Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/47

Rh Though I should see him twice a day, And am his neighbour cross the way; If all my rhetorick must fail To strike him for a pot of ale? Thus, when the learned and the wise Conceal their talents from our eyes, And from deserving friends withhold Their gifts, as misers do their gold; Their knowledge to themselves confin'd Is the same avarice of mind; Nor makes their conversation better, Than if they never knew a letter. Such is the fate of Gosford's knight, Who keeps his wisdom out of sight; Whose uncommunicative heart Will scarce one precious word impart: Still rapt in speculations deep, His outward senses fast asleep; Who, while I talk, a song will hum, Or, with his fingers, beat the drum; Beyond the skies transports his mind, And leaves a lifeless corpse behind. But, as for me, who ne'er could clamber high, To understand Malebranche or Cambray; Who send my mind (as I believe) less Than others do, on errands sleeveless; Can listen to a tale humdrum, And with attention read Tom Thumb; My spirits with my body progging, Both hand in hand together jogging; Sunk over head and ears in matter, Nor can of metaphysicks smatter; Am more diverted with a quibble Than dream of words intelligible; Rh