diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 14353-0.txt | 15491 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 14353-h/14353-h.htm | 17406 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/14353-8.txt | 15884 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/14353-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 242485 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/14353-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 257061 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/14353-h/14353-h.htm | 17807 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/14353.txt | 15884 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/14353.zip | bin | 0 -> 242323 bytes |
11 files changed, 82488 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14353-0.txt b/14353-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fec0d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/14353-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15491 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14353 *** + +THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., VOLUME I + +Edited by + +WILLIAM ERNST BROWNING + +Barrister, Inner Temple +Author of "The Life of Lord Chesterfield" + +London +G. Bell and Sons, Ltd. + +1910 + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Jonathan Swift +From the bust by Cunningham in St. Patrick's Cathedral] + + + + +PREFACE + +The works of Jonathan Swift in prose and verse so mutually illustrate +each other, that it was deemed indispensable, as a complement to the +standard edition of the Prose Works, to issue a revised edition of the +Poems, freed from the errors which had been allowed to creep into the +text, and illustrated with fuller explanatory notes. My first care, +therefore, in preparing the Poems for publication, was to collate them +with the earliest and best editions available, and this I have done. + +But, thanks to the diligence of the late John Forster, to whom every +lover of Swift must confess the very greatest obligation, I have been +able to do much more. I have been able to enrich this edition with some +pieces not hitherto brought to light--notably, the original version of +"Baucis and Philemon," in addition to the version hitherto printed; the +original version of the poem on "Vanbrugh's House"; the verses entitled +"May Fair"; and numerous variations and corrections of the texts of +nearly all the principal poems, due to Forster's collation of them with +the transcripts made by Stella, which were found by him at Narford +formerly the seat of Swift's friend, Sir Andrew Fountaine--see Forster's +"Life of Swift," of which, unfortunately, he lived to publish only the +first volume. From Swift's own copy of the "Miscellanies in Prose and +Verse," 1727-32, with notes in his own handwriting, sold at auction last +year, I was able to make several corrections of the poems contained in +those four volumes, which serve to show how Swift laboured his works, and +revised and improved them whenever he had an opportunity of doing so. It +is a mistake to suppose that he was indifferent to literary fame: on the +contrary, he kept some of his works in manuscript for years in order to +perfect them for publication, of which "The Tale of a Tub," "Gulliver's +Travels," and the "Verses on his own Death" are examples. + +I am indebted to Miss Wilmot-Chetwode, of Wordbrooke, for the loan of a +manuscript volume, from which I obtained some various readings. By the +advice of Mr. Elrington Ball, I applied to the librarians of Trinity +College and of the National Library, and from the latter I received a +number of pieces; but I found that the harvest had already been reaped so +fully, that there was nothing left to glean which could with certainty be +ascribed to Swift. On the whole, I believe that this edition of the Poems +will be found as complete as it is now possible to make it. + +In the arrangement of the poems, I have adopted nearly the same order as +in the Aldine edition, for the pieces seem to fall naturally into those +divisions; but with this difference, that I have placed the pieces in +their chronological order in each division. With regard to the notes in +illustration of the text, many of them in the Dublin editions were +evidently written by Swift, especially the notes to the "Verses on his +own Death." And as to the notes of previous editors, I have retained them +so far as they were useful and correct: but to many of them I have made +additions or alterations wherever, on reference to the authorities cited, +or to other works, correction became necessary. For my own notes, I can +only say that I have sought to make them concise, appropriate to the +text, and, above all, accurate. + +Swift and the educated men of his time thought in the classics, and his +poems, as well as those of his friends, abound with allusions to the +Greek and Roman authors, especially to the latter. I have given all the +references, and except in the imitations and paraphrases of so familiar a +writer as Horace, I have appended the Latin text. Moreover, Swift was, +like Sterne, very fond of curious and recondite reading, in which it is +not always easy to track him without some research; but I believe that I +have not failed to illustrate any matter that required elucidation. + +W. E. B. + +May 1910. + + +CONTENTS OF VOLUME I + + +Introduction xv + +Ode to Doctor William Sancroft +Ode to Sir William Temple +Ode to King William +Ode to The Athenian Society +To Mr. Congreve +Occasioned by Sir William Temple's late illness and recovery +Written in a Lady's Ivory Table Book +Mrs. Frances Harris's Petition +A Ballad on the game of Traffic +A Ballad to the tune of the Cutpurse +The Discovery +The Problem +The Description of a Salamander +To Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough +On the Union +On Mrs. Biddy Floyd +The Reverse +Apollo Outwitted +Answer to Lines from May Fair +Vanbrugh's House +Vanbrugh's House +Baucis and Philemon +Baucis and Philemon +The History of Vanbrugh's House +A Grub Street Elegy +The Epitaph +A Description of the Morning +A Description of a City Shower +On the Little House +A Town Eclogue +A Conference +To Lord Harley on his Marriage +Phyllis +Horace, Book IV, Ode ix +To Mr. Delany +An Elegy +To Mrs. Houghton +Verses written on a Window +On another Window +Apollo to the Dean +News from Parnassus +Apollo's Edict +The Description of an Irish Feast +The Progress of Beauty +The Progress of Marriage +The Progress of Poetry +The South Sea Project +Fabula Canis et Umbrae +A Prologue +Epilogue +Prologue +Epilogue +Answer to Prologue and Epilogue +On Gaulstown House +The Country Life +Dr. Delany's Villa +On one of the Windows at Delville +Carberiae Rupes +Carbery Rocks +Copy of the Birthday Verses on Mr. Ford +On Dreams +Dr. Delany to Dr. Swift +The Answer +A Quiet Life and a Good Name +Advice +A Pastoral Dialogue +Desire and Possession +On Censure +The Furniture of a Woman's Mind +Clever Tom Clinch +Dr. Swift to Mr. Pope +A Love Poem +Bouts Rimez +Helter Skelter +The Puppet Show +The Journal of a Modern Lady +The Logicians Refuted +The Elephant; or the Parliament Man +Paulus; an Epigram +The Answer +A Dialogue +On burning a dull Poem +An excellent new Ballad +On Stephen Duck +The Lady's Dressing Room +The Power of Time +Cassinus and Peter +A Beautiful young Nymph +Strephon and Chloe +Apollo; or a Problem solved +The Place of the Damned +The Day of Judgment +Judas +An Epistle to Mr. Gay +To a Lady +Epigram on Busts in Richmond Hermitage +Another +A Conclusion from above Epigrams +Swift's Answer +To Swift on his Birthday with a Paper Book from the Earl of Orrery +Verses on Swift's Birthday with a Silver Standish +Verses occasioned by foregoing Presents +Verses sent to the Dean with an Eagle quill +An Invitation, by Dr. Delany +The Beasts' Confession +The Parson's Case +The hardship upon the Ladies +A Love Song +The Storm +Ode on Science +A Young Lady's Complaint +On the Death of Dr. Swift +On Poetry, a Rhapsody +Verses sent to the Dean on his Birthday +Epigram by Mr. Bowyer +On Psyche +The Dean and Duke +Written by Swift on his own Deafness +The Dean's Complaint +The Dean's manner of living +Epigram by Mr. Bowyer +Verses made for Fruit Women +On Rover, a Lady's Spaniel +Epigrams on Windows +To Janus, on New Year's Day +A Motto for Mr. Jason Hasard +To a Friend +Catullus de Lesbia +On a Curate's complaint of hard duty +To Betty, the Grisette +Epigram from the French +Epigram +Epigram added by Stella +Joan cudgels Ned +Verses on two modern Poets +Epitaph on General Gorges and Lady Meath +Verses on I know not what +Dr. Swift to himself +An Answer to a Friend's question +Epitaph +Epitaph +Verses written during Lord Carteret's administration +An Apology to Lady Carteret +The Birth of Manly Virtue +On Paddy's Character of the "Intelligencer" +An Epistle to Lord Carteret by Delany +An Epistle upon an Epistle +A Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret +To Dr. Delany +Directions for a Birthday Song +The Pheasant and the Lark by Delany +Answer to Delany's Fable +Dean Smedley's Petition to the Duke of Grafton +The Duke's Answer by Swift +Parody on a character of Dean Smedley + + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Dr. Johnson, in his "Life of Swift," after citing with approval Delany's +character of him, as he describes him to Lord Orrery, proceeds to say: +"In the poetical works there is not much upon which the critic can +exercise his powers. They are often humorous, almost always light, and +have the qualities which recommend such compositions, easiness and +gaiety. They are, for the most part, what their author intended. The +diction is correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There +seldom occurs a hard laboured expression or a redundant epithet; all his +verses exemplify his own definition of a good style--they consist of +'proper words in proper places.'" + +Of his earliest poems it is needless to say more than that if nothing +better had been written by him than those Pindaric Pieces, after the +manner of Cowley--then so much in vogue--the remark of Dryden, "Cousin +Swift, you will never be a Poet," would have been fully justified. But +conventional praise and compliments were foreign to his nature, for his +strongest characteristic was his intense sincerity. He says of himself +that about that time he had writ and burnt and writ again upon all manner +of subjects more than perhaps any man in England; and it is certainly +remarkable that in so doing his true genius was not sooner developed, for +it was not till he became chaplain in Lord Berkeley's household that his +satirical humour was first displayed--at least in verse--in "Mrs. Frances +Harris' Petition."--His great prose satires, "The Tale of a Tub," and +"Gulliver's Travels," though planned, were reserved to a later time.--In +other forms of poetry he soon afterwards greatly excelled, and the title +of poet cannot be refused to the author of "Baucis and Philemon"; the +verses on "The Death of Dr. Swift"; the "Rhapsody on Poetry"; "Cadenus +and Vanessa"; "The Legion Club"; and most of the poems addressed to +Stella, all of which pieces exhibit harmony, invention, and imagination. + +Swift has been unduly censured for the coarseness of his language upon +Certain topics; but very little of this appears in his earlier poems, and +what there is, was in accordance with the taste of the period, which +never hesitated to call a spade a spade, due in part to the reaction from +the Puritanism of the preceding age, and in part to the outspeaking +frankness which disdained hypocrisy. It is shown in Dryden, Pope, Prior, +of the last of whom Johnson said that no lady objected to have his poems +in her library; still more in the dramatists of that time, whom Charles +Lamb has so humorously defended, and in the plays of Mrs. Aphra Behn, +who, as Pope says, "fairly puts all characters to bed." But whatever +coarseness there may be in some of Swift's poems, such as "The Lady's +Dressing Room," and a few other pieces, there is nothing licentious, +nothing which excites to lewdness; on the contrary, such pieces create +simply a feeling of repulsion. No one, after reading the "Beautiful young +Nymph going to bed," or "Strephon and Chloe," would desire any personal +acquaintance with the ladies, but there is a moral in these pieces, and +the latter poem concludes with excellent matrimonial advice. The +coarseness of some of his later writings must be ascribed to his +misanthropical hatred of the "animal called man," as expressed in his +famous letter to Pope of September 1725, aggravated as it was by his +exile from the friends he loved to a land he hated, and by the reception +he met with there, about which he speaks very freely in his notes to the +"Verses on his own Death." + +On the morning of Swift's installation as Dean, the following scurrilous +lines by Smedley, Dean of Clogher, were affixed to the doors of St. +Patrick's Cathedral: + +To-day this Temple gets a Dean + Of parts and fame uncommon, +Us'd both to pray and to prophane, + To serve both God and mammon. +When Wharton reign'd a Whig he was; + When Pembroke--that's dispute, Sir; +In Oxford's time, what Oxford pleased, + Non-con, or Jack, or Neuter. +This place he got by wit and rhime, + And many ways most odd, +And might a Bishop be in time, + Did he believe in God. +Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray, + On thine own church and steeple; +Convert thy Dean on this great day, + Or else God help the people. +And now, whene'er his Deanship dies, + Upon his stone be graven, +A man of God here buried lies, + Who never thought of heaven. + +It was by these lines that Smedley earned for himself a niche in "The +Dunciad." For Swift's retaliation, see the poems relating to Smedley at +the end of the first volume, and in volume ii, at p. 124, note. + +This bitterness of spirit reached its height in "Gulliver's Travels," +surely the severest of all satires upon humanity, and writ, as he tells +us, not to divert, but to vex the world; and ultimately, in the fierce +attack upon the Irish Parliament in the poem entitled "The Legion Club," +dictated by his hatred of tyranny and oppression, and his consequent +passion for exhibiting human nature in its most degraded aspect. + +But, notwithstanding his misanthropical feelings towards mankind in +general, and his "scorn of fools by fools mistook for pride," there never +existed a warmer or sincerer friend to those whom he loved--witness the +regard in which he was held by Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, +and Congreve, and his readiness to assist those who needed his help, +without thought of party or politics. Although, in some of his poems, +Swift rather severely exposed the follies and frailties of the fair sex, +as in "The Furniture of a Woman's Mind," and "The Journal of a Modern +Lady," he loved the companionship of beautiful and accomplished women, +amongst whom he could count some of his dearest and truest friends; but + He loved to be bitter at + A lady illiterate; +and therefore delighted in giving them literary instruction, most notably +in the cases of Stella and Vanessa, whose relations with him arose +entirely from the tuition in letters which they received from him. Again, +when on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, he insisted upon making Lady +Acheson read such books as he thought fit to advise, and in the doggerel +verses entitled "My Lady's Lamentation," she is supposed to resent his +"very imperious" manner of instruction: + +No book for delight +Must come in my sight; +But instead of new plays, +Dull Bacon's Essays, +And pore every day on +That nasty Pantheon. + +As a contrast to his imperiousness, there is an affectionate simplicity +in the fancy names he used to bestow upon his female friends. Sir William +Temple's wife, Dorothea, became Dorinda; Esther Johnson, Stella; Hester +Vanhomrigh, Vanessa; Lady Winchelsea, Ardelia; while to Lady Acheson he +gave the nicknames of Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean. But all was taken by +them in good part; for his rather dictatorial ways were softened by the +fascinating geniality and humour which he knew so well how to employ when +he used to "deafen them with puns and rhyme." + +Into the vexed question of the relations between Swift and Stella I do +not purpose to enter further than to record my conviction that she was +never more to him than "the dearest friend that ever man had." The +suggestion of a concealed marriage is so inconsistent with their whole +conduct to each other from first to last, that if there had been such a +marriage, instead of Swift having been, as he was, a man of _intense +sincerity_, he must be held to have been a most consummate hypocrite. +In my opinion, Churton Collins settled this question in his essays on +Swift, first published in the "Quarterly Review," 1881 and 1882. Swift's +relation with Vanessa is the saddest episode in his life. The story is +amply told in his poem, "Cadenus and Vanessa," and in the letters which +passed between them: how the pupil became infatuated with her tutor; how +the tutor endeavoured to dispel her passion, but in vain, by reason; and +how, at last, she died from love for the man who was unable to give love +in return. That Swift ought, as soon as Hester disclosed her passion for +him, at once to have broken off the intimacy, must be conceded; but how +many men possessed of his kindness of heart would have had the courage to +have acted otherwise than he did? Swift seems, in fact, to have been +constitutionally incapable of the _passion_ of love, for he says, +himself, that he had never met the woman he wished to marry. His annual +tributes to Stella on her birthdays express the strongest regard and +esteem, but he "ne'er admitted love a guest," and he had been so long +used to this Platonic affection, that he had come to regard women as +friends, but never as lovers. Stella, on her part, had the same feeling, +for she never expressed the least discontent at her position, or ever +regarded Swift otherwise than as her tutor, her counsellor, her friend. +In her verses to him on his birthday, 1721, she says: + + Long be the day that gave you birth +Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth; +Late dying may you cast a shred +Of your rich mantle o'er my head; +To bear with dignity my sorrow +One day alone, then die tomorrow. + +Stella naturally expected to survive Swift, but it was not to be. She +died in the evening of the 28th January 1727-8; and on the same night he +began the affecting piece, "On the Death of Mrs. Johnson." (See "Prose +Works," vol. xi.) + +With the death of Stella, Swift's real happiness ended, and he became +more and more possessed by the melancholy which too often accompanies the +broadest humour, and which, in his case, was constitutional. It was, no +doubt, to relieve it, that he resorted to the composition of the doggerel +verses, epigrams, riddles, and trifles exchanged betwixt himself and +Sheridan, which induced Orrery's remark that "Swift composing Riddles is +Titian painting draught-boards;" on which Delany observes that "a Riddle +may be as fine painting as any other in the world. It requires as strong +an imagination, as fine colouring, and as exact a proportion and keeping +as any other historical painting"; and he instances "Pethox the Great," +and should also have alluded to the more learned example--"Louisa to +Strephon." + +On Orrery's seventh Letter, Delany says that if some of the "coin is +base," it is the fine impression and polish which adds value to it, and +cites the saying of another nobleman, that "there is indeed some stuff +in it, but it is Swift's stuff." It has been said that Swift has never +taken a thought from any writer ancient or modern. This is not literally +true, but the instances are not many, and in my notes I have pointed out +the lines snatched from Milton, Denham, Butler--the last evidently a +great favourite. + +It seems necessary to state shortly the causes of Swift not having +obtained higher preferment. Besides that Queen Anne would never be +reconciled to the author of the "Tale of a Tub"--the true purport of +which was so ill-understood by her--he made an irreconcilable enemy of +her friend, the Duchess of Somerset, by his lampoon entitled "The Windsor +Prophecy." But Swift seldom allowed prudence to restrain his wit and +humour, and admits of himself that he "had too much satire in his vein"; +and that "a genius in the reverend gown must ever keep its owner down"; +and says further: + +Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; +He reconciled divinity and wit. + +But that was what his enemies could not do. + +Whatever the excellences and defects of the poems, Swift has erected, not +only by his works, but by his benevolence and his charities, a +_monumentum aere perennius,_ and his writings in prose and verse +will continue to afford instruction and delight when the malevolence of +Jeffrey, the misrepresentations of Macaulay, and the sneers and false +statements of Thackeray shall have been forgotten. + + + + + +#POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT# + +ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] +LATE LORD BISHOP OF CANTERBURY + +WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, +AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY + + +I + +Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven, + Bright effluence of th'immortal ray, +Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven, +Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day; + First of God's darling attributes, + Thou daily seest him face to face, +Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance + Of time or place, +Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance; + How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes? + How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd, + Or a weak argument by force maintain'd? +In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words, +(For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,) + Contrived to tire all patience out, + And not to satisfy the doubt? + + +II + + But where is even thy Image on our earth? + For of the person much I fear, +Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth, +And God himself has said, He shall not find it here. +For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade, +By dark reverted rays from its reflection made; + Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass, + Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass; + Which all the mimic forms express, +Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress; + So when Cartesian artists try + To solve appearances of sight + In its reception to the eye, +And catch the living landscape through a scanty light, + The figures all inverted show, + And colours of a faded hue; + Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads, + And men seem walking on their heads; + There whole herds suspended lie, + Ready to tumble down into the sky; + Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go + To judge of things above by things below. +Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams, + Or images that sink in streams; + No wonder, then, we talk amiss + Of truth, and what, or where it is; + Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st, +Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost? + + +III + +If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be +(High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee, + If a mind fix'd to combat fate +With those two powerful swords, submission and humility, + Sounds truly good, or truly great; +Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest, + In the divinity of retreat, + Be not the brightest pattern earth can show + Of heaven-born Truth below; + But foolish man still judges what is best + In his own balance, false and light, + Following opinion, dark and blind, + That vagrant leader of the mind, +Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight. + + +IV + +And some, to be large ciphers in a state, +Pleased with an empty swelling to be counted great, +Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space, + Rapt through the wide expanse of thought, + And oft in contradiction's vortex caught, +To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place; +Errors like this did old astronomers misguide, +Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride, + Who, like hard masters, taught the sun + Through many a heedless sphere to run, +Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make, + And thousand incoherent journeys take, + Whilst all th'advantage by it got, + Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. +The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state + Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, +Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still; +But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate, + By gazing upward giddy grow, + And think the church itself does so; + Thus fools, for being strong and num'rous known, + Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own; +And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears, + Because 'tis opposite to theirs. + + +V + +In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise, + Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies + In gath'ring follies from the wise; + Rather put on thy anger and thy spite, + And some kind power for once dispense + Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense, +To make them understand, and feel me when I write; + The muse and I no more revenge desire, +Each line shall stab, shall blast, like daggers and like fire; + Ah, Britain, land of angels! which of all thy sins, + (Say, hapless isle, although + It is a bloody list we know,) +Has given thee up a dwelling-place to fiends? + Sin and the plague ever abound +In governments too easy, and too fruitful ground; + Evils which a too gentle king, + Too flourishing a spring, + And too warm summers bring: + Our British soil is over rank, and breeds + Among the noblest flowers a thousand pois'nous weeds, + And every stinking weed so lofty grows, + As if 'twould overshade the Royal Rose; + The Royal Rose, the glory of our morn, + But, ah! too much without a thorn. + + +VI + +Forgive (original mildness) this ill-govern'd zeal, +'Tis all the angry slighted Muse can do + In the pollution of these days; + No province now is left her but to rail, + And poetry has lost the art to praise, + Alas, the occasions are so few: + None e'er but you, + And your Almighty Master, knew + With heavenly peace of mind to bear +(Free from our tyrant passions, anger, scorn, or fear) +The giddy turns of popular rage, +And all the contradictions of a poison'd age; + The Son of God pronounced by the same breath + Which straight pronounced his death; + And though I should but ill be understood, + In wholly equalling our sin and theirs, + And measuring by the scanty thread of wit + What we call holy, and great, and just, and good, +(Methods in talk whereof our pride and ignorance make use,) + And which our wild ambition foolishly compares + With endless and with infinite; + Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say, +Among thy stubborn sons there haunts that spirit of the Jews, + That those forsaken wretches who to-day + Revile his great ambassador, + Seem to discover what they would have done + (Were his humanity on earth once more) +To his undoubted Master, Heaven's Almighty Son. + + +VII + +But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wondrous proud, + Though very turbulent and very loud; + The crazy composition shows, +Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes, + Made up of iron mixt with clay, + This crumbles into dust, + That moulders into rust, + Or melts by the first shower away. +Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know, +Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so; + And those, alas, do show, + Like all transcendent excellence below; + In both, false mediums cheat our sight, +And far exalted objects lessen by their height: + Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high + To be observed by vulgar eye, + And rolls the silent year + On his own secret regular sphere, +And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here. + + +VIII + +Kind star, still may'st thou shed thy sacred influence here, + Or from thy private peaceful orb appear; + For, sure, we want some guide from Heaven, to show + The way which every wand'ring fool below + Pretends so perfectly to know; + And which, for aught I see, and much I fear, + The world has wholly miss'd; + I mean the way which leads to Christ: +Mistaken idiots! see how giddily they run, + Led blindly on by avarice and pride, + What mighty numbers follow them; + Each fond of erring with his guide: + Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son + In Caesar's court, or in Jerusalem: + Others, ignorantly wise, +Among proud doctors and disputing Pharisees: +What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn; + Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said +That Heaven's high Son was in a village born; + That the world's Saviour had been + In a vile manger laid, + And foster'd in a wretched inn? + + +IX + +Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, +Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state; + Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste, + To mend dilapidations in the last? +And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince, + Thinks Heaven has cancell'd all our sins, +And that his subjects share his happy influence; +Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should, +But wicked kings draw more examples than the good: + And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight +Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress'd, + Finding the mitre almost grown + A load as heavy as the crown, + Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest. + + +X + + Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state, + Nor hurricano from the crown, +Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late, + Which, in its dusky march along the plain, + Swept up whole churches as it list, + Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist; +Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, + And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. + Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne; + The mitre, which his sacred head has worn, +Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn. +Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last, + The bitter cup is from him past: + Fortune in both extremes + Though blasts from contrariety of winds, + Yet to firm heavenly minds, +Is but one thing under two different names; +And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seen, + Confesses ignorance to judge between; +And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, +To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude. + + +XI + +Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, + Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat; + Short glimm'rings of the prelate glorified; +Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide. + Why should the Sun, alas! be proud + To lodge behind a golden cloud? +Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay, +'Tis but a low-born vapour kindled by a ray: + At length 'tis overblown and past, + Puff'd by the people's spiteful blast, +The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, + No deflower'd eye can face the naked light: + Yet does this high perfection well proceed + From strength of its own native seed, +This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, + Bears one, and but one branch of gold, + Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove, +And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve, +To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; + For, whate'er theologic levellers dream, + There are degrees above, I know, + As well as here below, + (The goddess Muse herself has told me so), + Where high patrician souls, dress'd heavenly gay, + Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day. +There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given, + In the metropolis of Heaven; +Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, + Translated to archangel there. + + +XII + +Since, happy saint, since it has been of late + Either our blindness or our fate, + To lose the providence of thy cares +Pity a miserable church's tears, + That begs the powerful blessing of thy prayers. + Some angel, say, what were the nation's crimes, + That sent these wild reformers to our times: + Say what their senseless malice meant, + To tear religion's lovely face: + Strip her of every ornament and grace; +In striving to wash off th'imaginary paint? + Religion now does on her death-bed lie, +Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy; +How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill, +And by their college arts methodically kill: +Reformers and physicians differ but in name, + One end in both, and the design the same; +Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean + Is but the patient's death, and gain-- + Check in thy satire, angry Muse, + Or a more worthy subject choose: +Let not the outcasts of an outcast age +Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage, + Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, + Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd-- + +[The rest of the poem is lost.] + +[Footnote 1: Born Jan., 1616-17; died 1693. For his life, see "Dictionary +of National Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + +ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE + +WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689 + + +I + +Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies! + Till its first emperor, rebellious man, + Deposed from off his seat, + It fell, and broke with its own weight +Into small states and principalities, + By many a petty lord possess'd, +But ne'er since seated in one single breast. + 'Tis you who must this land subdue, + The mighty conquest's left for you, + The conquest and discovery too: + Search out this Utopian ground, + Virtue's Terra Incognita, + Where none ever led the way, +Nor ever since but in descriptions found; + Like the philosopher's stone, +With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none. + + +II + + We have too long been led astray; +Too long have our misguided souls been taught + With rules from musty morals brought, + 'Tis you must put us in the way; + Let us (for shame!) no more be fed + With antique relics of the dead, + The gleanings of philosophy; + Philosophy, the lumber of the schools, + The roguery of alchymy; + And we, the bubbled fools, +Spend all our present life, in hopes of golden rules. + + +III + +But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? + We oddly Plato's paradox make good, +Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all; +Remembrance is our treasure and our food; +Nature's fair table-book, our tender souls, +We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, + Stale memorandums of the schools: + For learning's mighty treasures look + Into that deep grave, a book; + Think that she there does all her treasures hide, +And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since she died; +Confine her walks to colleges and schools; + Her priests, her train, and followers, show + As if they all were spectres too! + They purchase knowledge at th'expense + Of common breeding, common sense, + And grow at once scholars and fools; + Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, +Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility, + And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, + Which greedily they swallow down, +Still cast it up, and nauseate company. + + +IV + + Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! + (If it may lawful be + To curse our greatest enemy,) + Who learn'd himself that heresy first, + (Which since has seized on all the rest,) +That knowledge forfeits all humanity; +Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor, + And fling our scraps before our door! +Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest; +Those mighty epithets, learned, good, and great, +Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, +We find in you at last united grown. + You cannot be compared to one: + I must, like him that painted Venus' face, + Borrow from every one a grace; +Virgil and Epicurus will not do, + Their courting a retreat like you, +Unless I put in Caesar's learning too: + Your happy frame at once controls + This great triumvirate of souls. + + +V + +Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate; + He sav'd his country by delays, + But you by peace.[1] + You bought it at a cheaper rate; +Nor has it left the usual bloody scar, + To show it cost its price in war; +War, that mad game the world so loves to play, + And for it does so dearly pay; +For, though with loss, or victory, a while + Fortune the gamesters does beguile, +Yet at the last the box sweeps all away. + + +VI + + Only the laurel got by peace + No thunder e'er can blast: + Th'artillery of the skies + Shoots to the earth and dies: +And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, +Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. + About the head crown'd with these bays, + Like lambent fire, the lightning plays; +Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, + Makes up its solemn train with death; +It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. + + +VII + +The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks, +Which we call deep designs and politics, +(As in a theatre the ignorant fry, + Because the cords escape their eye, + Wonder to see the motions fly,) + Methinks, when you expose the scene, + Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; +Off fly the vizards, and discover all: + How plain I see through the deceit! + How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! + Look where the pulley's tied above! + Great God! (said I) what have I seen! + On what poor engines move +The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states! + What petty motives rule their fates! +How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake! +The mighty mountain labours with its birth, + Away the frighten'd peasants fly, + Scared at the unheard-of prodigy, +Expect some great gigantic son of earth; + Lo! it appears! + See how they tremble! how they quake! +Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears. + + +VIII + + Then tell, dear favourite Muse! + What serpent's that which still resorts, + Still lurks in palaces and courts? + Take thy unwonted flight, + And on the terrace light. + See where she lies! + See how she rears her head, + And rolls about her dreadful eyes, +To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! +'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence, +And though as some ('tis said) for their defence + Have worn a casement o'er their skin, + So wore he his within, +Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; + And though he oft renew'd the fight, +And almost got priority of sight, + He ne'er could overcome her quite, +In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite; + Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease, +Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace. + + +IX + +Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat, +And in some untouch'd virgin strain, +Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; +Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields; + Go, publish o'er the plain + How mighty a proselyte you gain! +How noble a reprisal on the great! + How is the Muse luxuriant grown! + Whene'er she takes this flight, + She soars clear out of sight. +These are the paradises of her own: + Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse, + Though ne'er so gently led, +To the loved pastures where he used to feed, +Runs violent o'er his usual course. + Wake from thy wanton dreams, + Come from thy dear-loved streams, + The crooked paths of wandering Thames. + Fain the fair nymph would stay, + Oft she looks back in vain, + Oft 'gainst her fountain does complain, + And softly steals in many windings down, + As loth to see the hated court and town; +And murmurs as she glides away. + + +X + + In this new happy scene + Are nobler subjects for your learned pen; + Here we expect from you +More than your predecessor Adam knew; +Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport, +Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court; + How that which we a kernel see, +(Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, + Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,) + Shall ere long grow into a tree; +Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, +Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth, + Where all the fruitful atoms lie; + How some go downward to the root, + Some more ambitious upwards fly, + And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. +You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain, +Your garden's better worth your nobler pain, +Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. + + +XI + +Shall I believe a spirit so divine + Was cast in the same mould with mine? +Why then does Nature so unjustly share +Among her elder sons the whole estate, + And all her jewels and her plate? +Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, +Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: + Some she binds 'prentice to the spade, + Some to the drudgery of a trade: +Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, +Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw: + Some she condemns for life to try +To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy: +Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied: +In vain I strive to cross the spacious main, + In vain I tug and pull the oar; + And when I almost reach the shore, +Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again: + And yet, to feed my pride, +Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath, +With promise of a mad reversion after death. + + +XII + +Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, + The tribute of an humble Muse, +'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; + Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, +And kindled first with indolence and ease; + And since too oft debauch'd by praise, +'Tis now grown an incurable disease: +In vain to quench this foolish fire I try + In wisdom and philosophy: + In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, + Where nought but weeds will grow +Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) + By an equivocal birth, + Seeds, and runs up to poetry. + +[Footnote 1: Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Holland, +and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty +of Nimeguen, 1679.] + + + +ODE TO KING WILLIAM + +ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND + + +To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown, + Are arts peculiar to dissembling France; +You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown, + And solid virtue does your name advance. + +Your matchless courage with your prudence joins, + The glorious structure of your fame to raise; +With its own light your dazzling glory shines, + And into adoration turns our praise. + +Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown, + (Cowards are monarchs by that title made,) +Part of your merit Chance would call her own, + And half your virtues had been lost in shade. + +But now your worth its just reward shall have: + What trophies and what triumphs are your due! +Who could so well a dying nation save, + At once deserve a crown, and gain it too. + +You saw how near we were to ruin brought, + You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on; +And timely on the coming danger thought, + Which we could neither obviate nor shun. + +Britannia stripp'd of her sole guard, the laws, + Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice; +You straight stepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws + Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize. + +Nor this is all; as glorious is the care + To preserve conquests, as at first to gain: +In this your virtue claims a double share, + Which, what it bravely won, does well maintain. + +Your arm has now your rightful title show'd, + An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, +To which they look as to some guardian God, + That must their doubtful liberty defend. + +Amazed, thy action at the Boyne we see! + When Schomberg started at the vast design: +The boundless glory all redounds to thee, + The impulse, the fight, th'event, were wholly thine. + +The brave attempt does all our foes disarm; + You need but now give orders and command, +Your name shall the remaining work perform, + And spare the labour of your conquering hand. + +France does in vain her feeble arts apply, + To interrupt the fortune of your course: +Your influence does the vain attacks defy + Of secret malice, or of open force. + +Boldly we hence the brave commencement date + Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ; +William's the pledge and earnest given by fate, + Of England's glory, and her lasting joy. + + + + +ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] + +_Moor Park, Feb._ 14, 1691. + + +I + +As when the deluge first began to fall, + That mighty ebb never to flow again, +When this huge body's moisture was so great, + It quite o'ercame the vital heat; +That mountain which was highest, first of all +Appear'd above the universal main, +To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight; +And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height + It be as great as 'tis in fame, + And nigh to Heaven as is its name; +So, after the inundation of a war, +When learning's little household did embark, +With her world's fruitful system, in her sacred ark, + At the first ebb of noise and fears, +Philosophy's exalted head appears; +And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay, +But plumes her silver wings, and flies away; + And now a laurel wreath she brings from far, + To crown the happy conqueror, + To show the flood begins to cease, +And brings the dear reward of victory and peace. + + +II + +The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline, + When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew, + When the bright sun of peace began to shine, +And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat, + On the high top of peaceful Ararat; +And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew, +The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,) + And thence, with joyful, nimble wing, + Flew dutifully back again, +And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2] + And the Dove-Muse is fled once more, +(Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war,) + And now discovers from afar + A peaceful and a flourishing shore: + No sooner did she land + On the delightful strand, + Than straight she sees the country all around, + Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile, +Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd, + And many a pleasant wood; + As if the universal Nile + Had rather water'd it than drown'd: +It seems some floating piece of Paradise, + Preserved by wonder from the flood, +Long wandering through the deep, as we are told + Famed Delos[3] did of old; + And the transported Muse imagined it +To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit, + Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove; + When, with amazing joy, she hears +An unknown music all around, + Charming her greedy ears + With many a heavenly song +Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love; +While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue. + In vain she catches at the empty sound, +In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, + And courts the wanton echoes as they fly. + + +III + +Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, +The wild excursions of a youthful pen; + Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse, + Whom blind and eager curiosity + (Yet curiosity, they say, +Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse) + Has forced to grope her uncouth way, +After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye: +No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense + For a dear ramble through impertinence; +Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind. +And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, + Though we be of two different factions still, + Both the good-natured and the ill, + Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find +We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit. + In me, who am of the first sect of these, + All merit, that transcends the humble rules + Of my own dazzled scanty sense, +Begets a kinder folly and impertinence + Of admiration and of praise. +And our good brethren of the surly sect, + Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: + For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made +Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; +Yet the same want of brains produces each effect. + And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud + From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd, + Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud, +Who both our follies and impertinences see, +Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me. + + +IV + + But censure's to be understood + Th'authentic mark of the elect, +The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good, + Our shallow search and judgment to direct. + The war, methinks, has made +Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; +Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy +A stock of wisdom and philosophy, + We fondly stay at home, in fear + Of every censuring privateer; +Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale, + And selling basely by retail. + The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, +Who fain would rule the pulpit, as they do the stage, + Wondrous refiners of philosophy, + Of morals and divinity, +By the new modish system of reducing all to sense, + Against all logic, and concluding laws, + Do own th'effects of Providence, + And yet deny the cause. + + +V + +This hopeful sect, now it begins to see +How little, very little, do prevail + Their first and chiefest force + To censure, to cry down, and rail, +Not knowing what, or where, or who you be, + Will quickly take another course: + And, by their never-failing ways + Of solving all appearances they please, +We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall, +And straight deny you to be men, or anything at all. + I laugh at the grave answer they will make, +Which they have always ready, general, and cheap: + 'Tis but to say, that what we daily meet, + And by a fond mistake +Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit, +And think, alas! to be by mortals writ, +Is but a crowd of atoms justling in a heap: + Which, from eternal seeds begun, +Justling some thousand years, till ripen'd by the sun: + They're now, just now, as naturally born, + As from the womb of earth a field of corn. + + +VI + + But as for poor contented me, +Who must my weakness and my ignorance confess, +That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to see; + Methinks I'm satisfied to guess, + That this new, noble, and delightful scene, +Is wonderfully moved by some exalted men, +Who have well studied in the world's disease, +(That epidemic error and depravity, + Or in our judgment or our eye,) +That what surprises us can only please. +We often search contentedly the whole world round, + To make some great discovery, + And scorn it when 'tis found. +Just so the mighty Nile has suffer'd in its fame, + Because 'tis said (and perhaps only said) +We've found a little inconsiderable head, + That feeds the huge unequal stream. +Consider human folly, and you'll quickly own, + That all the praises it can give, +By which some fondly boast they shall for ever live, + Won't pay th'impertinence of being known: + Else why should the famed Lydian king,[4] +(Whom all the charms of an usurped wife and state, +With all that power unfelt, courts mankind to be great, + Did with new unexperienced glories wait,) +Still wear, still dote on his invisible ring? + + +VII + + Were I to form a regular thought of Fame, + Which is, perhaps, as hard t'imagine right, + As to paint Echo to the sight, +I would not draw the idea from an empty name; + Because, alas! when we all die, + Careless and ignorant posterity, + Although they praise the learning and the wit, + And though the title seems to show + The name and man by whom the book was writ, + Yet how shall they be brought to know, +Whether that very name was he, or you, or I? +Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise, + And water-colours of these days: +These days! where e'en th'extravagance of poetry + Is at a loss for figures to express + Men's folly, whimseys, and inconstancy, + And by a faint description makes them less. +Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it? +Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit, + Enthroned with heavenly Wit! + Look where you see + The greatest scorn of learned vanity! + (And then how much a nothing is mankind! +Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air, + Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; + And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, + Which yet whoe'er examines right will find + To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) +And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there, + Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: + And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. + + +VIII + + The juggling sea-god,[5] when by chance trepann'd +By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, + Impatient of all answers, straight became + A stealing brook, and strove to creep away + Into his native sea, + Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; + But disappointed of his fond desire, + Would vanish in a pyramid of fire. + This surly, slippery God, when he design'd + To furnish his escapes, + Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes +Than you, to please and satisfy mankind, +And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, + So well you answer all phenomena there: +Though madmen and the wits, philosophers and fools, +With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream, +And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; + Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame, +Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; +Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night, + The God of learning and of light + Would want a God himself to help him out. + + +IX + + Philosophy, as it before us lies, +Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste + Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, + From every age through which it pass'd, +But always with a stronger relish of the last. + This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd + To be the great original +For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, +In what mock habits have they put her since the fall! + More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages', + She seems a medley of all ages, +With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, + A new commode, a topknot, and a ruff, + Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry, + With a long sweeping train +Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, + All of old cut with a new dye: + How soon have you restored her charms, + And rid her of her lumber and her books, + Drest her again genteel and neat, + And rather tight than great! +How fond we are to court her to our arms! + How much of heaven is in her naked looks! + + +X + +Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, + And ev'n my very thoughts transfers + And changes all to beauty and the praise + Of that proud tyrant sex of hers. + The rebel Muse, alas! takes part, + But with my own rebellious heart, +And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire + To fan th'unhappy fire. + Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? +Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! + Rather forgive what my first transport said: +May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, + Lie upon you and on your children's head! +For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see + The fatal time when that could be!) + Have even increased their pride and cruelty. + Woman seems now above all vanity grown, + Still boasting of her great unknown +Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, + Or the vast charges of a smile; + Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late + You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, +And which they've now the consciences to weigh + In the same balance with our tears, + And with such scanty wages pay + The bondage and the slavery of years. +Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; + And had they common generosity, + They would not use us thus. + Well--though you've raised her to this high degree, + Ourselves are raised as well as she; + And, spite of all that they or you can do, +'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, +Still to be of the same exalted sex with you. + + +XI + + Alas, how fleeting and how vain +Is even the nobler man, our learning and our wit! + I sigh whene'er I think of it: + As at the closing an unhappy scene + Of some great king and conqueror's death, + When the sad melancholy Muse +Stays but to catch his utmost breath. +I grieve, this nobler work, most happily begun, +So quickly and so wonderfully carried on, +May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse. + There is a noontide in our lives, + Which still the sooner it arrives, +Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, +And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, +Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. + No conquest ever yet begun, +And by one mighty hero carried to its height, +E'er flourished under a successor or a son; +It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pass'd, +And vanish'd to an empty title in the last. + For, when the animating mind is fled, + (Which nature never can retain, + Nor e'er call back again,) +The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. + + +XII + + And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare + With what unhappy men shall dare + To be successors to these great unknown, + On learning's high-establish'd throne. + Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, +Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, +Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth + From Ignorance's universal North, +And with blind rage break all this peaceful government: +Yet shall the traces of your wit remain, + Like a just map, to tell the vast extent + Of conquest in your short and happy reign: + And to all future mankind shew + How strange a paradox is true, + That men who lived and died without a name +Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame. + + +[Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses, +said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this +denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to +Dryden."--Johnson in his "Life of Swift."--_W. E. B._ + +In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton, +the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and +Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was +prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became +fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana. +See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which +made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and +mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii, +9.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.