Add Butler's rhymes to Prior's thoughts,
And choose to mimic all their faults,
By head and shoulders bring in a stick,
To shew 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 so 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 flights,
Nor courtly Horace's rebukes,
Who banters vice with friendly jokes,
Nor Congreve's life, nor Cowley's fire,
For all the beauties that conspire
To place the greenest bays upon
Th'immortal brows of Addison;
Prior's inimitable ease,

Nor Pope's harmonious numbers please;
How can poetic flow'rs abound,

you.

How spring in philosophic ground!
Homer indeed (if I would shew it)
Was both philosopher and poet,
But tedious philosophic chapters
Quite stifle my poetic raptures,
And I to Phoebus bade adieu
When first I took my leave of
Now algebra, geometry,
Arithmetic, astronomy,
Optics, chronology, and statics,
All tiresome points of mathematics;
With twenty harder names than these,
Disturb my brains, and break my peace.
All seeming inconsistencies

Are nicely solv'd by a's, and b's;
Our senses are disprov'd by prisms,
Our arguments by syllogisms.
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 colour;
They'd contradict it, and perplex one
With motion, light, and its reflection,
And solve th' apparent falsehood 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, 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 sound; The salts and juices in all meat Affect the tongues of them that eat, And by some secret poignant power, Give them the taste of sweet and sour. 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 sings, Or Gething tunes the trembling strings, Or when the trumpet's brisk alarms Call forth the cheerful youth to arms, Convey'd through undulating air The music'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

Might whirl his prison off his back;
Or like a maggot in a nut

Full bravely eat his passage out.
Who knows what vast discoveries
From such inquiries might arise?
But feuds, and tumults in the nation
Disturb such curious speculation.
Cambridge from furious broils of state,
Foresees her near-approaching fate;
Her surest patrons are remov'd,
And her triumphant foes approv'd.

No more! this due to friendship take, Not idly writ for writing's sake; 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 shew his friendship cracks his brains, Sure is a mad man if he feigns.

EPISTLE XVIII.

ΤΟ

CORINNA,

FROM A

CAPTAIN IN COUNTRY QUARTERS.

BY

ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, ESQ;

My earliest flame, to whom I owe
All that a captain needs to know,
Dress, and quadrille, and air, and chat,
Lewd songs, loud laughter, and all that :
Arts that have widows oft subdued,
And never fail'd to win prude;
Think, charmer, how I live forlorn
At quarters, from Corinna torn.
Not more distress the cornet feels
From gruel, and Ward's popish pills.
What shall I do now you're away,
To kill that only foe, the day?
The landed 'squire, and dull freeholder
Are sure no comrades for a soldier;
To drink with parsons all day long,
Misaubin tells me would be wrong: