All their religion will be spent
About thy woven monument,
And not one orison be sent
to Jove, sir.
You the fam'd idol will become,
As gardens grac'd in ancient Rome,
By matrons worship'd in the gloom
of night:
O happy Dan! thrice happy sure!
Thy fame for ever shall endure,
Who after death can love secure
at sight.
So far I thought it was my duty
To dwell upon thy boasted beauty;
Now I'll proceed a word or two t' ye
in answer
To that part where you carry on
This paradox, that rock and stone
In your opinion are all one:
How can, sir,
A man of reasoning so profound
So stupidly be run aground,
As things so different to confound
t' our senses?
Except you judg'd them by the knock
Of near an equal hardy block:
Such an experimental stroke
convinces.
Then might you be, by dint of reason,
A proper judge on this occasion;
'Gainst feeling there's no disputation,
is granted:
Therefore
