No More Learning

. . desunt_
They bore the wounded aga on their shields to his
chariot . . .
_Desunt_ . . .
_nonnulla_. . . .

Then Aristotle, observing Bacon advance with a furious mien, drew his bow
to the head, and let fly his arrow, which missed the valiant Modern and
went whizzing over his head; but Descartes it hit; the steel point
quickly found a defect in his head-piece; it pierced the leather and the
pasteboard, and went in at his right eye. The torture of the pain
whirled the valiant bow-man round till death, like a star of superior
influence, drew him into his own vortex _Ingens hiatus_ . . . .
_hic in MS. _ . . . .
. . . . when Homer appeared at the head of the cavalry, mounted on a
furious horse, with difficulty managed by the rider himself, but which no
other mortal durst approach; he rode among the enemy's ranks, and bore
down all before him. Say, goddess, whom he slew first and whom he slew
last! First, Gondibert advanced against him, clad in heavy armour and
mounted on a staid sober gelding, not so famed for his speed as his
docility in kneeling whenever his rider would mount or alight. He had
made a vow to Pallas that he would never leave the field till he had
spoiled Homer of his armour: madman, who had never once seen the wearer,
nor understood his strength! Him Homer overthrew, horse and man, to the
ground, there to be trampled and choked in the dirt. Then with a long
spear he slew Denham, a stout Modern, who from his father's side derived
his lineage from Apollo, but his mother was of mortal race. He fell, and
bit the earth. The celestial part Apollo took, and made it a star; but
the terrestrial lay wallowing upon the ground. Then Homer slew Sam
Wesley with a kick of his horse's heel; he took Perrault by mighty force
out of his saddle, then hurled him at Fontenelle, with the same blow
dashing out both their brains.

On the left wing of the horse Virgil appeared, in shining armour,
completely fitted to his body; he was mounted on a dapple-grey steed, the
slowness of whose pace was an effect of the highest mettle and vigour. He
cast his eye on the adverse wing, with a desire to find an object worthy
of his valour, when behold upon a sorrel gelding of a monstrous size
appeared a foe, issuing from among the thickest of the enemy's squadrons;
but his speed was less than his noise; for his horse, old and lean, spent
the dregs of his strength in a high trot, which, though it made slow
advances, yet caused a loud clashing of his armour, terrible to hear. The
two cavaliers had now approached within the throw of a lance, when the
stranger desired a parley, and, lifting up the visor of his helmet, a
face hardly appeared from within which, after a pause, was known for that
of the renowned Dryden. The brave Ancient suddenly started, as one
possessed with surprise and disappointment together; for the helmet was
nine times too large for the head, which appeared situate far in the
hinder part, even like the lady in a lobster, or like a mouse under a
canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau from within the penthouse of a
modern periwig; and the voice was suited to the visage, sounding weak and
remote. Dryden, in a long harangue, soothed up the good Ancient; called
him father, and, by a large deduction of genealogies, made it plainly
appear that they were nearly related. Then he humbly proposed an
exchange of armour, as a lasting mark of hospitality between them. Virgil
consented (for the goddess Diffidence came unseen, and cast a mist before
his eyes), though his was of gold and cost a hundred beeves, the other's
but of rusty iron. However, this glittering armour became the Modern yet
worsen than his own. Then they agreed to exchange horses; but, when it
came to the trial, Dryden was afraid and utterly unable to mount. . .
_Alter hiatus_
. . . . _in MS. _
Lucan appeared upon a fiery horse of admirable shape, but headstrong,
bearing the rider where he list over the field; he made a mighty
slaughter among the enemy's horse; which destruction to stop, Blackmore,
a famous Modern (but one of the mercenaries), strenuously opposed
himself, and darted his javelin with a strong hand, which, falling short
of its mark, struck deep in the earth. Then Lucan threw a lance; but
AEsculapius came unseen and turned off the point. "Brave Modern," said
Lucan, "I perceive some god protects you, for never did my arm so deceive
me before: but what mortal can contend with a god? Therefore, let us
fight no longer, but present gifts to each other. " Lucan then bestowed
on the Modern a pair of spurs, and Blackmore gave Lucan a bridle. . . .
_Pauca desunt_. . . .
. . . .
Creech: but the goddess Dulness took a cloud, formed into the shape of
Horace, armed and mounted, and placed in a flying posture before him.
Glad was the cavalier to begin a combat with a flying foe, and pursued
the image, threatening aloud; till at last it led him to the peaceful
bower of his father, Ogleby, by whom he was disarmed and assigned to his
repose.

Then Pindar slew ---, and --- and Oldham, and ---, and Afra the Amazon,
light of foot; never advancing in a direct line, but wheeling with
incredible agility and force, he made a terrible slaughter among the
enemy's light-horse. Him when Cowley observed, his generous heart burnt
within him, and he advanced against the fierce Ancient, imitating his
address, his pace, and career, as well as the vigour of his horse and his
own skill would allow. When the two cavaliers had approached within the
length of three javelins, first Cowley threw a lance, which missed
Pindar, and, passing into the enemy's ranks, fell ineffectual to the
ground. Then Pindar darted a javelin so large and weighty, that scarce a
dozen Cavaliers, as cavaliers are in our degenerate days, could raise it
from the ground; yet he threw it with ease, and it went, by an unerring
hand, singing through the air; nor could the Modern have avoided present
death if he had not luckily opposed the shield that had been given him by
Venus. And now both heroes drew their swords; but the Modern was so
aghast and disordered that he knew not where he was; his shield dropped
from his hands; thrice he fled, and thrice he could not escape. At last
he turned, and lifting up his hand in the posture of a suppliant,
"Godlike Pindar," said he, "spare my life, and possess my horse, with
these arms, beside the ransom which my friends will give when they hear I
am alive and your prisoner. " "Dog! " said Pindar, "let your ransom stay
with your friends; but your carcase shall be left for the fowls of the
air and the beasts of the field. " With that he raised his sword, and,
with a mighty stroke, cleft the wretched Modern in twain, the sword
pursuing the blow; and one half lay panting on the ground, to be trod in
pieces by the horses' feet; the other half was borne by the frighted
steed through the field. This Venus took, washed it seven times in
ambrosia, then struck it thrice with a sprig of amaranth; upon which the
leather grow round and soft, and the leaves turned into feathers, and,
being gilded before, continued gilded still; so it became a dove, and she
harnessed it to her chariot. . . .
. . . . _Hiatus valde de-_
. . . . _flendus in MS_.




