe :
Suppofe your eyes fent equal rays
Upon two diftant pots of ale,
Not knowing which was mild, or ftale:
In this fad state your doubtful choice
Would never have the casting voice:
Which beft or worst you could not think;
And die you muft, for want of drink;
Unless fome chance inclines your fight,
Setting one pot in fairer light;
Then you prefer or A, or B,
As lines and angles best agree:
Your fenfe refolv'd impells your will:
She guides your hand,So drink your fill.
Have you not feen a baker's maid
Between two equal panniers fway'd;
Her tallies useless lie, and idle,
If plac'd exactly in the middle :
But forc'd from this unactive state,.
By virtue of fome cafual weight;
On either fide you hear 'em clatter,
And judge of right and left-hand matter.
Now, Richard, this coercive force,
Without your choice, muft take its course.
Great kings to wars are pointed forth,
Like loaded needles to the north:
And thou and I, by pow'r unfeen,
Are barely paffive, and fuck'd in
To Henault's vaults, or Celia's chamber,
As ftraw and paper are by amber.
If we fit down to play or fet
(Suppofe at Ombre or Baffet)
Let people call us cheats or fools ;-
Our cards and we are equal tools.
We fure in vain the cards condemn :
Ourselves both cut and fhuffle them.
In vain on Fortune's aid rely:
She only is a ftander-by.
Poor men! poor papers! we and they
Do fome impulfive force obey:
And are but play'd with—do not play.
But space and matter we fhou'd blame;
They palm'd the trick that loft the game.
Thus, to fave further contradi&tion
Against what you may think but fiction;
I for attraction, Dick, declare :
Deny it thofe bold men that dare.
As well your motion, as your thought,
Is all by hidden impulfe wrought:
Ev'n faying, that you think or walk,
How like a country 'fquire you talk!
Mark then; -Where fancy or defire
Collects the beams of vital fire,
Into that limb fair Alma flides,
And there, pro tempore, refides.
She dwells in Nicholini's tongue,
When Pyrrhus chants. the heav'nly fong.
When Pedro does the lute command, T
She guides the cunning artift's hand.
'Thro' Macer's gullet fhe runs down,
When the vile glutton dines alone:
And, void of modefty and thought,
She follow's Bibo's endless draught.
Thro' the foft fex again fhe ranges,
As youth, caprice, or fashion changes.
Fair Alma, carelefs and ferene,
In Fanny's fprightly eyes is feen,
While they diffuse their infant beams,
Themfelves not confcious of their flames.
Again fair Alma fits confeft
On Florimel's experter breaft;
When the the rifing figh conftrains,
And, by concealing, fpeaks her pains.
In Cynthia's neck fair Alma glows,
When the vain thing her jewels shows :
When Jenny's ftays are newly lac'd,
Fair Alma plays about her waist;
And, when the fwelling hoop fuftains
The rich brocade, fair Alma deigns.
Into that lower sphere to enter,
Of the large round, herself the centre.
Again that fingle limb or feature
(Such is the cogent force of nature)
Which most did Alma's paffion move,
In the first object of her love,
For ever will be found confeft,
And printed on the am'rous breast.
O Abelard, ill-fated youth,
Thy tale will justify this truth:
But well I weet, that cruel wrong
Adorns a nobler poet's fong.
Dan Pope for thy misfortune griev'd;
With kind concern and skill has weav'd
A filken web; and ne'er fhall fade
Its colours, gently as he laid
The mantle o'er thy fad diftrefs;
And Venus fhall the texture blefs.
He o'er the weeping nun has drawn
Such artful folds of facred lawn,
That love, with equal grief and pride,
Shall fee the crime he strives to hide;
And, foftly drawing back the veil,
The god fhall to his vot'ries tell
Each conscious tear, each blushing grace,
That deck'd dear Eloifa's face.
Happy the poet, blefs'd the lays,
That Buckingham has deign'd to praise.
Next, Dick, as youth and habit fways,
A hundred gambols Alma plays.
If, whilft a boy, Jack ran from school,
Fond of his hunting-horn, and pole;
Tho' gout and age his fpeed detain,
Old John halloos his hounds again;
By his fire-fide 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 fixty-one,
Calls for Green Sleeves, and Jumping Joan.
In public mask, or private ball,
From Lincoln's-inn, to Goldfmiths-hall,
All Christmass long away fhe trudges;
Trips it with 'prentices, and judges:
In vain her children urge her stay,
And age or palfey bar the way.
But if thofe images prevail,
Which whilom did affect the tail,
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