Befides, you promis'd me Three Warnings,
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings!
But for that lofs of time and ease,

• I can recover damages.'

• I know,' cries Death,

that, at the best,

• I feldom am a welcome guest ;

But don't be captious, friend, at leaft; • I little thought you'd still be able

To ftump about your farm and stable; • Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, tho', of your ftrength!' 'Hold,' fays the farmer; not so fast, • I have been lame thefe four years past.'

And no great wonder,' Death replies ; • However, you ftill keep your eyes;

And fure, to fee one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends.'

Perhaps,' fays Dobfon, fo it might,

But latterly I've loft my fight.'

This is a fhocking story, faith;

Yet there's fome comfort ftill,' fays Death:
Each strives your fadness to amuse;

I warrant you hear all the news.'

A

< There's none,' cries he; and if there were,

I'm grown fo deaf, I could not hear.'

Nay, then!' the fpectre ftern rejoin'd, • These are unjuftifiable yearnings; • If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind,

You've had your Three fufficient Warnings.'

• So come along, no more we'll part :'

He faid, and touch'd him with his dart;

And now, old Dobfon turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

A LET

A LETTER FROM CAMBRIDGE

то

A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AT ETON SCHOOL.

TH

BY DR LITTLETON.

HOUGH plagu'd with algebraick lectures,
And aftronomical conjectures,

Wean'd from the fweets of poetry
To fcraps of dry philofophy,

You fee, dear Sir, I've found a time
T'express my thoughts to you in rhime:
For why, my friend, fhould diftant parts,
Or times, disjoin united hearts;
Since, though by intervening space
Depriv'd of speaking face to face,
By faithful emiffary, letter,

We may converfe as well, or better?
And, not to ftretch a narrow fancy,
To fhew what pretty things I can say,
(As fome will strain a fimile,
First work it fine, and then apply;
Tag Butler's rhimes to Prior's thoughts,
And chufe to mimick all their faults;
By head and fhoulders bring in a stick,
To fhew their knack at hudibraftick:)
I'll tell you, as a friend and crony,
How here I spend my time and money;
For time and money go together,

As fure as weathercock and weather ;
And thrifty guardians all allow
This grave reflection to be true,

That

Those weighty truths we've no concern in,
The spark who fquanders time away
In vain pursuits, and fruitlefs play,
Not only proves an arrant blockhead,
But, what's much worfe, is out of pocket.
Whether my conduct bad or good is,
Judge from the nature of my ftudies.

No more majestick Virgil's heights,
Nor tow'ring Milton's loftier flights,
Nor courtly Flaccus's rebukes,

Who banters vice with friendly jokes ;
Nor Congreve's life, nor Cowley's fire,
Nor all the beauties that confpire
To place the greenest bays upon
Th' immortal brows of Addison ;
Prior's inimitable ease,

Nor Pope's harmonious numbers please ;
Homer, indeed, (for criticks fhew it)
Was both philofopher, and poet;
But tedious philofophick chapters
Quite ftifle my poetick raptures;
And I to Phœbus bade adieu
When firft I took my leave of you.
Now algebra, geometry,
Arithmetick, aftronomy,

Opticks, chronology, and ftaticks,
All tiresome parts of mathematicks;
With twenty harder names than these,
Disturb my brain, and break my peace.
All seeming inconfiftencies
Are nicely folv'd by a's, and b's;
Our eye-fight is difprov'd by prifms,
Our arguments by fyllogifms.
If I fhould confidently write

This ink is black, this paper white;

Or, to express myself yet fuller,

Should fay, that black or white's a colour
They'd contradict it, and perplex one
With motion, rays, and their reflexion;
And folve th' apparent falfhood by
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 flatly tell me, 'tis not hot :

The fire,' fay they, has in't, 'tis true, The pow'r of caufing heat in you;

• But no more heat's in fire that beats you, Than there is pain in ftick that beats you.' Thus, too, philofophers expound

The names of odour, tafte, and found:
The falts and juices in all meat,
Affect the tongues of them that eat,
And by fome fecret poignant power

Give them the taste of sweet, and four.
Carnations, violets, and roses,

Caufe a fenfation 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 brifk alarms
Call forth the chearful youth to arms,
Convey'd thro' undulating air,
The mufick'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 cheefe, or no;
Whether the man in't, as fome tell ye,
With beef and carrots fills his belly

Why, like a lunatick confin'd,

He lives at distance from mankind;
When he, at one good hearty shake,
Might whirl his prifon off his back;
Or, like a maggot in a nut,
Full bravely eat his paffage out.
Who knows what vast discoveries
From fuch enquiries might arife?
But feuds, and tumults in the nation,
Disturb fuch curious fpeculation.
Cambridge, from furious broils of state,
Forefees her near-approaching fate;
Her fureft patrons are remov'd,
And her triumphant foes approv❜d.
No more! this due to friendship take,
Not idly writ for writing's fake;
Nor longer queftion my respect,
Nor call this fhort delay, neglect ;
At least excuse it, when you fee
This pledge of my fincerity;

For one who rhimes to make you easy,
And his invention ftrains to please you,
To fhew his friendship cracks his brains,
Sure is a madman if he feigns.

TO MRS. GILLMAN.

W1

BY DR. LANGHORNE.

ITH fenfe enough for half your sex befide;
With just no more than neceffary pride;

With knowledge caught from Nature's living page,
Politely learn'd, and elegantly fage;

Alas! how piteous, that in fuch a mind

So many foibles free reception find!