THE EPISODE OF BENTLEY AND WOTTON.


Day being far spent, and the numerous forces of the Moderns half
inclining to a retreat, there issued forth, from a squadron of their
heavy-armed foot, a captain whose name was Bentley, the most deformed of
all the Moderns; tall, but without shape or comeliness; large, but
without strength or proportion. His armour was patched up of a thousand
incoherent pieces, and the sound of it, as he marched, was loud and dry,
like that made by the fall of a sheet of lead, which an Etesian wind
blows suddenly down from the roof of some steeple. His helmet was of old
rusty iron, but the vizor was brass, which, tainted by his breath,
corrupted into copperas, nor wanted gall from the same fountain, so that,
whenever provoked by anger or labour, an atramentous quality, of most
malignant nature, was seen to distil from his lips. In his right hand he
grasped a flail, and (that he might never be unprovided of an offensive
weapon) a vessel full of ordure in his left. Thus completely armed, he
advanced with a slow and heavy pace where the Modern chiefs were holding
a consult upon the sum of things, who, as he came onwards, laughed to
behold his crooked leg and humped shoulder, which his boot and armour,
vainly endeavouring to hide, were forced to comply with and expose. The
generals made use of him for his talent of railing, which, kept within
government, proved frequently of great service to their cause, but, at
other times, did more mischief than good; for, at the least touch of
offence, and often without any at all, he would, like a wounded elephant,
convert it against his leaders. Such, at this juncture, was the
disposition of Bentley, grieved to see the enemy prevail, and
dissatisfied with everybody's conduct but his own. He humbly gave the
Modern generals to understand that he conceived, with great submission,
they were all a pack of rogues, and fools, and confounded logger-heads,
and illiterate whelps, and nonsensical scoundrels; that, if himself had
been constituted general, those presumptuous dogs, the Ancients, would
long before this have been beaten out of the field. "You," said he, "sit
here idle, but when I, or any other valiant Modern kill an enemy, you are
sure to seize the spoil. But I will not march one foot against the foe
till you all swear to me that whomever I take or kill, his arms I shall
quietly possess. " Bentley having spoken thus, Scaliger, bestowing him a
sour look, "Miscreant prater! " said he, "eloquent only in thine own eyes,
thou railest without wit, or truth, or discretion. The malignity of thy
temper perverteth nature; thy learning makes thee more barbarous; thy
study of humanity more inhuman; thy converse among poets more grovelling,
miry, and dull. All arts of civilising others render thee rude and
untractable; courts have taught thee ill manners, and polite conversation
has finished thee a pedant. Besides, a greater coward burdeneth not the
army. But never despond; I pass my word, whatever spoil thou takest
shall certainly be thy own; though I hope that vile carcase will first
become a prey to kites and worms. "

Bentley durst not reply, but, half choked with spleen and rage, withdrew,
in full resolution of performing some great achievement. With him, for
his aid and companion, he took his beloved Wotton, resolving by policy or
surprise to attempt some neglected quarter of the Ancients' army. They
began their march over carcases of their slaughtered friends; then to the
right of their own forces; then wheeled northward, till they came to
Aldrovandus's tomb, which they passed on the side of the declining sun.
And now they arrived, with fear, toward the enemy's out-guards, looking
about, if haply they might spy the quarters of the wounded, or some
straggling sleepers, unarmed and remote from the rest. As when two
mongrel curs, whom native greediness and domestic want provoke and join
in partnership, though fearful, nightly to invade the folds of some rich
grazier, they, with tails depressed and lolling tongues, creep soft and
slow. Meanwhile the conscious moon, now in her zenith, on their guilty
heads darts perpendicular rays; nor dare they bark, though much provoked
at her refulgent visage, whether seen in puddle by reflection or in
sphere direct; but one surveys the region round, while the other scouts
the plain, if haply to discover, at distance from the flock, some carcase
half devoured, the refuse of gorged wolves or ominous ravens. So marched
this lovely, loving pair of friends, nor with less fear and
circumspection, when at a distance they might perceive two shining suits
of armour hanging upon an oak, and the owners not far off in a profound
sleep. The two friends drew lots, and the pursuing of this adventure
fell to Bentley; on he went, and in his van Confusion and Amaze, while
Horror and Affright brought up the rear. As he came near, behold two
heroes of the Ancient army, Phalaris and AEsop, lay fast asleep. Bentley
would fain have despatched them both, and, stealing close, aimed his
flail at Phalaris's breast; but then the goddess Affright, interposing,
caught the Modern in her icy arms, and dragged him from the danger she
foresaw; both the dormant heroes happened to turn at the same instant,
though soundly sleeping, and busy in a dream. For Phalaris was just that
minute dreaming how a most vile poetaster had lampooned him, and how he
had got him roaring in his bull. And AEsop dreamed that as he and the
Ancient were lying on the ground, a wild ass broke loose, ran about,
trampling and kicking in their faces. Bentley, leaving the two heroes
asleep, seized on both their armours, and withdrew in quest of his
darling Wotton.

He, in the meantime, had wandered long in search of some enterprise, till
at length he arrived at a small rivulet that issued from a fountain hard
by, called, in the language of mortal men, Helicon. Here he stopped,
and, parched with thirst, resolved to allay it in this limpid stream.
Thrice with profane hands he essayed to raise the water to his lips, and
thrice it slipped all through his fingers. Then he stopped prone on his
breast, but, ere his mouth had kissed the liquid crystal, Apollo came,
and in the channel held his shield betwixt the Modern and the fountain,
so that he drew up nothing but mud. For, although no fountain on earth
can compare with the clearness of Helicon, yet there lies at bottom a
thick sediment of slime and mud; for so Apollo begged of Jupiter, as a
punishment to those who durst attempt to taste it with unhallowed lips,
and for a lesson to all not to draw too deep or far from the spring.

