AN EPISTLE FROM Dr. LITTLETON at Cambridge, To his Friend at Eton

You see, dear Sir, that I've found time, T' express my Sentiments in Rhime; For why, my Friend, should distant Parts, Or Time, disjoin united Hearts. What, tho' by intervening Space, Depriv'd of speaking Face to Face, By faithful emissary Letter We may converse as well, or better; And, not to stretch my narrow Fancy, To shew what pretty Things I can-say, Add Butler's Rhymes to Prior's Thoughts, And chuse to mimic all their Faults; By Head and Shoulders bring-in-a-Stick, To shew my Knack at Hudibrastick. I'll tell you, as a Friend and Crony, How here I spend my Time and Money. No more Majestic Virgil's Flights, Or Tow'ring Milton's loftier Heights, Or Courtly Horace's Rebukes, Who banters Vice, with Friendly Jokes, Or Cowley's Wit, or Congreve's Fire, Or all the Beauties that conspire To place the greenest Bays upon Th' immortal Brows of Addison, Or Prior's inimitable Ease, Or Pope's harmonious Numbers please; For I to Phoebus bid adieu, When last I took my Leave of you. Now Algebra, Geometry, Arithmetic, Astronomy, Optics, Chronology, and Statics, All tiresome Parts of Mathematics, With twenty harder Names than these, Disturb my Brains, and break my Peace. All seeming Inconsistencies, Are nicely solv'd by A's and B's. Should you the Poker want, and take it When it looks hot as Fire can make it, And burn your Finger, or your Coat, They'll stiffly tell you, 'tis not Hot. The Fire, they say, has in't, 'tis true, The Power of causing Pain in you; But not more Heat in Fire that heats you, Than there is Pain in Stick that beats you. And thus Philosophers expound The Names of Smell, and Taste, and Sound. Thus when the fam'd Faustina sings, Or Handel tunes the trembling strings, The Voice, they say, is untun'd Air, And all the Music's in the Ear. There's not a Man of us can tell That we have either Taste or Smell.

I hope, in a short time, to know Whether the Moon's a Cheese, or no; Whether a Man's in't, as some tell ye, Who stuffs, with Powder'd Beef, his Belly. No more—This, due to Friendship, take, Not barely writ for writing sake, For he who his Invention strains, To shew his Wit, and cracks his Brains, Merits his Madness for his Pains.