--_W. E. B._] + + + +TO MR. CONGREVE + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693 + + +Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, + The Muse was called in a poetic hour, +And insolently thrice the slighted maid +Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; +Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, +Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine. + Once highly honoured! false is the pretence +You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! +Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down +The most ungenerous vices of the town; +Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before +I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, +Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, +So much in mode, so very city-born; +'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, +Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; +But find some new address, some fresh deceit, +Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; +These are the beaten methods of the stews, +Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, +Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, +By prostituting her they first debauch. + Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame +This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; +First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, +Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; +Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, +The greatest compliment she ever made, +And wisely judge, no power beneath divine +Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; +For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd +A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt. + Nor tax the goddess of a mean design +To praise your parts by publishing of mine; +That be my thought when some large bulky writ +Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; +There to surmount what bears me up, and sing +Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing. +This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, +Were my desires but heighten'd to my power. + Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, +Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; +Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride +That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; +A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, +Gets between them and my resentment's weight, +Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, +T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen. + Thus I look down with mercy on the age, +By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: +For never did poetic mind before +Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; +The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind +Serves by retail to furnish half mankind. +With indignation I behold your wit +Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, +By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain +From broken scraps and filings of your brain. +Through native dross your share is hardly known, +And by short views mistook for all their own; +So small the gains those from your wit do reap, +Who blend it into folly's larger heap, +Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass, +When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass. + Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, +Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal. +These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain +With those they rob, by what their trade does gain. +Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds +O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds, +Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam, +As ancient nature's modern masters dream; +This bids some curious praters here below +Call Titan sick, because their sight is so; +And well, methinks, does this allusion fit +To scribblers, and the god of light and wit; +Those who by wild delusions entertain +A lust of rhyming for a poet's vein, +Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night, +But can no more obscure my Congreve's light, +Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray +Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day. + What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit? +Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit? +How would you blush the shameful birth to hear +Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear; +For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since, +Round all the circles of impertinence, +Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie +Before it grew a city butterfly; +I'm sure I found them other kind of things +Than those with backs of silk and golden wings; +A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise +As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies: +For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread, +And court in prologues, all are country bred; +Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins +Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns; +Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux +Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows: +These are the lords of the poetic schools, +Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules; +Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds +O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods; +Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes, +Which worshipp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes; +And can you think the wise forbear to laugh +At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf? + Haply you judge these lines severely writ +Against the proud usurpers of the pit; +Stay while I tell my story, short, and true; +To draw conclusions shall be left to you; +Nor need I ramble far to force a rule, +But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school. + Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent +With other cattle to the city went; +Where having cast his coat, and well pursued +The methods most in fashion to be lewd, +Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down, +Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town; +A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit, +Confounded in that Babel of the pit; +Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild, +Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child; +Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts, +Before the play, or else between the acts; +Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds +Should spring such short and transitory kinds, +Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote, +Last just as long as every cuckoo's note: +What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate! +'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate, +My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed +Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: +When man's ill genius to my presence sent +This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant; +Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace, +Squander'd his noisy talents to my face; +Named every player on his fingers' ends, +Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends; +Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease +Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2] +Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd, +Who heard you meant to write heroics next; +For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite, +And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night. + Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, +Rendering shades things, and substances of names; +Such high companions may delusion keep, +Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep. +As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, +Render'd the topping beauty of the town, +Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, +To boast of favours that he never got; +Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, +Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; +And not the meanest coxcomb you can find, +But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; +Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown +To every lewd pretender of the town. +Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, +You find, to be the fashionable wit; +These are the slaves whom reputation chains, +Whose maintenance requires no help from brains. +For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, +Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; +Whose name must not within my lines be shown, +Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4] +Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, +And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; +I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass, +Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass; +Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, +Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. + Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent +In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; +In how ill season her resentments rule, +What's that to her if mankind be a fool? +Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, +In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5] +Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, +She still is welcome with her innocent song; +Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, +What poor regards would merit all below! +How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, +And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet! + Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave +Gives murmuring passage to a lasting wave: +'Tis the world's watery hour-glass streaming fast, +Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; +Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, +And the young Muse's early favour felt; +Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, +Confessing Albion once her darling seat; +Far in this primitive cell might we pursue +Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; +Here would we sing--But, ah! you think I dream, +And the bad world may well believe the same; +Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, +While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I. + Since thus I wander from my first intent, +Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, +Take this short lesson from the god of bays, +And let my friend apply it as he please: +Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, + But give the vigorous fancy room. + For when, like stupid alchymists, you try + To fix this nimble god, + This volatile mercury, + The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; + Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find +More than _fade_ insipid mixture left behind.[6] + While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, +And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom; +The Muse like some bright country virgin shows +Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; +They, in their lewd and fashionable prate, +Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; +Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, +Current like copper, and as often paid: +She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep +Near better animals, her father's sheep, +Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, +To think what cattle she is got among; +But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, +In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid. + 'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, +The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; +Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, +Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies. + In this descending sheet you'll haply find +Some short refreshment for your weary mind, +Nought it contains is common or unclean, +And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7] + + +[Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an +estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor +Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and _post_, p. 43.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where +the wits of that time used to assemble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and +notes, edit. 1786.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite +multitude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name +mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together +with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.--_S._] + +[Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently +gives the name of Apollo.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it +is lost.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of +"Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY + +WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693 + + +Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike +At distant hours the mind with forms so like! +Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain +Meets, and salutes her sister link again; +Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, +Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; +Or whether dead Imagination's ghost +Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; +Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, +Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; +Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride +O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: + Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, +Where her own Temple was her darling theme; +There first the visionary sound was heard, +When to poetic view the Muse appear'd. +Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray +Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; +Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, +Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; +Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show +Approaching joy at strife with parting woe. + As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, +Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, +Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, +Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; +When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, +A sign God's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: +Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine +Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine. + What mortal change does in thy face appear, +Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here! +With how undecent clouds are overcast +Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past! +Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, +Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: + As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, +Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, +And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear +Late I beheld on every face appear; +Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, +Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; +Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long +Not dared to injure with our lowly song; +Sprung from a better world, and chosen then +The best companion for the best of men: +As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, +Lives pious witness of a better age; +So men may see what once was womankind, +In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind. + You that would grief describe, come here and trace +Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: +Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart +Farther than its own palace in her heart: +Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, +At least confine the tyrant to his cell. +And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen +Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? +Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, +And grief flung sables on each menial look; +The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, +That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; +So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, +Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; +So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread +That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.-- +Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ +The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; +And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, +Who dare revile the integrity of verse: +Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!-- +But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; +Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect +Thy just submission for this bold neglect. + Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use +At the divine appearance of the Muse, +Which to divulge might shake profane belief, +And tell the irreligion of my grief; +Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, +And shaped my passion in such words as these! + Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, +Thou universal cause of all my woes; +Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late +A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; +The malice thou inspirest I never fail +On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; +Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, +Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: +Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, +Deals out to man the planet of his birth: +But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine, +And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: +Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, +That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, +But a wild form dependent on the brain, +Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; +Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, +Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; +Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, +Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: +In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, +A walking vapour, like thy sister fame. +But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, +A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; +Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, +So highly courted by the brisk and gay? +Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look +On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; +Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, +Assign'd for life to unremitting grief; +For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, +If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. +Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, +And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, +That we the wretched, creeping far behind, +Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; +Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born +With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3] +Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, +Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; +But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace +Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face. +Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows +Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: +See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, +These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; +Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, +Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; +March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, +Still scattering desolation where they go. +To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, +Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; +To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, +That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; +From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, +Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; +Such were thy rules to be poetically great: +"Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; +Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; +Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; +Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, +Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4] +And since unhappy distance thus denies +T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; +Since thy few ill-presented graces seem +To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem--" + Madness like this no fancy ever seized, +Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; +Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds +Is all the poor content delusion finds.-- +There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour +I here renounce thy visionary power; +And since thy essence on my breath depends +Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends. + + +[Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter +Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to +Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at +Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died +in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and +amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his +wife.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "--when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main." +POPE, _Essay on Criticism_, 372-3.] + +[Footnote 4: "Hic murus aheneus esto, + Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa." +HOR., _Epist. 1_, I, 60.] + + + +WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 + + +Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, +And think thou seest my owner's heart, +Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite +As hard, as senseless, and as light; +Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes, +But hid with caution from the wise. +Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;" +Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:" +Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;" +There, in her own, "For an el breth:" +Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" +There, "A safe way to use perfume:" +Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; +On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"-- +"Madam, I die without your grace"-- +"Item, for half a yard of lace." +Who that had wit would place it here, +For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer? +To think that your brains' issue is +Exposed to th'excrement of his, +In pow'r of spittle and a clout, +Whene'er he please, to blot it out; +And then, to heighten the disgrace, +Clap his own nonsense in the place. +Whoe'er expects to hold his part +In such a book, and such a heart, +If he be wealthy, and a fool, +Is in all points the fittest tool; +Of whom it may be justly said, +He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. + + + + +MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 + + +This, the most humorous example of _vers de société_ in the English +language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of +distinction at that period.