At the fountain-head Wotton discerned two heroes; the one he could not
distinguish, but the other was soon known for Temple, general of the
allies to the Ancients. His back was turned, and he was employed in
drinking large draughts in his helmet from the fountain, where he had
withdrawn himself to rest from the toils of the war. Wotton, observing
him, with quaking knees and trembling hands, spoke thus to himself: O
that I could kill this destroyer of our army, what renown should I
purchase among the chiefs! but to issue out against him, man against man,
shield against shield, and lance against lance, what Modern of us dare?
for he fights like a god, and Pallas or Apollo are ever at his elbow.
But, O mother! if what Fame reports be true, that I am the son of so
great a goddess, grant me to hit Temple with this lance, that the stroke
may send him to hell, and that I may return in safety and triumph, laden
with his spoils. The first part of this prayer the gods granted at the
intercession of his mother and of Momus; but the rest, by a perverse wind
sent from Fate, was scattered in the air. Then Wotton grasped his lance,
and, brandishing it thrice over his head, darted it with all his might;
the goddess, his mother, at the same time adding strength to his arm.
Away the lance went hizzing, and reached even to the belt of the averted
Ancient, upon which, lightly grazing, it fell to the ground. Temple
neither felt the weapon touch him nor heard it fall: and Wotton might
have escaped to his army, with the honour of having remitted his lance
against so great a leader unrevenged; but Apollo, enraged that a javelin
flung by the assistance of so foul a goddess should pollute his fountain,
put on the shape of ---, and softly came to young Boyle, who then
accompanied Temple: he pointed first to the lance, then to the distant
Modern that flung it, and commanded the young hero to take immediate
revenge. Boyle, clad in a suit of armour which had been given him by all
the gods, immediately advanced against the trembling foe, who now fled
before him. As a young lion in the Libyan plains, or Araby desert, sent
by his aged sire to hunt for prey, or health, or exercise, he scours
along, wishing to meet some tiger from the mountains, or a furious boar;
if chance a wild ass, with brayings importune, affronts his ear, the
generous beast, though loathing to distain his claws with blood so vile,
yet, much provoked at the offensive noise, which Echo, foolish nymph,
like her ill-judging sex, repeats much louder, and with more delight than
Philomela's song, he vindicates the honour of the forest, and hunts the
noisy long-eared animal. So Wotton fled, so Boyle pursued. But Wotton,
heavy-armed, and slow of foot, began to slack his course, when his lover
Bentley appeared, returning laden with the spoils of the two sleeping
Ancients. Boyle observed him well, and soon discovering the helmet and
shield of Phalaris his friend, both which he had lately with his own
hands new polished and gilt, rage sparkled in his eyes, and, leaving his
pursuit after Wotton, he furiously rushed on against this new approacher.
Fain would he be revenged on both; but both now fled different ways: and,
as a woman in a little house that gets a painful livelihood by spinning,
if chance her geese be scattered o'er the common, she courses round the
plain from side to side, compelling here and there the stragglers to the
flock; they cackle loud, and flutter o'er the champaign; so Boyle
pursued, so fled this pair of friends: finding at length their flight was
vain, they bravely joined, and drew themselves in phalanx. First Bentley
threw a spear with all his force, hoping to pierce the enemy's breast;
but Pallas came unseen, and in the air took off the point, and clapped on
one of lead, which, after a dead bang against the enemy's shield, fell
blunted to the ground. Then Boyle, observing well his time, took up a
lance of wondrous length and sharpness; and, as this pair of friends
compacted, stood close side by side, he wheeled him to the right, and,
with unusual force, darted the weapon. Bentley saw his fate approach,
and flanking down his arms close to his ribs, hoping to save his body, in
went the point, passing through arm and side, nor stopped or spent its
force till it had also pierced the valiant Wotton, who, going to sustain
his dying friend, shared his fate. As when a skilful cook has trussed a
brace of woodcocks, he with iron skewer pierces the tender sides of both,
their legs and wings close pinioned to the rib; so was this pair of
friends transfixed, till down they fell, joined in their lives, joined in
their deaths; so closely joined that Charon would mistake them both for
one, and waft them over Styx for half his fare. Farewell, beloved,
loving pair; few equals have you left behind: and happy and immortal
shall you be, if all my wit and eloquence can make you.

And now. . . .

_Desunt coetera_.




A MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK.


_According to the Style and Manner of the Hon. Robert Boyle's
Meditations_.

This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that
neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest. It was
full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; but now in vain does the
busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that withered bundle
of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now at best but the reverse of what
it was, a tree turned upside-down, the branches on the earth, and the
root in the air; it is now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do
her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other
things clean, and be nasty itself; at length, worn to the stumps in the
service of the maids, it is either thrown out of doors or condemned to
the last use--of kindling a fire. When I behold this I sighed, and said
within myself, "Surely mortal man is a broomstick! " Nature sent him into
the world strong and lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing his own hair
on his head, the proper branches of this reasoning vegetable, till the
axe of intemperance has lopped off his green boughs, and left him a
withered trunk; he then flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing
himself upon an unnatural bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that
never grew on his head; but now should this our broomstick pretend to
enter the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all
covered with dust, through the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we
should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we
are of our own excellencies, and other men's defaults!

But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, is an emblem of a tree standing
on its head; and pray what is a man but a topsy-turvy creature, his
animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his head where his
heels should be, grovelling on the earth? And yet, with all his faults,
he sets up to be a universal reformer and corrector of abuses, a remover
of grievances, rakes into every slut's corner of nature, bringing hidden
corruptions to the light, and raises a mighty dust where there was none
before, sharing deeply all the while in the very same pollutions he
pretends to sweep away. His last days are spent in slavery to women, and
generally the least deserving; till, worn to the stumps, like his brother
besom, he is either kicked out of doors, or made use of to kindle flames
for others to warm themselves by.




