Canto III

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, farther 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 Adepts 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 Pi a 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 Memory lays up all her Store ;
And to an Inch compute the Station,
'Twixt Judgment, and Imagination.
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 ;

1 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 Mohack :
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 Rhetoric-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 Darn 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 hauling 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 adl: ; 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.