--_W. E. B._ + + +To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1] + The humble petition of Frances Harris, +Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; +Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber, + because I was cold; +And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, + (besides farthings) in money and gold; +So because I had been buying things for my lady last night, +I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right. +Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, +Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock, +I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock. +So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was + unript, +And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; +Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; +And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead. +So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light; +But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have + sunk outright. +"Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"--"Indeed," says I, "never worse: +But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?" +"Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!" +"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case." +So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: +However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. +So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, +But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. +So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round, +And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was + found. +So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing: +Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing. +"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have + had?" +"Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad: +For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail." +"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." +Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years + come spring, +And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." +"Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord + Shrewsbury's, +Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of _gooseberries_." +So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief: +(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:) +However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: +"Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out: +'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10] +But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. +'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole + in my wages: +Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. +Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands, +That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands." +"The _devil_ take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!" +So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught. +So, you know, what could I say to her any more? +I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. +Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: +"No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon." +So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, +Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. +So, as the _devil_ would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, +"_Parson_" said I, "can you cast a _nativity_, when a body's plunder'd?" +(Now you must know, he hates to be called _Parson_, like the _devil!_) +"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; +If your money be gone, as a learned _Divine_ says,[12] d'ye see, +You are no _text_ for my handling; so take that from me: +I was never taken for a _Conjurer_ before, I'd have you to know." +"Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; +You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife; +I never took one in _your coat_ for a conjurer in all my life." +With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, +"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. +Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do? +I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" +Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry; +I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will + I." +Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to? +For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. + The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' + protection, +And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; +And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, +With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: +And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, +Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his _trade_,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever + _pray_. + + +[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.] + +[Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.] + +[Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.] + +[Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.] + +[Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.] + +[Footnote 6: Galway.] + +[Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed +the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.] + +[Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.] + +[Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st +Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p. +79--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 11: Swift.] + +[Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.] + +[Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a _trade_. See his +letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver, +"Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC + +WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699 + + +My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, + Delivers cards about, +But the first knave does seldom fail + To find the doctor out. + +But then his honour cried, Gadzooks! + And seem'd to knit his brow: +For on a knave he never looks + But he thinks upon Jack How.[2] + +My lady, though she is no player, + Some bungling partner takes, +And, wedged in corner of a chair, + Takes snuff, and holds the stakes. + +Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense + For pair royals and sequents; +But, wisely cautious of her pence, + The castle seldom frequents. + +Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases, + I'd won it, on my word, +If I had but a pair of aces, + And could pick up a third. + +But Weston has a new-cast gown + On Sundays to be fine in, +And, if she can but win a crown, + 'Twill just new dye the lining. + +"With these is Parson Swift,[5] + Not knowing how to spend his time, +Does make a wretched shift, + To deafen them with puns and rhyme." + + + +[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.] + +[Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.] + +[Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her, +_post_, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially +with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works," +ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.] + +[Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John +Germaine.] + + + + +A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] + +WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702 + + +I + +Once on a time, as old stories rehearse, + A friar would need show his talent in Latin; +But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse, + Because he could find no word to come pat in; + Then all in the place + He left a void space, + And so went to bed in a desperate case: +When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! +He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle. + CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; + Who would not write verses with such an assistant? + + +II + +This put me the friar into an amazement; + For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; +That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; + And it needs must be one that could both read and write; + Yet he did not know, + If it were friend or foe, + Or whether it came from above or below; +Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf, +For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. + + +III + +Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains + In making a ballad, but was at a stand; +He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, + When he found a new help from invisible hand. + Then, good Doctor Swift + Pay thanks for the gift, + For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; +And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, +You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. + + +[Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the +author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which +gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit +hand, as if a third person had done it.--_Swift_. + +The _Cut-Purse_ is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in +Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the +ballad is: + "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse + Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE DISCOVERY + +When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] + Statesmen and mob expected wonders, +Nor thought to find so great a peer + Ere a week past committing blunders. +Till on a day cut out by fate, + When folks came thick to make their court, +Out slipt a mystery of state + To give the town and country sport. +Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, + His lordship's premier minister; +And who in all profound affairs, + Is held as needful as his clyster.[2] +With head reclining on his shoulder, + He deals and hears mysterious chat, +While every ignorant beholder + Asks of his neighbour, who is that? +With this he put up to my lord, + The courtiers kept their distance due, +He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; + Then to a corner both withdrew. +Imagine now my lord and Bush + Whispering in junto most profound, +Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3] + While all the rest stood gaping round. +At length a spark, not too well bred, + Of forward face and ear acute, +Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, + To overhear the grand dispute; +To learn what Northern kings design, + Or from Whitehall some new express, +Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; + For sure (thought he) it can't be less. +My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, + Disguised in two old threadbare coats, +Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy + How markets went for hay and oats. +With that he draws two handfuls out, + The one was oats, the other hay; +Puts this to's excellency's snout, + And begs he would the other weigh. +My lord seems pleased, but still directs + By all means to bring down the rates; +Then, with a congee circumflex, + Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. +Our listener stood awhile confused, + But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, +Enraged to see the world abused, + By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: To Ireland, as one of the Lords Justices.] + +[Footnote 2: Who, by insinuating that the post of secretary was +unsuitable for a clergyman, obtained it for himself, though it had been +promised to Swift; and when Swift claimed the Deanery of Derry, in virtue +of Lord Berkeley's promise of the "first good preferment that should fall +in his gift," the earl referred him to Bush, who told him that it was +promised to another, but that if he would lay down a thousand pounds for +it he should have the preference. Swift, enraged at the insult, +immediately left the castle; but was ultimately pacified by being +presented with the Rectory of Agher and the Vicarages of Laracor and +Rathbeggan. See Forster's "Life of Swift," p. 111; Birkbeck Hill's +"Letters of Swift," and "Prose Works," vol. xi, 380.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Always taken before my lord went to council.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 3: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal"; the celebrated farce +written by the Duke of Buckingham, in conjunction with Martin Clifford, +Butler, Sprat, and others, in ridicule of the rhyming tragedies then in +vogue, and especially of Dryden in the character of Bayes.--See Malone's +"Life of Dryden," p. 95.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal," Act I, Sc. 1; Act II, +Sc. 1; always whispering each other.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +THE PROBLEM, + +"THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS WHEN HE IS IN LOVE" + + +Did ever problem thus perplex, +Or more employ the female sex? +So sweet a passion who would think, +Jove ever form'd to make a stink? +The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, +Whether it be a truth or lie. +Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, +Works in my lord by stool and sweat, +Which brings a stink from every pore, +And from behind and from before; +Yet what is wonderful to tell it, +None but the favourite nymph can smell it. +But now, to solve the natural cause +By sober philosophic laws; +Whether all passions, when in ferment, +Work out as anger does in vermin; +So, when a weasel you torment, +You find his passion by his scent. +We read of kings, who, in a fright, +Though on a throne, would fall to sh--. +Beside all this, deep scholars know, +That the main string of Cupid's bow, +Once on a time was an a-- gut; +Now to a nobler office put, +By favour or desert preferr'd +From giving passage to a t--; +But still, though fix'd among the stars, +Does sympathize with human a--. +Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech, +Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch, +Till the kind looseness comes, and then, +Conclude the bow relax'd again. + And now, the ladies all are bent, +To try the great experiment, +Ambitious of a regent's heart, +Spread all their charms to catch a f-- +Watching the first unsavoury wind, +Some ply before, and some behind. +My lord, on fire amid the dames, +F--ts like a laurel in the flames. +The fair approach the speaking part, +To try the back-way to his heart. +For, as when we a gun discharge, +Although the bore be none so large, +Before the flame from muzzle burst, +Just at the breech it flashes first; +So from my lord his passion broke, +He f--d first and then he spoke. + The ladies vanish in the smother, +To confer notes with one another; +And now they all agreed to name +Whom each one thought the happy dame. +Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, +I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink. +You smell the stink! by G--d, you lie, +Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. +Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear; +Let's not fall out; we all had share; +And, by the most I can discover, +My lord's a universal lover. + + + + +THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 + +From Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. x, 67; lib. xxix. + +As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are +Call'd _Pompey, Scipio_, and _Caesar;_ +As pies and daws are often styl'd +With Christian nicknames, like a child; +As we say _Monsieur_ to an ape, +Without offence to human shape; +So men have got, from bird and brute, +Names that would best their nature suit. +The _Lion, Eagle, Fox_, and _Boar_, +Were heroes' titles heretofore, +Bestow'd as hi'roglyphics fit +To show their valour, strength, or wit: +For what is understood by _fame_, +Besides the getting of a _name?_ +But, e'er since men invented guns, +A diff'rent way their fancy runs: +To paint a hero, we inquire +For something that will conquer _fire._ +Would you describe _Turenne_[1] or _Trump?_[2] +Think of a _bucket_ or a _pump._ +Are these too low?--then find out grander, +Call my LORD CUTTS a _Salamander._[3] +'Tis well;--but since we live among +Detractors with an evil tongue, +Who may object against the term, +Pliny shall prove what we affirm: +Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply, +And I'll be judg'd by standers by. +First, then, our author has defined +This reptile of the serpent kind, +With gaudy coat, and shining train; +But loathsome spots his body stain: +Out from some hole obscure he flies, +When rains descend, and tempests rise, +Till the sun clears the air; and then +Crawls back neglected to his den.[4] + So, when the war has raised a storm, +I've seen a snake in human form, +All stain'd with infamy and vice, +Leap from the dunghill in a trice, +Burnish and make a gaudy show, +Become a general, peer, and beau, +Till peace has made the sky serene, +Then shrink into its hole again. +"All this we grant--why then, look yonder, +Sure that must be a Salamander!" + Further, we are by Pliny told, +This serpent is extremely cold; +So cold, that, put it in the fire, +'Twill make the very flames expire: +Besides, it spues a filthy froth +(Whether thro' rage or lust or both) +Of matter purulent and white, +Which, happening on the skin to light, +And there corrupting to a wound, +Spreads leprosy and baldness round.[5] + So have I seen a batter'd beau, +By age and claps grown cold as snow, +Whose breath or touch, where'er he came, +Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame: +And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel, +Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel, +Receive the filth which he ejects, +She soon would find the same effects +Her tainted carcass to pursue, +As from the Salamander's spue; +A dismal shedding of her locks, +And, if no leprosy, a pox. +"Then I'll appeal to each bystander, +If this be not a Salamander?" + + +[Footnote 1: The famous Mareschal Turenne, general of the French forces, +called the greatest commander of the age.] + +[Footnote 2: Admiral of the States General in their war with England, +eminent for his courage and his victories.] + +[Footnote 3: Who obtained this name from his coolness under fire at the +siege of Namur. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. +267.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 4: "Animal lacertae figura, stellatum, numquam nisi magnis +imbribus proveniens et serenitate desinens."--Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. +x, 67.] + +[Footnote 5: "Huic tantus rigor ut ignem tactu restinguat non alio modo +quam glacies. ejusdem sanie, quae lactea ore vomitur, quacumque parte +corporis humani contacta toti defluunt pili, idque quod contactum est +colorem in vitiliginem mutat."--Lib. x, 67. "Inter omnia venenata +salamandrae scelus maximum est. . . . nam si arbori inrepsit omnia poma +inficit veneno, et eos qui ederint necat frigida vi nihil aconito +distans."--Lib. xxix, 4, 23.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + + + Mordanto fills the trump of fame, +The Christian world his deeds proclaim, +And prints are crowded with his name. + + In journeys he outrides the post, +Sits up till midnight with his host, +Talks politics, and gives the toast. + + Knows every prince in Europe's face, +Flies like a squib from place to place, +And travels not, but runs a race. + + From Paris gazette à -la-main, +This day arriv'd, without his train, +Mordanto in a week from Spain. + + A messenger comes all a-reek +Mordanto at Madrid to seek; +He left the town above a week. + + Next day the post-boy winds his horn, +And rides through Dover in the morn: +Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. + + Mordanto gallops on alone, +The roads are with his followers strewn, +This breaks a girth, and that a bone; + + His body active as his mind, +Returning sound in limb and wind, +Except some leather lost behind. + + A skeleton in outward figure, +His meagre corps, though full of vigour, +Would halt behind him, were it bigger. + + So wonderful his expedition, +When you have not the least suspicion, +He's with you like an apparition. + + Shines in all climates like a star; +In senates bold, and fierce in war; +A land commander, and a tar: + + Heroic actions early bred in, +Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, +But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden.