That old Philosopher grew cross,
Who could not tell what Motion was:
Because He walk'd against his Will;
He fac'd Men down, that He stood still.
And He who reading on the Heart,
(When all his  of Art
Could not expound it's Pulse and Heat)
Swore, He had never felt it beat.
, foil'd by ,
Makes bold ( bless Him!) to assure Us,
That all things, which our Mind can view,
May be at once both false, and true.
And  has an odd Conceit,
As ever enter'd  Pate:
Says He, so little can our Mind
Of Matter, or of Spirit find,
That We by Guess, at least, may gather
Something, which may be Both, or Neither.
Faith, , I must confess, 'tis true
(But this is only )
That many knotty Points there are,
Which All discuss, but Few can clear:
As Nature slily had thought fit,
For some by-Ends, to cross-bite Wit.
Circles to square, and Cubes to double,
Would give a Man excessive Trouble:
The Longitude uncertain roams,
In spight of  and his Bombs.
What , , has right averr'd
The Cause, why Woman has no Beard;
Or why, as Years our Frame attack,
Our Hair grows white, our Teeth grow black?
In Points like These We must agree,
Our Barber knows as much as We.
Yet still unable to explain,
We must persist the best We can;
With Care our  still renew,
And prove Things likely, tho' not true.