Upon two diftant pots of ale,
Not knowing which was mild or ftale:
In this fad state your doubtful choice
Would never have the casting voice;
Which best or worst you could not think,
And die you must for want of drink ;
Unless fome chance inclines your fight,
Setting one pot in fairer light;
Then you prefer or A, or B,
As lines and angles best agree:
Your fenfe refolv'd impels your
She guides your hand-fo drink your fill.
Have you not feen a baker's maid
Between two equal banniers sway'd?
Her tallies useless lie, and idle,
If plac'd exactly in the middle:
But, forc'd from this unactive state
By virtue of fome casual weight,
On either fide you hear them clatter,
And judge of right and left hand matter.
Now, Richard, this coercive force,
Without your choice, must take its course
Great kings to wars are pointed forth,
Like loaded needles to the north.
Let people call us cheats or fools,
Our cards and we are equal tools.
We fure in vain the cards condemn :
Ourselves both cut and fhuffled them.
In vain on Fortune's aid rely:
She only is a ftander-by.
Poor men! poor papers! we and they
Do fome impulfive force obey:
And are but play'd with-do not play.
But space and matter we should blame;
They palm'd the trick that loft the game.
Thus, to fave further contradiction
Against what you may think but fiction,
I for attraction, Dick, declare:
Deny it those bold men that dare.
As well your motion, as your thought,
Is all by hidden impulse wrought :
Ev'n faying that you think or walk,
How like a country fquire you talk!
Mark then; Where fancy, or defire,
Collects the beams of vital fire;
Into that limb fair Alma flides,
And there, pro tempore, refides.
She dwells in Nicolini's tongue,
When Pyrrhus chaunts the heavenly fong.
When Pedro does the lute command,
She guides the cunning artist's hand.
Through Macer's gullet the runs down,
When the vile glutton dines alone.
And, void of modefty and thought,
She follows Bibo's endless draught.
Through the foft fex again fhe ranges,
As youth, caprice, or fashion, changes.
Fair Alma, careless and ferene,
In Fanny's fprightly eyes is feen;
While they diffuse their infant beams,
Themselves not confcious of their flames.
Again fair Alma fits confest
On Florimel's experter breaft ;
When the the rifing figh constrains,
And by concealing speaks her pains.
In Cynthia's neck fair Alma glows,
When the vain thing her jewels fhows
When Jenny's ftays are newly lac'd,
Fair Alma plays about her waist ;
And when the fwelling hoop fuftains
The rich brocade, fair Alma deigns
Into that lower space to enter,
Of the large round herself the centre.
Again: that fingle limb or feature
(Such is the cogent force of nature),
Which moft did Alma's paffion move
In the first object of her love,
For ever will be found confest,
And printed on the amorous breast.
O Abelard! ill-fated youth,
Thy tale will justify this truth:
But well I weet, thy cruel wrong
Adorns a nobler poet's fong.
Dan Pope, for thy misfortune griev'd,
With kind concern and fkill has weav'd
A filken web; and ne'er fhall fade
Its colours; gently has he laid
The mantle o'er thy fad distress,
And Venus fhall the texture blefs.
He o'er the weeping nun has drawn
Such artful folds of facred lawn,
That love, with equal grief and pride,
Shall fee the crime he strives to hide,
And, foftly drawing back the veil,
The God fhall to his votaries tell
Each confcious tear, each blushing grace,
That deck'd dear Eloifa's face.
Happy the poet, bleft the lays,
Which Buckingham has deign'd to praise!
Next, Dick, as youth and habit fways,
A hundred gambols Alma plays.
If, whilft a boy, Jack ran from school,
Fond of his hunting-horn and pole;
Though gout and age his fpeed detain,
Old John halloos his hounds again;
By his fire-fide he starts the hare,
And turns her in his wicker-chair;
His feet, however lame, you find
Have got the better of his mind.
If, while the mind was in her leg,
The dance affected nimble Peg;
Old Madge, bewitch'd at fixty-one,
Calls for Green Sleeves, and Jumping Joan.
In public mask, or private ball,
From Lincoln's-inn to Goldfmiths-hall,
All Christmas long away fhe trudges,
Trips it with prentices and judges:
In vain her children urge her stay,
And age or palsey bar the way.
But, if those images prevail
Which whilom did affect the tail,
She ftill renews the ancient scene,
Forgets the forty-years between :
Aukwardly gay, and oddly merry,
Her scarf pale pink, her head-knot cherry;
O'er-heated with ideal rage,
Change fides, and you increase your pain,
For he'll confute you back again.
For one may speak with Tully's tongue,
Yet all the while be in the wrong.
And 'tis remarkable that they
Talk moft, who have the least to say.
Your dainty speakers have the curse,
To plead bad caufes down to worse :
As dames, who native beauty want,
Still uglier look, the more they paint.
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