PREDICTIONS FOR THE YEAR 1708.


WHEREIN THE MONTH, AND DAY OF THE MONTH ARE SET DOWN, THE PERSONS NAMED,
AND THE GREAT ACTIONS AND EVENTS OF NEXT YEAR PARTICULARLY RELATED AS
WILL COME TO PASS.

_Written to prevent the people of England from being farther imposed on
by vulgar Almanack-makers_.

BY ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, ESQ.

I have long considered the gross abuse of astrology in this kingdom, and
upon debating the matter with myself, I could not possibly lay the fault
upon the art, but upon those gross impostors who set up to be the
artists. I know several learned men have contended that the whole is a
cheat; that it is absurd and ridiculous to imagine the stars can have any
influence at all upon human actions, thoughts, or inclinations; and
whoever has not bent his studies that way may be excused for thinking so,
when he sees in how wretched a manner that noble art is treated by a few
mean illiterate traders between us and the stars, who import a yearly
stock of nonsense, lies, folly, and impertinence, which they offer to the
world as genuine from the planets, though they descend from no greater a
height than their own brains.

I intend in a short time to publish a large and rational defence of this
art, and therefore shall say no more in its justification at present than
that it hath been in all ages defended by many learned men, and among the
rest by Socrates himself, whom I look upon as undoubtedly the wisest of
uninspired mortals: to which if we add that those who have condemned this
art, though otherwise learned, having been such as either did not apply
their studies this way, or at least did not succeed in their
applications, their testimony will not be of much weight to its
disadvantage, since they are liable to the common objection of condemning
what they did not understand.

Nor am I at all offended, or think it an injury to the art, when I see
the common dealers in it, the students in astrology, the Philomaths, and
the rest of that tribe, treated by wise men with the utmost scorn and
contempt; but rather wonder, when I observe gentlemen in the country,
rich enough to serve the nation in Parliament, poring in Partridge's
Almanack to find out the events of the year at home and abroad, not
daring to propose a hunting-match till Gadbury or he have fixed the
weather.

I will allow either of the two I have mentioned, or any other of the
fraternity, to be not only astrologers, but conjurers too, if I do not
produce a hundred instances in all their almanacks to convince any
reasonable man that they do not so much as understand common grammar and
syntax; that they are not able to spell any word out of the usual road,
nor even in their prefaces write common sense or intelligible English.
Then for their observations and predictions, they are such as will
equally suit any age or country in the world. "This month a certain
great person will be threatened with death or sickness. " This the
newspapers will tell them; for there we find at the end of the year that
no month passes without the death of some person of note; and it would be
hard if it should be otherwise, when there are at least two thousand
persons of note in this kingdom, many of them old, and the almanack-maker
has the liberty of choosing the sickliest season of the year where he may
fix his prediction. Again, "This month an eminent clergyman will be
preferred;" of which there may be some hundreds, half of them with one
foot in the grave. Then "such a planet in such a house shows great
machinations, plots, and conspiracies, that may in time be brought to
light:" after which, if we hear of any discovery, the astrologer gets the
honour; if not, his prediction still stands good. And at last, "God
preserve King William from all his open and secret enemies, Amen. " When
if the King should happen to have died, the astrologer plainly foretold
it; otherwise it passes but for the pious ejaculation of a loyal subject;
though it unluckily happened in some of their almanacks that poor King
William was prayed for many months after he was dead, because it fell out
that he died about the beginning of the year.

To mention no more of their impertinent predictions: what have we to do
with their advertisements about pills and drink for disease? or their
mutual quarrels in verse and prose of Whig and Tory, wherewith the stars
have little to do?

Having long observed and lamented these, and a hundred other abuses of
this art, too tedious to repeat, I resolved to proceed in a new way,
which I doubt not will be to the general satisfaction of the kingdom. I
can this year produce but a specimen of what I design for the future,
having employed most part of my time in adjusting and correcting the
calculations I made some years past, because I would offer nothing to the
world of which I am not as fully satisfied as that I am now alive. For
these two last years I have not failed in above one or two particulars,
and those of no very great moment. I exactly foretold the miscarriage at
Toulon, with all its particulars, and the loss of Admiral Shovel, though
I was mistaken as to the day, placing that accident about thirty-six
hours sooner than it happened; but upon reviewing my schemes, I quickly
found the cause of that error. I likewise foretold the Battle of Almanza
to the very day and hour, with the lose on both sides, and the
consequences thereof. All which I showed to some friends many months
before they happened--that is, I gave them papers sealed up, to open at
such a time, after which they were at liberty to read them; and there
they found my predictions true in every article, except one or two very
minute.

As for the few following predictions I now offer the world, I forbore to
publish them till I had perused the several almanacks for the year we are
now entered on. I find them all in the usual strain, and I beg the
reader will compare their manner with mine. And here I make bold to tell
the world that I lay the whole credit of my art upon the truth of these
predictions; and I will be content that Partridge, and the rest of his
clan, may hoot me for a cheat and impostor if I fail in any single
particular of moment. I believe any man who reads this paper will look
upon me to be at least a person of as much honesty and understanding as a
common maker of almanacks. I do not lurk in the dark; I am not wholly
unknown in the world; I have set my name at length, to be a mark of
infamy to mankind, if they shall find I deceive them.

In one thing I must desire to be forgiven, that I talk more sparingly of
home affairs. As it will be imprudence to discover secrets of State, so
it would be dangerous to my person; but in smaller matters, and that are
not of public consequence, I shall be very free; and the truth of my
conjectures will as much appear from those as the others. As for the
most signal events abroad, in France, Flanders, Italy, and Spain, I shall
make no scruple to predict them in plain terms. Some of them are of
importance, and I hope I shall seldom mistake the day they will happen;
therefore I think good to inform the reader that I all along make use of
the Old Style observed in England, which I desire he will compare with
that of the newspapers at the time they relate the actions I mention.