[2] + + +[Footnote 1: Who in the year 1705 took Barcelona, and in the winter +following with only 280 horse and 900 foot enterprized and accomplished +the conquest of Valentia.--_Pope_. + + "--he whose lightning pierc'd th'Iberian lines, + Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, + Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain + Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." + POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Sat. 1. + +Lord Peterborough seems to have been equally famous for his skill in +cookery. See note to above Satire, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and +Courthope, iii, 298.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: See Voltaire's "History of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden." + "He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale." + JOHNSON, _Vanity of Human Wishes_.] + + + + +ON THE UNION + +The queen has lately lost a part +Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart, +For want of which, by way of botch, +She pieced it up again with SCOTCH. +Blest revolution! which creates +Divided hearts, united states! +See how the double nation lies, +Like a rich coat with skirts of frize: +As if a man, in making posies, +Should bundle thistles up with roses. +Who ever yet a union saw +Of kingdoms without faith or law?[2] +Henceforward let no statesman dare +A kingdom to a ship compare; +Lest he should call our commonweal +A vessel with a double keel: +Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd, +And got about a league from land, +By change of wind to leeward side, +The pilot knew not how to guide. +So tossing faction will o'erwhelm +Our crazy double-bottom'd realm. + + +[Footnote 1: The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: _I.e._, Differing in religion and law.] + + + + +ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; + +OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. 1707 + + +When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat +To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a +country scene, +Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: +From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy +Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. +The Graces from the court did next provide +Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: +These Venus cleans'd from ev'ry spurious grain +Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. +Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; +Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD. + + + + +THE REVERSE + +(TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR, MRS. CLUDD + +Venus one day, as story goes, +But for what reason no man knows, +In sullen mood and grave deport, +Trudged it away to Jove's high court; +And there his Godship did entreat +To look out for his best receipt: +And make a monster strange and odd, +Abhorr'd by man and every god. +Jove, ever kind to all the fair, +Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, +Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took +A neatly bound and well-gilt book; +Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, +But what was very choice and rare. +Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,-- +It might be more, for aught I knew; +But, be the matter more or less, +'Mong friends 'twill break no squares, I guess. +Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, +Here's one will fit you to a T. +But, as the writing doth prescribe, +'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. +Away he went, and search'd the stews, +And every street about the Mews; +Diseases, impudence, and lies, +Are found and brought him in a trice. +From Hackney then he did provide, +A clumsy air and awkward pride; +From lady's toilet next he brought +Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. +These Jove put in an old close-stool, +And with them mix'd the vain, the fool. + But now came on his greatest care, +Of what he should his paste prepare; +For common clay or finer mould +Was much too good, such stuff to hold. +At last he wisely thought on mud; +So raised it up, and call'd it--_Cludd._ +With this, the lady well content, +Low curtsey'd, and away she went. + + + + +APOLLO OUTWITTED + +TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,[1] UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA + + +Phoebus, now short'ning every shade, + Up to the northern _tropic_ came, +And thence beheld a lovely maid, + Attending on a royal dame. + +The god laid down his feeble rays, + Then lighted from his glitt'ring coach; +But fenc'd his head with his own bays, + Before he durst the nymph approach. + +Under those sacred leaves, secure + From common lightning of the skies, +He fondly thought he might endure + The flashes of Ardelia's eyes. + +The nymph, who oft had read in books + Of that bright god whom bards invoke, +Soon knew Apollo by his looks, + And guess'd his business ere he spoke. + +He, in the old celestial cant, + Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, +Whate'er she would desire, to grant-- + But wise Ardelia knew his tricks. + +Ovid had warn'd her to beware + Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, +Under pretence of taking air, + To pick up sublunary ladies. + +Howe'er, she gave no flat denial, + As having malice in her heart; +And was resolv'd upon a trial, + To cheat the god in his own art. + +"Hear my request," the virgin said; + "Let which I please of all the Nine +Attend, whene'er I want their aid, + Obey my call, and only mine." + +By vow oblig'd, by passion led, + The god could not refuse her prayer: +He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, + Thrice mutter'd something to the air. + +And now he thought to seize his due; + But she the charm already try'd: +Thalia heard the call, and flew + To wait at bright Ardelia's side. + +On sight of this celestial _prude_, + Apollo thought it vain to stay; +Nor in her presence durst be rude, + But made his leg and went away. + +He hop'd to find some lucky hour, + When on their queen the Muses wait; +But Pallas owns Ardelia's power: + For vows divine are kept by Fate. + +Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke: + "Deceitful nymph! I see thy art; +And, though I can't my gift revoke, + I'll disappoint its nobler part. + +"Let stubborn pride possess thee long, + And be thou negligent of fame; +With ev'ry Muse to grace thy song, + May'st thou despise a poet's name! + +"Of modest poets be thou first; + To silent shades repeat thy verse, +Till Fame and Echo almost burst, + Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. + +"And last, my vengeance to compleat, + May you descend to take renown, +Prevail'd on by the thing you hate, + A Whig! and one that wears a gown!" + + +[Footnote 1: Afterwards Countess of Winchelsea.--_Scott_. See +Journal to Stella Aug. 7, 1712. The Countess was one of Swift's intimate +friends and correspondents. See "Prose Works," xi, 121.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] + +NOW FIRST PUBLISHED + + +I + +In pity to the empty'ng Town, + Some God May Fair invented, +When Nature would invite us down, + To be by Art prevented. + +II + +What a corrupted taste is ours + When milk maids in mock state +Instead of garlands made of Flowers + Adorn their pails with plate. + +III + +So are the joys which Nature yields + Inverted in May Fair, +In painted cloth we look for fields, + And step in Booths for air. + +IV + +Here a Dog dancing on his hams + And puppets mov'd by wire, +Do far exceed your frisking lambs, + Or song of feather'd quire. + +V +Howe'er, such verse as yours I grant + Would be but too inviting: +Were fair Ardelia not my Aunt, + Or were it Worsley's writing.[2] + + +[Footnote 1: Some ladies, among whom were Mrs. Worsley and Mrs. Finch, to +the latter of whom Swift addressed, under the name of Ardelia, the +preceding poem, appear to have written verses to him from May Fair, +offering him such temptations as that fashionable locality supplied to +detain him from the country and its pleasures: and thus he +replies.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 1: There is some playful allusion in this last stanza, not now +decipherable.--_Forster_.] + + + + +VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] + +BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + + +In times of old, when Time was young, +And poets their own verses sung, +A verse would draw a stone or beam, +That now would overload a team; +Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, +Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. +Each number had its diff'rent power; +Heroic strains could build a tower; +Sonnets and elegies to Chloris, +Might raise a house about two stories; +A lyric ode would slate; a catch +Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + Now Poets feel this art is lost, +Both to their own and landlord's cost. +Not one of all the tuneful throng +Can hire a lodging for a song. +For Jove consider'd well the case, +That poets were a numerous race; +And if they all had power to build, +The earth would very soon be fill'd: +Materials would be quickly spent, +And houses would not give a rent. +The God of Wealth was therefore made +Sole patron of the building trade; +Leaving to wits the spacious air, +With license to build castles there: +In right whereof their old pretence +To lodge in garrets comes from thence. +There is a worm by Phoebus bred, +By leaves of mulberry is fed, +Which unprovided where to dwell, +Conforms itself to weave a cell; +Then curious hands this texture take, +And for themselves fine garments make. +Meantime a pair of awkward things +Grow to his back instead of wings; +He flutters when he thinks he flies, +Then sheds about his spawn and dies. +Just such an insect of the age +Is he that scribbles for the stage; +His birth he does from Phoebus raise, +And feeds upon imagin'd bays; +Throws all his wit and hours away +In twisting up an ill spun Play: +This gives him lodging and provides +A stock of tawdry shift besides. +With the unravell'd shreds of which +The under wits adorn their speech: +And now he spreads his little fans, +(For all the Muses Geese are Swans) +And borne on Fancy's pinions, thinks +He soars sublimest when he sinks: +But scatt'ring round his fly-blows, dies; +Whence broods of insect-poets rise. + Premising thus, in modern way, +The greater part I have to say; +Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, +In higher strain than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) +Is both a Herald and a Poet; +No wonder then if nicely skill'd +In each capacity to build. +As Herald, he can in a day +Repair a house gone to decay; +Or by achievements, arms, device, +Erect a new one in a trice; +And poets, if they had their due, +By ancient right are builders too: +This made him to Apollo pray +For leave to build--the poets way. +His prayer was granted, for the God +Consented with the usual nod. + After hard throes of many a day +Van was delivered of a play, +Which in due time brought forth a house, +Just as the mountain did the mouse. +One story high, one postern door, +And one small chamber on a floor, +Born like a phoenix from the flame: +But neither bulk nor shape the same; +As animals of largest size +Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; +A type of modern wit and style, +The rubbish of an ancient pile; +So chemists boast they have a power, +From the dead ashes of a flower +Some faint resemblance to produce, +But not the virtue, taste, nor juice. +So modern rhymers strive to blast +The poetry of ages past; +Which, having wisely overthrown, +They from its ruins build their own. + + +[Footnote 1: This is the earlier version of the Poem discovered by +Forster at Narford, the residence of Mr. Fountaine. See Forster's "Life +of Swift," p. 163.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] + +BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + +In times of old, when Time was young, +And poets their own verses sung, +A verse would draw a stone or beam, +That now would overload a team; +Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, +Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. +Each number had its diff'rent power; +Heroic strains could build a tower; +Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, +Might raise a house about two stories; +A lyric ode would slate; a catch +Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + But, to their own or landlord's cost, +Now Poets feel this art is lost. +Not one of all our tuneful throng +Can raise a lodging for a song. +For Jove consider'd well the case, +Observed they grew a numerous race; +And should they build as fast as write, +'Twould ruin undertakers quite. +This evil, therefore, to prevent, +He wisely changed their element: +On earth the God of Wealth was made +Sole patron of the building trade; +Leaving the Wits the spacious air, +With license to build castles there: +And 'tis conceived their old pretence +To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + Premising thus, in modern way, +The better half we have to say; +Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, +In higher strains than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) +Is both a Herald[2] and a Poet; +No wonder then if nicely skill'd +In both capacities to build. +As Herald, he can in a day +Repair a house gone to decay; +Or, by achievements, arms, device, +Erect a new one in a trice; +And as a poet, he has skill +To build in speculation still. +"Great Jove!" he cried, "the art restore +To build by verse as heretofore, +And make my Muse the architect; +What palaces shall we erect! +No longer shall forsaken Thames +Lament his old Whitehall in flames; +A pile shall from its ashes rise, +Fit to invade or prop the skies." + Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god, +Consenting with the usual nod, +Told Van, he knew his talent best, +And left the choice to his own breast. +So Van resolved to write a farce; +But, well perceiving wit was scarce, +With cunning that defect supplies: +Takes a French play as lawful prize;[3] +Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, +Not once suspecting Jove would smoke; +And (like a wag set down to write) +Would whisper to himself, "a _bite_." +Then, from this motley mingled style, +Proceeded to erect his pile. +So men of old, to gain renown, did +Build Babel with their tongues confounded. +Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best +To turn the matter to a jest; +Down from Olympus' top he slides, +Laughing as if he'd burst his sides: +Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks, +Why then old plays deserve old bricks; +And since you're sparing of your stuff, +Your building shall be small enough. +He spake, and grudging, lent his aid; +Th'experienced bricks, that knew their trade, +(As being bricks at second hand,) +Now move, and now in order stand. + The building, as the Poet writ, +Rose in proportion to his wit-- +And first the prologue built a wall; +So wide as to encompass all. +The scene, a wood, produc'd no more +Than a few scrubby trees before. +The plot as yet lay deep; and so +A cellar next was dug below; +But this a work so hard was found, +Two acts it cost him under ground. +Two other acts, we may presume, +Were spent in building each a room. +Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift +To raise a roof with act the fift. +The epilogue behind did frame +A place, not decent here to name. + Now, Poets from all quarters ran, +To see the house of brother Van; +Looked high and low, walk'd often round; +But no such house was to be found. +One asks the watermen hard by, +"Where may the Poet's palace lie?" +Another of the Thames inquires, +If he has seen its gilded spires? +At length they in the rubbish spy +A thing resembling a goose-pie. +Thither in haste the Poets throng, +And gaze in silent wonder long, +Till one in raptures thus began +To praise the pile and builder Van: + "Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trail +Thy house about thee like a snail: +Or harness'd to a nag, at ease +Take journeys in it like a chaise; +Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt, +Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt! +Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all +Thou'rt well contrived, tho' thou art small: +For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isle +May lodge within thy spacious pile. +Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign, +Thy mother burnt, art born again, +Born like a phoenix from the flame: +But neither bulk nor shape the same; +As animals of largest size +Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; +A type of modern wit and style, +The rubbish of an ancient pile; +So chemists boast they have a power, +From the dead ashes of a flower +Some faint resemblance to produce, +But not the virtue, taste, or juice. +So modern rhymers wisely blast +The poetry of ages past; +Which, after they have overthrown, +They from its ruins build their own." + + +[Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in +all editions of Swift's works.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of +Clarencieux king of arms.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from +Molière.--_Scott_. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was +indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only +one taken from Molière was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Dépit +Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked +Wife," were original.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + +ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES +IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. +IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + + +In ancient time, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter's night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Came to a village hard by Rixham,[2] +Ragged and not a groat betwixt 'em. +It rain'd as hard as it could pour, +Yet they were forced to walk an hour +From house to house, wet to the skin, +Before one soul would let 'em in. +They call'd at every door: "Good people, +My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple! +Here we lie starving in the street, +'Twould grieve a body's heart to see't, +No Christian would turn out a beast, +In such a dreadful night at least; +Give us but straw and let us lie +In yonder barn to keep us dry." +Thus in the stroller's usual cant, +They begg'd relief, which none would grant. +No creature valued what they said, +One family was gone to bed: +The master bawled out half asleep, +"You fellows, what a noise you keep! +So many beggars pass this way, +We can't be quiet, night nor day; +We cannot serve you every one; +Pray take your answer, and be gone." +One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks; +A third could not forbear his mocks; +But bawl'd as loud as he could roar +"You're on the wrong side of the door!" +One surly clown look't out and said, +"I'll fling the p--pot on your head: +You sha'nt come here, nor get a sous! +You look like rogues would rob a house. +Can't you go work, or serve the King? +You blind and lame! 