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By head and shoulders bring in a stick,
To fhew' 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 fo 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 Aights,
Nor courtly Flaccus's rebukes, i
Who banters vice with friendly jokes,
Nor Congreve's life, nor Cowley's fire, i '
Nor all the beauties that conspire
To place the greenest bays upon
Th’immortal brows of Addison;


Prior's inimitable case,
Nor Pope's harmonious numbers please ;
Homer indeed (for critics shew it)
Was both philosopher, and poet,
But' tedious philofophic chapters
Quite stifle my poetic raptures,
And I to Phæbus 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 folv'd by a's, and b's ;
Our eye-light is difprov'd by prisms,
Our arguments by fyllogifms.
If I should confidently write
This ink is black, this paper white,
Or, to express myself yet fuller,
Should say that black, or white's a colours
They'd contradict it, and perplex one
With motion, rays, and their reflexion,



And solve th' apparent falsehood bý.
The curious texture of the eye.
Should 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 fatly 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 found,
The salts, and juices in all meat.. .
Affect the tongues of them that eat,
And by some fecret poignant power
Give them the taste of sweet, and four.
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 fings,
Or Gethring tunes the trembling ftrings,
Or when the trumpet's brisk alarms
Call forth the cheerful youth to arms,


Convey'd through undulating air
The inusic'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, ni
Might whirl his prison off his back;
Or like a maggot in a nut

Full bravely eat his paffage out.
Who knows what vaft discoveries renon -
From, such inquiries "might arise ?
But feuds, and tumults in the nation ...!
Disturb such curious speculation. ...invi?
Cambridge from furious broils of state, :..
Foresees her near-approaching fate; ' ,?? ?
Her surest patrons are remov'd, 6 . c. .com
And her triumphant foes approvd: * i ..."

No more ! this due to friendship také, "-. Not idly writ for writing's fake;'.

ise ?


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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 rhymes to make you easy,
And his invention strains to please you,
To fhew his friendship cracks his brains,
Sure is a mad-man if he feigns.

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W H AT self-sufficiency and false content.

Benumb the senses of the indolent !
Dead to all purposes of good, or ill,
Alive alone in an unactive will.
His only vice in no good a£tion lies,..
And his sole virtue is his want of vice.
Business he deems too hard, trifles too easy,
And doing nothing finds himself too busy.
Silence he cannot bear, noise is distraction,
Noise kills with bustle, silence with reflection ;
No want he feels, - what has he to pursue ?
To him 'tis less to suffer, than to 'de,



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