I must add one word more. I know it hath been the opinion of several of
the learned, who think well enough of the true art of astrology, that the
stars do only incline, and not force the actions or wills of men, and
therefore, however I may proceed by right rules, yet I cannot in prudence
so confidently assure the events will follow exactly as I predict them.

I hope I have maturely considered this objection, which in some cases is
of no little weight.
For example: a man may, by the influence of an over-
ruling planet, be disposed or inclined to lust, rage, or avarice, and yet
by the force of reason overcome that bad influence; and this was the case
of Socrates. But as the great events of the world usually depend upon
numbers of men, it cannot be expected they should all unite to cross
their inclinations from pursuing a general design wherein they
unanimously agree. Besides, the influence of the stars reaches to many
actions and events which are not any way in the power of reason, as
sickness, death, and what we commonly call accidents, with many more,
needless to repeat.

But now it is time to proceed to my predictions, which I have begun to
calculate from the time that the sun enters into Aries. And this I take
to be properly the beginning of the natural year. I pursue them to the
time that he enters Libra, or somewhat more, which is the busy period of
the year. The remainder I have not yet adjusted, upon account of several
impediments needless here to mention. Besides, I must remind the reader
again that this is but a specimen of what I design in succeeding years to
treat more at large, if I may have liberty and encouragement.

My first prediction is but a trifle, yet I will mention it, to show how
ignorant those sottish pretenders to astrology are in their own concerns.
It relates to Partridge, the almanack-maker. I have consulted the stars
of his nativity by my own rules, and find he will infallibly die upon the
29th of March next, about eleven at night, of a raging fever; therefore I
advise him to consider of it, and settle his affairs in time.

The month of _April_ will be observable for the death of many great
persons. On the 4th will die the Cardinal de Noailles, Archbishop of
Paris; on the 11th, the young Prince of Asturias, son to the Duke of
Anjou; on the 14th, a great peer of this realm will die at his country
house; on the 19th, an old layman of great fame for learning, and on the
23rd, an eminent goldsmith in Lombard Street. I could mention others,
both at home and abroad, if I did not consider it is of very little use
or instruction to the reader, or to the world.

As to public affairs: On the 7th of this month there will be an
insurrection in Dauphiny, occasioned by the oppressions of the people,
which will not be quieted in some months.

On the 15th will be a violent storm on the south-east coast of France,
which will destroy many of their ships, and some in the very harbour.

The 11th will be famous for the revolt of a whole province or kingdom,
excepting one city, by which the affairs of a certain prince in the
Alliance will take a better face.

_May_, against common conjectures, will be no very busy month in Europe,
but very signal for the death of the Dauphin, which will happen on the
7th, after a short fit of sickness, and grievous torments with the
strangury. He dies less lamented by the Court than the kingdom.

On the 9th a Marshal of France will break his leg by a fall from his
horse. I have not been able to discover whether he will then die or not.

On the 11th will begin a most important siege, which the eyes of all
Europe will be upon: I cannot be more particular, for in relating affairs
that so nearly concern the Confederates, and consequently this kingdom, I
am forced to confine myself for several reasons very obvious to the
reader.

On the 15th news will arrive of a very surprising event, than which
nothing could be more unexpected.

On the 19th three noble ladies of this kingdom will, against all
expectation, prove with child, to the great joy of their husbands.

On the 23rd a famous buffoon of the playhouse will die a ridiculous
death, suitable to his vocation.

_June_. This month will be distinguished at home by the utter dispersing
of those ridiculous deluded enthusiasts commonly called the Prophets,
occasioned chiefly by seeing the time come that many of their prophecies
should be fulfilled, and then finding themselves deceived by contrary
events. It is indeed to be admired how any deceiver can be so weak to
foretell things near at hand, when a very few months must of necessity
discover the impostor to all the world; in this point less prudent than
common almanack-makers, who are so wise to wonder in generals, and talk
dubiously, and leave to the reader the business of interpreting.

On the 1st of this month a French general will be killed by a random shot
of a cannon-ball.

On the 6th a fire will break out in the suburbs of Paris, which will
destroy above a thousand houses, and seems to be the foreboding of what
will happen, to the surprise of all Europe, about the end of the
following month.

On the 10th a great battle will be fought, which will begin at four of
the clock in the afternoon, and last till nine at night with great
obstinacy, but no very decisive event. I shall not name the place, for
the reasons aforesaid, but the commanders on each left wing will be
killed. I see bonfires and hear the noise of guns for a victory.

On the 14th there will be a false report of the French king's death.

On the 20th Cardinal Portocarero will die of a dysentery, with great
suspicion of poison, but the report of his intention to revolt to King
Charles will prove false.

_July_. The 6th of this month a certain general will, by a glorious
action, recover the reputation he lost by former misfortunes.

On the 12th a great commander will die a prisoner in the hands of his
enemies.

On the 14th a shameful discovery will be made of a French Jesuit giving
poison to a great foreign general; and when he is put to the torture,
will make wonderful discoveries.

In short, this will prove a month of great action, if I might have
liberty to relate the particulars.

At home, the death of an old famous senator will happen on the 15th at
his country house, worn with age and diseases.

But that which will make this month memorable to all posterity is the
death of the French king, Louis the Fourteenth, after a week's sickness
at Marli, which will happen on the 29th, about six o'clock in the
evening. It seems to be an effect of the gout in his stomach, followed
by a flux. And in three days after Monsieur Chamillard will follow his
master, dying suddenly of an apoplexy.

In this month likewise an ambassador will die in London, but I cannot
assign the day.

_August_. The affairs of France will seem to suffer no change for a
while under the Duke of Burgundy's administration; but the genius that
animated the whole machine being gone, will be the cause of mighty turns
and revolutions in the following year. The new king makes yet little
change either in the army or the Ministry, but the libels against his
grandfather, that fly about his very Court, give him uneasiness.