'Tis no such thing. +That's but a counterfeit sore leg! +For shame! two sturdy rascals beg! +If I come down, _I'll_ spoil your trick, +And cure you both with a good stick." + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having thro' all the village past, +To a small cottage came at last +Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, +Call'd thereabout good man Philemon; +Who kindly did the saints invite +In his poor house to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +Whilst he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fry'd; +Which tost up in a pan with batter, +And served up in an earthen platter, +Quoth Baucis, "This is wholesome fare, +Eat, honest friends, and never spare, +And if we find our victuals fail, +We can but make it out in ale." + To a small kilderkin of beer, +Brew'd for the good time of the year, +Philemon, by his wife's consent, +Stept with a jug, and made a vent, +And having fill'd it to the brink, +Invited both the saints to drink. +When they had took a second draught, +Behold, a miracle was wrought; +For, Baucis with amazement found, +Although the jug had twice gone round, +It still was full up to the top, +As they ne'er had drunk a drop. +You may be sure so strange a sight, +Put the old people in a fright: +Philemon whisper'd to his wife, +"These men are--Saints--I'll lay my life!" +The strangers overheard, and said, +"You're in the right--but be'nt afraid: +No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their village shall be drown'd; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes." + Scarce had they spoke, when fair and soft, +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; +The heavy wall went clambering after. +The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist, +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below: +In vain; for a superior force +Applied at bottom stops its course: +Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + The wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increas'd by new intestine wheels; +But what adds to the wonder more, +The number made the motion slower. +The flyer, altho't had leaden feet, +Would turn so quick you scarce could see't; +But, now stopt by some hidden powers, +Moves round but twice in twice twelve hours, +While in the station of a jack, +'Twas never known to turn its back, +A friend in turns and windings tried, +Nor ever left the chimney's side. +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But, up against the steeple rear'd, +Became a clock, and still adher'd; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cookmaid not to burn +That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge insect, up the wall; +There stuck, and to a pulpit grew, +But kept its matter and its hue, +And mindful of its ancient state, +Still groans while tattling gossips prate. +The mortar only chang'd its name, +In its old shape a font became. + The porringers, that in a row, +Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, +To a less noble substance chang'd, +Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Chevy Chase, and English Mall,[3] +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Enlarged in picture, size, and letter, +And painted, lookt abundance better, +And now the heraldry describe +Of a churchwarden, or a tribe. +A bedstead of the antique mode, +Composed of timber many a load, +Such as our grandfathers did use, +Was metamorphos'd into pews; +Which yet their former virtue keep +By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, with such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees, +The holy men desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Replied in complimental style: +"Your goodness, more than my desert, +Makes you take all things in good part: +You've raised a church here in a minute, +And I would fain continue in it; +I'm good for little at my days, +Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat reach down his heels; +The sleeves new border'd with a list, +Widen'd and gather'd at his wrist, +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +A shambling awkward gait he took, +With a demure dejected look, +Talk't of his offerings, tythes, and dues, +Could smoke and drink and read the news, +Or sell a goose at the next town, +Decently hid beneath his gown. +Contriv'd to preach old sermons next, +Chang'd in the preface and the text. +At christ'nings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wish'd women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; +Against dissenters would repine. +And stood up firm for "right divine;" +Carried it to his equals higher, +But most obedient to the squire. +Found his head fill'd with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. +Instead of homespun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;[4] +Her petticoat, transform'd apace, +Became black satin, flounced with lace. +"Plain Goody" would no longer down, +'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes. +Amaz'd to see her look so prim, +And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which prov'd their last, +Discoursing o'er old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard, to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cry'd out, +"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- +"Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true, +And really yours is budding too-- +Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; +It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, +In short, they both were turn'd to yews. +Old Goodman Dobson of the Green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folk to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening prayer, +He gathers all the parish there; +Points out the place of either yew, +Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; +At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd +How much the other tree was griev'd, +Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, +So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. + + + +[Footnote 1: I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster +found in Swift's handwriting at Narford; and which has never been +published. It is well known that, at Addison's suggestion, Swift made +extensive changes in this, "one of the happiest of his poems," concerning +which Forster says, in his "Life of Swift," at p. 165: "The poem, as +printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I +found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the +latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has +been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the +addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two. The question +can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and, +in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison."--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: The "village hard by Rixham" of the original has as little +connection with "Chilthorne" as the "village down in Kent" of the altered +version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for +either.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: See the next poem for note on this line. Chevy Chase seems +more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered +version.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M. +Colbert Planché's "Costume," p. 395.--_W. E. B_.] + + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + +ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF +CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. +IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went +To a small village down in Kent; +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begg'd from door to door in vain, +Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having thro' all the village past, +To a small cottage came at last +Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, +Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fry'd; +Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink, +Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what was wonderful) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. +The good old couple were amaz'd, +And often on each other gaz'd; +For both were frighten'd to the heart, +And just began to cry, "What _art_!" +Then softly turn'd aside, to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, +Told them their calling and their errand: +"Good folk, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints," the hermits said; +"No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drown'd; +While you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes." + They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher +Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fasten'd to a joist, +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below: +In vain; for a superior force +Applied at bottom stops its course: +Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increas'd by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more, +The number made the motion slower. +The flyer, though it had leaden feet, +Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; +But, slacken'd by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near ally'd, +Had never left each other's side; +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But, up against the steeple rear'd, +Became a clock, and still adher'd; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon, declares, +Warning the cookmaid not to burn +That roast meat, which it cannot turn. +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like an huge snail, half up the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change, a pulpit grew. + The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, +To a less noble substance chang'd, +Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3] +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seem'd to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter: +And, high in order plac'd, describe +The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4] + A bedstead of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphos'd into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep +By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees, +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancy'd most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Return'd them thanks in homely style; +Then said, "My house is grown so fine, +Methinks, I still would call it mine. +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues: +Could smoke his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamp'd in the preface and the text; +At christ'nings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wish'd women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; +Against dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for "right divine;" +Found his head fill'd with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. +Instead of homespun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transform'd apace, +Became black satin, flounced with lace. +"Plain Goody" would no longer down, +'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes. +Amaz'd to see her look so prim, +And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which prov'd their last, +Discoursing o'er old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +[5]To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cry'd out, +"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- +"Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true, +And really yours is budding too--Nay,--now +I cannot stir my foot; +It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, +In short, they both were turn'd to yews. +Old Goodman Dobson of the Green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folk to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening prayer, +He gathers all the parish there; +Points out the place of either yew, +Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; +At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd +How much the other tree was griev'd, +Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, +So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. + + +[Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in +accordance with Addison's suggestions.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orléans. See "Hudibras," "Lady's Answer," verse +285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular +ballad was written. The line in the text is from "Hudibras," Part I, +c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla: + "A bold virago, stout and tall, + As Joan of France, or English Mall." +The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii, +239.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country +churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.--_Dublin Edition_.] + + +[Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.--_Dublin Edition_.] + + + + +THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE +1708 + +When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, +And call'd to take the cards away, +Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, +How Miss pick'd every painted card, +And, busy both with hand and eye, +Soon rear'd a house two stories high. +Van's genius, without thought or lecture +Is hugely turn'd to architecture: +He view'd the edifice, and smiled, +Vow'd it was pretty for a child: +It was so perfect in its kind, +He kept the model in his mind. + But, when he found the boys at play +And saw them dabbling in their clay, +He stood behind a stall to lurk, +And mark the progress of their work; +With true delight observed them all +Raking up mud to build a wall. +The plan he much admired, and took +The model in his table-book: +Thought himself now exactly skill'd, +And so resolved a house to build: +A real house, with rooms and stairs, +Five times at least as big as theirs; +Taller than Miss's by two yards; +Not a sham thing of play or cards: +And so he did; for, in a while, +He built up such a monstrous pile, +That no two chairmen could be found +Able to lift it from the ground. +Still at Whitehall it stands in view, +Just in the place where first it grew; +There all the little schoolboys run, +Envying to see themselves outdone. + From such deep rudiments as these, +Van is become, by due degrees, +For building famed, and justly reckon'd, +At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3] +No wonder, since wise authors show, +That best foundations must be low: +And now the duke has wisely ta'en him +To be his architect at Blenheim. + But raillery at once apart, +If this rule holds in every art; +Or if his grace were no more skill'd in +The art of battering walls than building, +We might expect to see next year +A mouse-trap man chief engineer. + + +[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 51, "The Reverse."--_W, E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De +Architectura."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of +his majesty's works.--_Scott_.] + + + + +A GRUB-STREET ELEGY + +ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708 + + +Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, +Though we all took it for a jest: +Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd, +Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd. +Strange, an astrologer should die +Without one wonder in the sky; +Not one of all his crony stars +To pay their duty at his hearse! +No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! +No comet with a flaming beard! +The sun hath rose and gone to bed, +Just as if Partridge were not dead; +Nor hid himself behind the moon +To make a dreadful night at noon. +He at fit periods walks through Aries, +Howe'er our earthly motion varies; +And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator, +As if there had been no such matter. + Some wits have wonder'd what analogy +There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology; +How Partridge made his optics rise +From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. + A list the cobbler's temples ties, +To keep the hair out of his eyes; +From whence 'tis plain the diadem +That princes wear derives from them; +And therefore crowns are now-a-days +Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; +Which plainly shows the near alliance +'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science. + Besides, that slow-paced sign Böötes, +As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis; +But Partridge ended all disputes; +He knew his trade, and call'd it _boots_.[3] + The horned moon,[4] which heretofore +Upon their shoes the Romans wore, +Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, +And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, +Shows how the art of cobbling bears +A near resemblance to the spheres. +A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, +(A great refiner in barometry,) +Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; +And what is parchment else but leather? +Which an astrologer might use +Either for almanacks or shoes. + Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, +At once did practise both these arts: +And as the boding owl (or rather +The bat, because her wings are leather) +Steals from her private cell by night, +And flies about the candle-light; +So learned Partridge could as well +Creep in the dark from leathern cell, +And in his fancy fly as far +To peep upon a twinkling star. + Besides, he could confound the spheres, +And set the planets by the ears; +To show his skill, he Mars could join +To Venus in aspect malign; +Then call in Mercury for aid, +And cure the wounds that Venus made. + Great scholars have in Lucian read, +When Philip King of Greece was dead +His soul and spirit did divide, +And each part took a different side; +One rose a star; the other fell +Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5] + Thus Partridge still shines in each art, +The cobbling and star-gazing part, +And is install'd as good a star +As any of the Caesars are. + Triumphant star! some pity show +On cobblers militant below, +Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, +Torment by pissing out their lights, +Or through a chink convey their smoke, +Enclosed artificers to choke. + Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, +May'st follow still thy calling there. +To thee the Bull will lend his hide, +By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd; +For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, +And scrape her pitchy sides for wax: +Then Ariadne kindly lends +Her braided hair to make thee ends; +The points of Sagittarius' dart +Turns to an awl by heavenly art; +And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, +Will forge for thee a paring-knife. +For want of room by Virgo's side, +She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride, +To take thee kindly in between; +And then the Signs will be Thirteen. + + + +[Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by +Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 _et seq.--W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 3: See his Almanack.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver +which distinguished the wearer as a senator. + "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."--Juvenal, _Sat_. vii, 192; and +Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.] + +[Footnote 6: + "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens + Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit." +VIRG., _Georg._, i, 34.] + + + + +THE EPITAPH + +Here, five feet deep, lies on his back +A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; +Who to the stars, in pure good will, +Does to his best look upward still. +Weep, all you customers that use +His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; +And you that did your fortunes seek, +Step to his grave but once a-week; +This earth, which bears his body's print, +You'll find has so much virtue in't, +That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell +Whate'er concerns you full as well, +In physic, stolen goods, or love, +As he himself could, when above. + + + + +A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING + +WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1] + + +Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach +Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. +Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, +And softly stole to discompose her own; +The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door +Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. +Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, +Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. +The youth with broomy stumps began to trace +The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2] +The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, +Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: +Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; +And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. +The turnkey now his flock returning sees, +Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3] +The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, +And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. + + +[Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, +1786.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: To find old nails.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the +prison.