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THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
Logicians have but ill definid As rational the human mind : 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 eft ratione preditum; 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 mortal's pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'emDeus eft anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for asault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O’er plains they ramble unconfin'd, No politics disturb their mind; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who's in or out at coạrt; They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
Good people all, of every fort,
Give ear unto my song;
It cannot hold you long.
In Illington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes ;
When he put on his cloaths.
As many dogs there be-
And curs of low degree.
But when a pique began,
Went mad, and bit the man.
The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both fore and fad
To every christian eye;
They swore the man would die.
That shew'd the rogues they ly'd The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that dy'd.
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise. The needy feldom pass’d her door,
And always found her kind;
Who left a pledge behind.
With manners wond'rous winning,
Unless when she was sinning.
With hoop of monstrous size;
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was fought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
Her last disorder mortal.
For Kent-street well may say,
She had not dy'd to-day.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND
Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can walh her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.