I see an express in mighty haste, with joy and wonder in his looks,
arriving by break of day on the 26th of this month, having travelled in
three days a prodigious journey by land and sea. In the evening I hear
bells and guns, and see the blazing of a thousand bonfires.

A young admiral of noble birth does likewise this month gain immortal
honour by a great achievement.

The affairs of Poland are this month entirely settled; Augustus resigns
his pretensions which he had again taken up for some time: Stanislaus is
peaceably possessed of the throne, and the King of Sweden declares for
the emperor.

I cannot omit one particular accident here at home: that near the end of
this month much mischief will be done at Bartholomew Fair by the fall of
a booth.

_September_. This month begins with a very surprising fit of frosty
weather, which will last near twelve days.

The Pope, having long languished last month, the swellings in his legs
breaking, and the flesh mortifying, will die on the 11th instant; and in
three weeks' time, after a mighty contest, be succeeded by a cardinal of
the Imperial faction, but native of Tuscany, who is now about sixty-one
years old.

The French army acts now wholly on the defensive, strongly fortified in
their trenches, and the young French king sends overtures for a treaty of
peace by the Duke of Mantua; which, because it is a matter of State that
concerns us here at home, I shall speak no farther of it.

I shall add but one prediction more, and that in mystical terms, which
shall be included in a verse out of Virgil--

_Alter erit jam Tethys_, _et altera quae vehat Argo_
_Delectos Heroas_.

Upon the 25th day of this month, the fulfilling of this prediction will
be manifest to everybody.

This is the farthest I have proceeded in my calculations for the present
year. I do not pretend that these are all the great events which will
happen in this period, but that those I have set down will infallibly
come to pass. It will perhaps still be objected why I have not spoken
more particularly of affairs at home, or of the success of our armies
abroad, which I might, and could very largely have done; but those in
power have wisely discouraged men from meddling in public concerns, and I
was resolved by no means to give the least offence. This I will venture
to say, that it will be a glorious campaign for the Allies, wherein the
English forces, both by sea and land, will have their full share of
honour; that Her Majesty Queen Anne will continue in health and
prosperity; and that no ill accident will arrive to any in the chief
Ministry.

As to the particular events I have mentioned, the readers may judge by
the fulfilling of them, whether I am on the level with common
astrologers, who, with an old paltry cant, and a few pothooks for
planets, to amuse the vulgar, have, in my opinion, too long been suffered
to abuse the world. But an honest physician ought not to be despised
because there are such things as mountebanks. I hope I have some share
of reputation, which I would not willingly forfeit for a frolic or
humour; and I believe no gentleman who reads this paper will look upon it
to be of the same cast or mould with the common scribblers that are every
day hawked about. My fortune has placed me above the little regard of
scribbling for a few pence, which I neither value nor want; therefore,
let no wise man too hastily condemn this essay, intended for a good
design, to cultivate and improve an ancient art long in disgrace, by
having fallen into mean and unskilful hands. A little time will
determine whether I have deceived others or myself; and I think it is no
very unreasonable request that men would please to suspend their
judgments till then. I was once of the opinion with those who despise
all predictions from the stars, till in the year 1686 a man of quality
showed me, written in his album, that the most learned astronomer,
Captain H---, assured him, he would never believe anything of the stars'
influence if there were not a great revolution in England in the year
1688. Since that time I began to have other thoughts, and after eighteen
years' diligent study and application, I think I have no reason to repent
of my pains. I shall detain the reader no longer than to let him know
that the account I design to give of next year's events shall take in the
principal affairs that happen in Europe; and if I be denied the liberty
of offering it to my own country, I shall appeal to the learned world, by
publishing it in Latin, and giving order to have it printed in Holland.




THE ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE FIRST OF MR. BICKERSTAFF'S PREDICTIONS; BEING
AN ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF MR. PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK-MAKER, UPON THE
29TH INSTANT.


_In a Letter to a Person of Honour_; _Written in the Year_ 1708.

My Lord,--In obedience to your lordship's commands, as well as to satisfy
my own curiosity, I have for some days past inquired constantly after
Partridge the almanack-maker, of whom it was foretold in Mr.
Bickerstaff's predictions, published about a month ago, that he should
die the 29th instant, about eleven at night, of a raging fever. I had
some sort of knowledge of him when I was employed in the Revenue, because
he used every year to present me with his almanack, as he did other
gentlemen, upon the score of some little gratuity we gave him. I saw him
accidentally once or twice about ten days before he died, and observed he
began very much to droop and languish, though I hear his friends did not
seem to apprehend him in any danger. About two or three days ago he grew
ill, was confined first to his chamber, and in a few hours after to his
bed, where Dr. Case and Mrs. Kirleus were sent for, to visit and to
prescribe to him. Upon this intelligence I sent thrice every day one
servant or other to inquire after his health; and yesterday, about four
in the afternoon, word was brought me that he was past hopes; upon which,
I prevailed with myself to go and see him, partly out of commiseration,
and I confess, partly out of curiosity. He knew me very well, seemed
surprised at my condescension, and made me compliments upon it as well as
he could in the condition he was. The people about him said he had been
for some time delirious; but when I saw him, he had his understanding as
well as ever I knew, and spoke strong and hearty, without any seeming
uneasiness or constraint. After I had told him how sorry I was to see
him in those melancholy circumstances, and said some other civilities
suitable to the occasion, I desired him to tell me freely and
ingenuously, whether the predictions Mr. Bickerstaff had published
relating to his death had not too much affected and worked on his
imagination. He confessed he had often had it in his head, but never
with much apprehension, till about a fortnight before; since which time
it had the perpetual possession of his mind and thoughts, and he did
verily believe was the true natural cause of his present distemper:
"For," said he, "I am thoroughly persuaded, and I think I have very good
reasons, that Mr. Bickerstaff spoke altogether by guess, and knew no more
what will happen this year than I did myself. " I told him his discourse
surprised me, and I would be glad he were in a state of health to be able
to tell me what reason he had to be convinced of Mr. Bickerstaff's
ignorance. He replied, "I am a poor, ignorant follow, bred to a mean
trade, yet I have sense enough to know that all pretences of foretelling
by astrology are deceits, for this manifest reason, because the wise and
the learned, who can only know whether there be any truth in this
science, do all unanimously agree to laugh at and despise it; and none
but the poor ignorant vulgar give it any credit, and that only upon the
word of such silly wretches as I and my fellows, who can hardly write or
read. " I then asked him why he had not calculated his own nativity, to
see whether it agreed with Bickerstaff's prediction, at which he shook
his head and said, "Oh, sir, this is no time for jesting, but for
repenting those fooleries, as I do now from the very bottom of my heart. "
"By what I can gather from you," said I, "the observations and
predictions you printed with your almanacks were mere impositions on the
people. " He replied, "If it were otherwise I should have the less to
answer for. We have a common form for all those things; as to
foretelling the weather, we never meddle with that, but leave it to the
printer, who takes it out of any old almanack as he thinks fit; the rest
was my own invention, to make my almanack sell, having a wife to
maintain, and no other way to get my bread; for mending old shoes is a
poor livelihood; and," added he, sighing, "I wish I may not have done
more mischief by my physic than my astrology; though I had some good
receipts from my grandmother, and my own compositions were such as I
thought could at least do no hurt. "

