Classic Poem

A Rustick once, on Travel bent,
To Oxford 's sacred Mansions went;
From Place to Place unheeded stray'd,
Where-e'er his wand'ring Fancy led.
By Chance at Length betray'd, he came
Near Bodley's ever-sacred Frame;
Where Two learn'd Clerks, in deep Debate,
Were settling Locke 's and Ary 's Fate.

Surrounded by a sneering Crowd,
The Stray in deep Attention stood.
'Till up there step'd a pert young Blade,
And thus his coxcomb Wit display'd.
Well honest Hob, how like you this?
Our Oxford Quirps and Quiddities?
This Latin Tongue has Charms, unknown
To the harsh Accent of our own.
Besides, the Lads are brisk and tight.
Which think you, Sir, is in the Right?
That matters not, replies the Clown,
If I can tell, who's in the Wrong.
Conceditur, rejoins our Spark,
For if ti'n't Light, you know, 'tis Dark.
But I impatient wait to hear,
Which your deep Judgment shall declare.
Then mark, reply'd th'unletter'd Sage,
The Man, that fell into a Rage.
Without much Latin , I proclaim,
His Notions wrong, and he to blame.
Ill-Humour, more express than Words,
Of this a flagrant Proof affords;
And that he's vex'd, within to find
The plain Conviction of his Mind.

MORAL

How oft' do angry Fools declare
Their Errors, in the learned War?
Obscure their Theme, their Matter deep,
From common Sense their Faults might keep.
But Passions, those unerring Signs,
Shew ev'ry Hob, where Truth inclines.