Whether the Moon be sea or land,
Or charcoal, or a quench'd firebrand;
Or if the dark holes that appear,
Are only pores, not cities, there?
Whether the atmosphere turn round,
And keep a just pace with the ground,
Or loiter lazily behind,

And clog the air with gusts of wind?
Or whether crescents in the wane
(For so an author has it plain)
Do burn quite out, or wear away
Their snuffs upon the edge of day?
Whether the sea increase, or waste,
And, if it do, how long 'twill last?
Or, if the sun approaches near
The earth, how soon it will be there?
These were their learned speculations,
And all their constant occupations,
To measure wind, and weigh the air,
And turn a circle to a square;
To make a powder of the sun,
By which all doctors should b' undone;
To find the north-west passage out,
Although the farthest way about;
If chemists from a rose's ashes
Can raise the rose itself in glasses?
Whether the line of incidence
Rise from the object, or the sense?
To stew th' elixir in a bath

Of hope, credulity, and faith;

To explicate, by subtle hints,
The grain of diamonds and flints,
And in the braying of an ass
Find out the treble and the bass;
If mares neigh alto, and a cow
A double diapason low.

REPARTEES BETWEEN CAT AND PUSS

AT A CATERWAULING.

IN THE MODERN

HEROIC WAY.

It was about the middle age of night,

When half the earth stood in the other's light,
And Sleep, Death's brother, yet a friend to life,
Gave weary'd Nature a restorative,

When Puss, wrapt warm in his own native furs,
Dreamt soundly of as soft and warm amours,
Of making gallantry in gutter-tiles,
And sporting on delightful faggot-piles;

Repartees.] This poem is a satirical banter upon those heroic plays which were so much in vogue at the time our Author lived; the dialogues of which, having what they called Heroic Love for their subject, are carried on exactly in this strain, as any one may perceive that will consult the dramatic pieces of Dryden, Settlo, and others.

Of bolting out of bushes in the dark,
As ladies use at midnight in the Park,
Or seeking in tall garrets an alcove,
For assignations in th' affairs of love.
At once his passion was both false and true,
And the more false, the more in earnest grew.
He fancy'd that he heard those am'rous charms
That us'd to summon him to soft alarms,
To which he always brought an equal flame,
To fight a rival, or to court a dame;

And as in dreams love's raptures are more taking
Than all their actual enjoyments waking,

His am'rous passion grew to that extreme,
His dream itself awak'd him from his dream.
Thought he, What place is this? or whither art
Thou vanish'd from me, mistress of my heart?
But now I had her in this very place,
Here, fast imprison'd in my glad embrace,
And while my joys beyond themselves were rapt.
I know not how, nor whither, thou 'rt escap'd:
Stay, and I'll follow thee

With that he leapt

Up from the lazy couch on which he slept,

And, wing'd with passion, thro' his known purlieu,
Swift as an arrow from a bow he flew,

Nor stopp'd, until his fire had him convey'd
Where many an assignation he 'ad enjoy'd ;
Where finding, what he sought, a mutual flame,
That long had stay'd, and call'd before he came,
Impatient of delay, without one word,
To lose no further time, he fell aboard,

But grip'd so hard, he wounded what he lov'd,
While she, in anger, thus his heat reprov'd.
C. Forbear, foul ravisher, this rude address;
Canst thou, at once, both injure and caress?
P. Thou hast bewitch'd me with thy pow'rful
charms,

And I, by drawing blood, would cure my harms.
C. He that does love would set his heart a-tilt,
Ere one drop of his lady's should be spilt.
P. Your wounds are but without, and mine within:
You wound my heart, and I but prick your skin;
And while your eyes pierce deeper than my claws
You blame th' effect, of which you are the cause.
C. How could my guiltless eyes your heart invade,
Had it not first been by your own betray'd?
Hence 'tis my greatest crime has only been
(Not in mine eyes, but yours) in being seen.
P. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
C. That's worse than making cruelty a sport.
P. Pain is the foil of pleasure and delight,
That sets it off to a more noble height.

C. He buys his pleasure at a rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his pain.

P. Pain is more dear than pleasure when 'tis past.
C. But grows intolerable if it last.

P. Love is too full of honour to regard

What it enjoys, but suffers as reward.

What knight durst ever own a lover's name, That had not been half murther'd by his flame? Or lady, that had never lain at stake,

To death, or force of rivals, for his sake?
C. When love does meet with injury and pain,
Disdain 's the only med'cine for disdain.
P. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being pleas'd, and in displeasing you.
C. Prepost'rous way of pleasure and of love,
That contrary to its own end would move!
'Tis rather hate that covets to destroy;
Love's business is to love, and to enjoy.
P. Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As flames destroy that which they feed upon.
C. He never lov'd at any gen'rous rate,
That in th' enjoyment found his flame abate.
As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make
The thirst more violent it pretends to slake,
So should fruition do the lover's fire,

Instead of lessening, inflame desire.

P. What greater proof that passion does transport
When what I would die for I'm forced to hurt?
C. Death, among lovers, is a thing despis'd,
And far below a sullen humour priz'd,

That is more scorn'd and rail'd at than the gods,
When they are cross'd in love, or fall at odds:
But since you understand not what you do,
I am the judge of what I feel, not you.
P. Passion begins indifferent to prove,
When love considers any thing but love.

C. The darts of love, like lightning, wound within,
And, though they pierce it, never hurt the skin;
They leave no marks behind them where they fly,