I had some other discourse with him, which now I cannot call to mind; and
I fear I have already tired your lordship. I shall only add one
circumstance, that on his death-bed he declared himself a Nonconformist,
and had a fanatic preacher to be his spiritual guide. After half an
hour's conversation I took my leave, being half stifled by the closeness
of the room. I imagined he could not hold out long, and therefore
withdrew to a little coffee-house hard by, leaving a servant at the house
with orders to come immediately and tell me, as nearly as he could, the
minute when Partridge should expire, which was not above two hours after,
when, looking upon my watch, I found it to be above five minutes after
seven; by which it is clear that Mr. Bickerstaff was mistaken almost four
hours in his calculation. In the other circumstances he was exact
enough. But, whether he has not been the cause of this poor man's death,
as well as the predictor, may be very reasonably disputed. However, it
must be confessed the matter is odd enough, whether we should endeavour
to account for it by chance, or the effect of imagination. For my own
part, though I believe no man has less faith in these matters, yet I
shall wait with some impatience, and not without some expectation, the
fulfilling of Mr. Bickerstaff's second prediction, that the Cardinal do
Noailles is to die upon the 4th of April, and if that should be verified
as exactly as this of poor Partridge, I must own I should be wholly
surprised, and at a loss, and should infallibly expect the accomplishment
of all the rest.




BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.


_Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid_.

In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain;
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village passed,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good honest old yeoman,
Called, in the neighbourhood, Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable Sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepped aside to fetch 'em drink,
Filled a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found
'Twas still replenished to the top,
As if they ne'er had touched a drop
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frightened to the heart,
And just began to cry,--What art!
Then softly turned aside to view,
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims soon aware on't,
Told 'em their calling, and their errant;
"Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours;
But, for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drowned;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes. "

They scarce had spoke; when fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter,
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.

The chimney widened, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist;
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below.
In vain; for a superior force
Applied at bottom, stops its coarse,
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost, by disuse, the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower.
The flyer, though 't had leaden feet,
Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't;
But slackened by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney near allied,
Had never left each other's side;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares
By a shrill voice at noon declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view;
And with small change a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seemed to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter;
And high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber, many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews:
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon having paused a while,
Returned 'em thanks in homely style;
Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at ease,
Make me the Parson, if you please. "

He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues;
He smoked his pipe and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamped in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wished women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrowed last
Against Dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right divine.
Found his head filled with many a system,
But classic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em.

Thus having furbished up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they played their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;
Her petticoat transformed apace,
Became black satin flounced with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down,
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amazed to see her look so prim;
And she admired as much at him.

Thus, happy in their change of life,
Were several years this man and wife;
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance amidst their talk,
To the church yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cried out,
"My dear, I see your forehead sprout! "
"Sprout," quoth the man, "what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous,
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really, yours is budding too--
Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root. "

Description would but tire my Muse;
In short, they both were turned to Yews.

Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;
On Sundays, after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there,
Points out the place of either Yew:
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew,
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grow scrubby, died a-top, was stunted:
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.




THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.


Logicians have but ill defined
As rational, the human kind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it, if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
_Homo est ratione praeditum_;
But, for my soul, I cannot credit 'em.
And must, in spite of them, maintain
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason-boasting mortals pride;
And, that brute beasts are far before 'em,
_Deus est anima brutorum_.
Whoever knew an honest brute,
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court.
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters
Are known to honest quadrupeds:
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others' throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confessed, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But, both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him, soon after, to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises, with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He, in his turn, finds imitators,
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act.
Thus, at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.




THE PUPPET SHOW.


The life of man to represent,
And turn it all to ridicule,
Wit did a puppet-show invent,
Where the chief actor is a fool.

The gods of old were logs of wood,
And worship was to puppets paid;
In antic dress the idol stood,
And priests and people bowed the head.

No wonder then, if art began
The simple votaries to frame,
To shape in timber foolish man,
And consecrate the block to fame.

From hence poetic fancy learned
That trees might rise from human forms
The body to a trunk be turned,
And branches issue from the arms.

Thus Daedalus and Ovid too,
That man's a blockhead have confessed,
Powel and Stretch {1} the hint pursue;
Life is the farce, the world a jest.

The same great truth South Sea hath proved
On that famed theatre, the ally,
Where thousands by directors moved
Are now sad monuments of folly.

What Momus was of old to Jove
The same harlequin is now;
The former was buffoon above,
The latter is a Punch below.

This fleeting scene is but a stage,
Where various images appear,
In different parts of youth and age
Alike the prince and peasant share.

Some draw our eyes by being great,
False pomp conceals mere wood within,
And legislators rang'd in state
Are oft but wisdom in machine.

A stock may chance to wear a crown,
And timber as a lord take place,
A statue may put on a frown,
And cheat us with a thinking face.

