That we by guefs, at least, may gather
Something, which may be both, or neither.

Faith, Dick, I must 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 by-ends, to cross-bite wit,
Circles to fquare, and cubes to double,
Would give a man excessive trouble 3010.
The longitude uncertain roams,
In spite of Whifton and his bombs.
What fyftem, 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
In points like thefe, we must agree,
Our barbers know as much as we.
Yet ftill unable to explain,

black?

We must perfift the best we can :) dal
With care our fyftems ftill renew,

And prove things likely, tho' not true.

I could, thou fee'ft, in quaint difpute,

By dint of Logic, ftrike thee mute;).tr.
With learned skill, now push, now parrylla : 4
From Darii to Bocardo vary, * }} is d val
And never yield, or what is worft,
Never conclude the point difcours d.
Yet, that you hic & nunc may know,
How much you to my candor owe;© Gugiaka 10

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 fyftem more complete:
Dick, can it have a nobler fate?
Take what thou wilt, faid Dick, dear friend;
But bring thy matters to an end.

1

I find, quoth Mat, reproof is vain :
Who firft offend, will firft complain.
Thou wifheft, I fhould make to fhoar;
Yet ftill put'ft in thy thwarting oar.
What I have told thee fifty times
In profe, receive for once in rhimes:
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church, (no matter where)
Labour'd and push'd amidst the croud,
Still bauling 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 very croud you blame.
Says Dick, your moral does not need
The leaft return; fo 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

Now Alma fettles in the head,
As has before been fung, or faid :-
And here begins this farce of life,
Enter Revenge, Ambition, Strife:
Behold on both fides men advance,
To form in earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avare, not ufing half his ftore,
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 forrow,
And dread of fancied want to-morrow.
Abroad if the Sur-tout you wear.
Repels the rigour of the air;

Would you be warmer, if at home
You had the fabric, and the loom;
And if two boots keep out the weather,
What need you have two hides of leather??
Could Pedro, think you, make no trial.
Of a Sonata on his viol,

Unless he had the total gut

Whence ev'ry ftring at first 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 honest Curio take;
What ftrict enquiries 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 speak;
He now begins upon the Greek;

These rang'd and fhown, 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 trifles I alike pursue;

Because they're old, because they're new."
Dick, I have feen you with delight,

For Georgy make a paper-kite.

And fimple odes too many, fhow ye,
My fervile complaifance to Cloe.
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 fling:

Thy

Thy pride of being great and wife,
I do but mention, to defpife,
I view with anger and difdain,
How little gives thee joy or pain:
A print, a bronze, a flow'r, a root,
A fhell, a butterfly can do't.

Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhime,
Help thee to pafs the tedious time,
Which elfe would on thy hand remain :
Tho' flown, it ne'er looks back again.
And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To eafe the pain of coward thought.
Happy refult of human wit!

That Alma may herself forget..

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 fhall be.
We err by ufe, go wrong by rules,
In gesture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocrify to pride,
Doubling the faults we strive to hide.
Or grant, that with extreme furprize,
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