As in a  fine Machine,
Tho' many artful Springs are seen;
The added Movements, which declare,
How full the Moon, how old the Year,
Derive their secondary Pow'r
From that, which simply points the Hour.
For, tho' these Gim-cracks were away;
( would not swear; but  would say)
However more reduc'd and plain,
The Watch would still a Watch remain:
But if the  Orbite ceases;
The whole stands still, or breaks to pieces;
Is now no longer what it was;
And You may e'en go sell the Case.
So if unprejudic'd you scan
The Goings of this Clock-work, Man;
You find a hundred Movements made
By fine Devices in his Head:
But 'tis the Stomach's solid Stroke,
That tells his Being, what's a Clock.
If You take off his ;
He talks no more in Mood and Figure:
Or clog his ;
His Buildings fall; his Ship stands still.
Or lastly, break his ;
His Voice no longer rules the State.
Yet if these finer Whims were gone;
Your Clock, tho' plain, would still go on:
But spoil the Engine of Digestion;
And You entirely change the Question.
Affairs no Pow'r can mend;
The Jest, alas! is at an End:
Soon ceases all this worldly Bustle;
And you consign the Corps to .