Others are blindly led away,
And made to act for ends unknown,
By the mere spring of wires they play,
And speak in language not their own.

Too oft, alas! a scolding wife
Usurps a jolly fellow's throne,
And many drink the cup of life
Mix'd and embittered by a Joan.

In short, whatever men pursue
Of pleasure, folly, war, or love,
This mimic-race brings all to view,
Alike they dress, they talk, they move.

Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand,
Mortals to please and to deride,
And when death breaks thy vital band
Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride.

Thou shalt in puny wood be shown,
Thy image shall preserve thy fame,
Ages to come thy worth shall own,
Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name.

Tell Tom he draws a farce in vain,
Before he looks in nature's glass;
Puns cannot form a witty scene,
Nor pedantry for humour pass.

To make men act as senseless wood,
And chatter in a mystic strain,
Is a mere force on flesh and blood,
And shows some error in the brain.

He that would thus refine on thee,
And turn thy stage into a school,
The jest of Punch will ever be,
And stand confessed the greater fool.




CADENUS AND VANESSA.


_Written Anno 1713_.

The shepherds and the nymphs were seen
Pleading before the Cyprian Queen.
The counsel for the fair began
Accusing the false creature, man.

The brief with weighty crimes was charged,
On which the pleader much enlarged:
That Cupid now has lost his art,
Or blunts the point of every dart;
His altar now no longer smokes;
His mother's aid no youth invokes--
This tempts free-thinkers to refine,
And bring in doubt their powers divine,
Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money-league.
Which crimes aforesaid (with her leave)
Were (as he humbly did conceive)
Against our Sovereign Lady's peace,
Against the statutes in that case,
Against her dignity and crown:
Then prayed an answer and sat down.

The nymphs with scorn beheld their foes:
When the defendant's counsel rose,
And, what no lawyer ever lacked,
With impudence owned all the fact.
But, what the gentlest heart would vex,
Laid all the fault on t'other sex.
That modern love is no such thing
As what those ancient poets sing;
A fire celestial, chaste, refined,
Conceived and kindled in the mind,
Which having found an equal flame,
Unites, and both become the same,
In different breasts together burn,
Together both to ashes turn.
But women now feel no such fire,
And only know the gross desire;
Their passions move in lower spheres,
Where'er caprice or folly steers.
A dog, a parrot, or an ape,
Or some worse brute in human shape
Engross the fancies of the fair,
The few soft moments they can spare
From visits to receive and pay,
From scandal, politics, and play,
From fans, and flounces, and brocades,
From equipage and park-parades,
From all the thousand female toys,
From every trifle that employs
The out or inside of their heads
Between their toilets and their beds.

In a dull stream, which, moving slow,
You hardly see the current flow,
If a small breeze obstructs the course,
It whirls about for want of force,
And in its narrow circle gathers
Nothing but chaff, and straws, and feathers:
The current of a female mind
Stops thus, and turns with every wind;
Thus whirling round, together draws
Fools, fops, and rakes, for chaff and straws.
Hence we conclude, no women's hearts
Are won by virtue, wit, and parts;
Nor are the men of sense to blame
For breasts incapable of flame:
The fault must on the nymphs be placed,
Grown so corrupted in their taste.

The pleader having spoke his best,
Had witness ready to attest,
Who fairly could on oath depose,
When questions on the fact arose,
That every article was true;
_Nor further those deponents knew_:
Therefore he humbly would insist,
The bill might be with costs dismissed.

The cause appeared of so much weight,
That Venus from the judgment-seat
Desired them not to talk so loud,
Else she must interpose a cloud:
For if the heavenly folk should know
These pleadings in the Courts below,
That mortals here disdain to love,
She ne'er could show her face above.
For gods, their betters, are too wise
To value that which men despise.
"And then," said she, "my son and I
Must stroll in air 'twixt earth and sky:
Or else, shut out from heaven and earth,
Fly to the sea, my place of birth;
There live with daggled mermaids pent,
And keep on fish perpetual Lent. "

But since the case appeared so nice,
She thought it best to take advice.
The Muses, by their king's permission,
Though foes to love, attend the session,
And on the right hand took their places
In order; on the left, the Graces:
To whom she might her doubts propose
On all emergencies that rose.
The Muses oft were seen to frown;
The Graces half ashamed look down;
And 'twas observed, there were but few
Of either sex, among the crew,
Whom she or her assessors knew.
The goddess soon began to see
Things were not ripe for a decree,
And said she must consult her books,
The lovers' Fletas, Bractons, Cokes.
First to a dapper clerk she beckoned,
To turn to Ovid, book the second;
She then referred them to a place
In Virgil (_vide_ Dido's case);
As for Tibullus's reports,
They never passed for law in Courts:
For Cowley's brief, and pleas of Waller,
Still their authority is smaller.

There was on both sides much to say;
She'd hear the cause another day;
And so she did, and then a third,
She heard it--there she kept her word;
But with rejoinders and replies,
Long bills, and answers, stuffed with lies
Demur, imparlance, and essoign,
The parties ne'er could issue join:
For sixteen years the cause was spun,
And then stood where it first begun.

Now, gentle Clio, sing or say,
What Venus meant by this delay.
The goddess, much perplexed in mind,
To see her empire thus declined,
When first this grand debate arose
Above her wisdom to compose,
Conceived a project in her head,
To work her ends; which, if it sped,
Would show the merits of the cause
Far better than consulting laws.

In a glad hour Lucina's aid
Produced on earth a wondrous maid,
On whom the queen of love was bent
To try a new experiment.
She threw her law-books on the shelf,
And thus debated with herself:--

"Since men allege they ne'er can find
Those beauties in a female mind
Which raise a flame that will endure
For ever, uncorrupt and pure;
If 'tis with reason they complain,
This infant shall restore my reign.
I'll search where every virtue dwells,
From Courts inclusive down to cells.
What preachers talk, or sages write,
These I will gather and unite,
And represent them to mankind
Collected in that infant's mind.