The longitude uncertain roams,
In fpite of Whifton and his bombs.
What system, Dick, has right averr'd
The cause why woman has no beard?
Or why, as years our frame attack,

grow

Our hairs grow white, our teeth
In points like thefe, we must agree,
Our barbers know as much as we.

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black?

Yet ftill, unable to explain,

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We must perfift the best we can ;

With care our systems still renew;

And prove things likely, though not true.
I could, thou fee'ft, in quaint difpute,

By dint of logic, ftrike thee mute;

380

With learned skill, now push, now parry,

From Darii to Bocardo vary,

And never yield; or, what is worst,

Never conclude the point difcours'd.
Yet, that you hic & nunc may know,
How much you to my candour owe,
I'll from the difputant defcend,
To fhew thee, I affume the friend:
I'll take thy notion for my own →
(So most 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.

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390

I find, quoth Mat, reproof is vain :

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Who first offend will first complain.

Thou

Thou wifheft I fhould make to fhore;
Yet ftill putt'ft in thy thwarting oar.
What I have told thee fifty times
In profe, receive for once in rhymes :
A huge fat man in country-fair,
Or city-church (no matter where),
Labour'd and push'd amidst the croud,
Still bawling out extremely loud,
Lord fave us why do people prefs!
Another, marking his diftrefs,
Friendly reply'd, Plump gentleman,
Get out as faft as e'er you can;
Or ceafe to push, or to exclaim:
You make the very croud you blame.

Says Dick, Your moral does not need
The least 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 magifterial, thus went on.

Now, Alma fettles in the head; As has before been fung, or faid: And here begins this farce of life; Enter revenge, ambition, ftrife: 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

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405

410

415

420

425

The vintage fhould be bad next year;

VOL. II.

G

And

And eats to-day with inward forrow,

And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the furtout you wear
Repels the rigour of the air;
Would you be warmer, if at home

430

You had the fabric and the loom ?

And, if two boots keep out the weather,

'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot:

Of these no more you hear him speak :

He now begins upon the Greek.

Thefe, rang'd and fhew'd, fhall in their turns 455 Remain obfcure as in their urns.

My

My copper-lamps at any rate,

For being true antique, I bought;

Yet wifely melted down my plate,

On modern models to be wrought:

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And trifles I alike pursue,

Because they 're old, because they're new.

Quoth Dick: fuch truths are worth receiving.
Yet ftill Dick look'd as not believing.

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Now, Alma, to divines and profe

I leave thy frauds, and crimes, and woes;

Nor think to-night of thy ill-nature,

Which elfe would on thy hand remain ;
Though, flown, it ne'er looks back again;
And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To cafe 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 ufe :
And t'other fondly hopes to fee
What never was, nor e'er fhall be.
We err by use, 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 I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd fenfe, her fond conceit,
The bead-roll of her vicious tricks;
My Poem will be too prolix.

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490

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500

505

510

For, could I my remarks fuftain,

Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne;

Who in thefe times would read my books,

But Tom o'Stiles, or John o'Nokes ?

As