Collect at evening what the day brought forth,
Comprefs the fum into its folid worth,
And if it weigh the importance of a fly,
The scales are falfe, or algebra a lie.
Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few refpect or ufe thee as they ought!
But all fhall give account of every wrong,
Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue;
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,
Or fell their glory at a market price;
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.
There is a prurience in the speech of fome,
Wrath stays him, or elfe God would ftrike them
His wife forbearance has their end in view, [dumb:
They fill their measure, and receive their due.
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days,
Names almost worthy of a Christian praise,
Would drive them forth from the resort of men,
And shut up every fatyr in his den.

Oh come not ye near innocence and truth,
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!
Infectious as impure, your blighting power
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower;
Its odour perish'd and its charming hue,
Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for it smells of
Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage
Of adolefcence, or a firmer age,
Affords a plea allowable or just

you.

For making fpeech the pamperer of luft; But when the breath of age commits the fault, 'Tis naufeous as the vapour of a vault.

So wither'd stumps difgrace the fylvan scene,
No longer fruitful, and no longer green;
The faplefs wood, divested of the bark,
Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark.
Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife—
Some men have surely then a peaceful life!
Whatever fubject occupy discourse,

The feats of Veftris, or the naval force,
Affeveration bluftering in your face
Makes contradiction fuch a hopeless case:
In every tale they tell, or false or true,
Well known, or fuch as no man ever knew,
They fix attention, heedlefs of your pain,
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain;
And e'en when fober truth prevails throughout,
They fwear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
A Persian, humble fervant of the Sun,
Who though devout, yet bigotry had none,
Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address,
With adjurations every word imprefs,
Supposed the man a Bishop, or at least,
God's name fo much upon his lips, a priest;
Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs,
And begg'd an interest in his frequent prayers.
Go, quit the rank to which ye ftood preferr'd,

Henceforth affociate in one common herd;
Religion, virtue, reafon, common sense,
Pronounce your human form a false pretence;
A mere disguise, in which a devil lurks,
Who yet betrays his fecret by his works.

Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are, And make colloquial happiness your care,

Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,
A duel in the form of a debate.

The clash of arguments and jar of words,
Worfe than the mortal brunt of rival fwords,
Decide no queftion with their tedious length,
For oppofition gives opinion ftrength,
Divert the champions prodigal of breath,
And put the peaceably difpofed to death.
O thwart me not, Sir Soph. at every turn,
Nor carp at every flaw you may difcern;
Though fyllogifms hang not on my tongue,
I am not furely always in the wrong;
"Tis hard if all is falfe that I advance,

A fool must now and then be right by chance.
Not that all freedom of diffent I blame;
No-there I grant the privilege I claim.
A difputable point is no man's ground;
Rove where you please, 'tis common all around.
Difcourfe may want an animated No,

To brush the furface, and to make it flow;
But still remember, if you mean to please,
To prefs your point with modefty and ease.
The mark, at which my jufter aim I take,
Is contradiction for its own dear fake.
Set your opinion at whatever pitch,

Knots and impediments make fomething hitch;
Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain,

Your thread of argument is fnapp'd again; The wrangler, rather than accord with you, Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. Vociferated logic kills me quite,

A noify man is always in the right.

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful ftare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly-To be fure-no doubt!
Dubius is fuch a fcrupulous good man-
Yes-you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Affert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably flow,

He humbly hopes-presumes—it may be so.
His evidence, if he were call'd by law
To fwear to fome enormity he faw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not ;
What he remembers feems to have forgot;
His fole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,

Centring at last in having none at all.

Yet, though he tease and baulk your listening ear,
He makes one ufeful point exceeding clear;
Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme
A sceptic in philofophy may feem,
Reduced to practice, his beloved rule
Would only prove him a consummate fool;
Useless in him alike both brain and speech,
Fate having placed all truth above his reach,
His ambiguities his total fum,

He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb.
Where men of judgment creep and feel their
The pofitive pronounce without dismay; [way,

Their want of light and intellect fupplied

By sparks abfurdity ftrikes out of pride.
Without the means of knowing right from wrong,

They always are decifive, clear, and strong.
Where others toil with philofophic force,
Their nimble nonfenfe takes a fhorter courfe;
Flings at your head conviction in the lump,
And gains remote conclufions at a jump:
Their own defect, invisible to them,
Seen in another, they at once condemn;
And, though felf-idolized in every cafe,
Hate their own likeness in a brother's face.
The cause is plain, and not to be denied,
The proud are always moft provoked by pride.
Few competitions but engender spite;

And those the most, where neither has a right.

The point of honour has been deem'd of use, To teach good manners, and to curb abuse: Admit it true, the confequence is clear,

Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear,
And at the bottom barbarous ftill and rude;
We are restrain'd indeed, but not fubdued.
The very remedy, however fure,
Springs from the mischief it intends to cure,
And favage in its principle appears,
Tried, as it fhould be, by the fruit it bears.
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end;
That now and then a hero must decease,
That the furviving world may live in peace.
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show
The practice daftardly, and mean, and low;