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] + +WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238 + + +Careful observers may foretell the hour, +(By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower. +While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er +Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. +Returning home at night, you'll find the sink +Strike your offended sense with double stink. +If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: +You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. +A coming shower your shooting corns presage, +Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; +Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; +He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. +Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, +A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, +That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, +And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. +Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, +While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; +Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean +Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: +You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop +To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. +Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, +But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, +And wafted with its foe by violent gust, +'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3] +Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, +When dust and rain at once his coat invade? +Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, +Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! +Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, +Threatening with deluge this _devoted_ town. +To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, +Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. +The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, +Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. +The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, +While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. +Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, +Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. +Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5] +Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. +Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, +While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, +And ever and anon with frightful din +The leather sounds; he trembles from within. +So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, +Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, +(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, +Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) +Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear, +And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. + Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, +And bear their trophies with them as they go: +Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell +What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell. +They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, +From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, +And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, +Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7] +Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, +Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, +Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. + + +[Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in +the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis +the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of +Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: +"there never was such a Shower since Danäe's," etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost +the right pronunciation, have _aches_ as one syllable; and then to +complete the metre have foisted in "aches _will_ throb." Thus, what the +poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See +Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81, +edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line +407, where persons are mentioned who + "Can by their Pangs and _Aches_ find + All turns and changes of the wind."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S +_Dispensary_.] + +[Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the +"Miscellanies": + "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, + Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.] + +[Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in +"The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of +Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition +of Pope, 8vo, 1751.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK +1710 + +Whoever pleases to inquire +Why yonder steeple wants a spire, +The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1] +The philosophic cause will show. +Once on a time a western blast, +At least twelve inches overcast, +Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all, +Which came with a prodigious fall; +And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, +Lit with its bottom on the ground: +For, by the laws of gravitation, +It fell into its proper station. + This is the little strutting pile +You see just by the churchyard stile; +The walls in tumbling gave a knock, +And thus the steeple got a shock; +From whence the neighbouring farmer calls +The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2] + The vicar once a-week creeps in, +Sits with his knees up to his chin; +Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, +Till the small ragged flock is met. + A traveller, who by did pass, +Observed the roof behind the grass; +On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, +And saw the parson creeping out: +Was much surprised to see a crow +Venture to build his nest so low. + A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought +The crib was down, the blackbird caught. +A third, who lost his way by night, +Was forced for safety to alight, +And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, +His horse had like to spoil his hoof. + Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, +This building was design'd a model; +Or of a pigeon-house or oven, +To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. + Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, +And every one was pleased that heard it; +All that you make this stir about +Is but a still which wants a spout. +The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd +More probably than all the rest; +He said, but that it wanted room, +It might have been a pigmy's tomb. + The doctor's family came by, +And little miss began to cry, +Give me that house in my own hand! +Then madam bade the chariot stand, +Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, +Pray, reach that thing here to the child: +That thing, I mean, among the kale; +And here's to buy a pot of ale. + The clerk said to her in a heat, +What! sell my master's country seat, +Where he comes every week from town! +He would not sell it for a crown. +Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; +In half an hour thou'lt make another. + Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss +A finer house ten times than this; +The dean will give me willow sticks, +And Joe my apron-full of bricks. + + +[Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, +for venerable white locks.--_Scott_. He had a claim on the Irish +Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works," +vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire +for a collector's place.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.] + +[Footnote 4: Stella.] + +[Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.] + +[Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.] + + + + +A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] + +_Scene, the Royal Exchange_ + +CORYDON + +Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, +No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, +While other girls confess the genial spring, +And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, +Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, +And throw each useless chafing-dish away; +Why sits my Phillis discontented here, +Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? +Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, +Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play? + +PHILLIS + +Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, +Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: +Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, +Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; +Then how you swore, how many vows you made! +Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, +Waft the soft accents to the gods above. +Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) +I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame. + +CORYDON + +When I forget the favour you bestow'd, +Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road: +Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, +And mass be sung where operas are seen. +The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, +Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; +Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, +At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum. + +PHILLIS + +But what to me does all that love avail, +If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, +Each night with wine and wenches you regale? +My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, +And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. +On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, +And with shrill voice invite them as they go. +Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine, +And unregarded wave upon the twine. +The week flies round, and when my profit's known, +I hardly clear enough to change a crown. + +CORYDON + +Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, +Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; +As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, +And ruddy peaches them; as first in place +Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, +And ice on that: so Phillis does appear +In playhouse and in Park, above the rest +Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest. + +PHILLIS + +And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, +Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, +And views me hourly with a scornful eye. + +CORYDON + +She might as well with bright Cleora vie. + +PHILLIS + +With this large petticoat I strive in vain +To hide my folly past, and coming pain; +'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, +Observe the symptoms I had once before: +A second babe at Wapping must be placed, +When I scarce bear the charges of the last. + +CORYDON + +What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, +Five shillings, and a coral for his gums; +To-morrow I intend him something more. + +PHILLIS + +I sent a frock and pair of shoes before. + +CORYDON + +However, you shall home with me to-night, +Forget your cares, and revel in delight, +I have in store a pint or two of wine, +Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine. + + And now on either side, and all around, +The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; +Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, +And ties her hood, preparing to be gone. + +L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T. + + +[Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals," +and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed +by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."--_Scott_.] + + +A CONFERENCE + +BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1] + + +CHARIOT + +My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, +To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; +Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day +At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; +And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion +Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;-- +Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love +As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; +Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, +I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; +And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, +Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together. + +CHAIR + +By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, +With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry. +By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; +He that makes love to me, must make it in French. +Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, +Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit? +Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, +No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix: +Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, +With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat. +Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat, +And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat. +You may think that you make a figure most shining, +But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining. +Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry, +To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry? +If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due +In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to. + +CHARIOT + +Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; +Is it your French breeding has made you so pert? +Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: +Who is it that values your ---- or your fox? +Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed +His bloody red hand to her bloody red head. +You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail +Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; +And although it may pass for gold on a ninny, +Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea. +Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, +Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket. +I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; +Your velvet was wore before in a mant, +On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,-- +The fire she carries hath changed its colour. +Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, +If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; +They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, +Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare. +We know how your lady was on you befriended; +You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: +But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; +She is two or three years above being out. +Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour +On one he can't hope of e'er making _bigger_. + + +[Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom +Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll +of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, +whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery." +See, _post_, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] +OCTOBER 31, 1713 + +Among the numbers who employ +Their tongues and pens to give you joy, +Dear Harley! generous youth, admit +What friendship dictates more than wit. +Forgive me, when I fondly thought +(By frequent observations taught) +A spirit so inform'd as yours +Could never prosper in amours. +The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, +With all acquired and natural parts, +Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, +Was an unfortunate gallant. +Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, +The nymph had soon been brought to yield; +Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, +The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. +Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, +Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; +For such is all the sex's flight, +They fly from learning, wit, and light; +They fly, and none can overtake +But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. + How then, dear Harley, could I guess +That you should meet, in love, success? +For, if those ancient tales be true, +Phoebus was beautiful as you; +Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, +For wit and learning spoil'd his face. +And since the same resemblance held +In gifts wherein you both excell'd, +I fancied every nymph would run +From you, as from Latona's son. +Then where, said I, shall Harley find +A virgin of superior mind, +With wit and virtue to discover, +And pay the merit of her lover? +This character shall Ca'endish claim, +Born to retrieve her sex's fame. +The chief among the glittering crowd, +Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, +(As fools are insolent and vain) +Madly aspired to wear her chain; +But Pallas, guardian of the maid, +Descending to her charge's aid, +Held out Medusa's snaky locks, +Which stupified them all to stocks. +The nymph with indignation view'd +The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; +For Pallas, with celestial light, +Had purified her mortal sight; +Show'd her the virtues all combined, +Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. + Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, +Display their various nets for hearts: +Their looks are all by method set, +When to be prude, and when coquette; +Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, +Their only pride is to refuse. +But, when a goddess would bestow +Her love on some bright youth below, +Round all the earth she casts her eyes; +And then, descending from the skies, +Makes choice of him she fancies best, +And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. +Thus the bright empress of the morn[3] +Chose for her spouse a mortal born: +The goddess made advances first; +Else what aspiring hero durst? +Though, like a virgin of fifteen, +She blushes when by mortals seen; +Still blushes, and with speed retires, +When Sol pursues her with his fires. + Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen +Struck with Endymion's graceful mien +Down from her silver chariot came, +And to the shepherd own'd her flame. + Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, +And chaster than the Queen of Night +Descended from her sphere to find +A mortal of superior kind. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married +Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of +Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the +Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and +Swift.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel +tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven; +hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 + + +Desponding Phyllis was endu'd +With ev'ry talent of a prude: +She trembled when a man drew near; +Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: +If o'er against her you were placed, +She durst not look above your waist: +She'd rather take you to her bed, +Than let you see her dress her head; +In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, +Repeat the absolution loud: +In church, secure behind her fan, +She durst behold that monster man: +There practis'd how to place her head, +And bite her lips to make them red; +Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, +Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. +And heave her bosom unaware, +For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare. + At length a lucky lover came, +And found admittance to the dame, +Suppose all parties now agreed, +The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, +The vicar and the ring bespoke: +Guess, how could such a match be broke? +See then what mortals place their bliss in! +Next morn betimes the bride was missing: +The mother scream'd, the father chid; +Where can this idle wench be hid? +No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, +And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; +Because her father used to say, +The girl had such a bashful way! + Now John the butler must be sent +To learn the road that Phyllis went: +The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; +For John must neither light nor stop, +But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, +And bring her back alive or dead. + See here again the devil to do! +For truly John was missing too: +The horse and pillion both were gone! +Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. + Old Madam, who went up to find +What papers Phyl had left behind, +A letter on the toilet sees, +"To my much honour'd father--these--" +('Tis always done, romances tell us, +When daughters run away with fellows,) +Fill'd with the choicest common-places, +By others used in the like cases. +"That long ago a fortune-teller +Exactly said what now befell her; +And in a glass had made her see +A serving-man of low degree. +It was her fate, must be forgiven; +For marriages were made in Heaven: +His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, +She'd do't if 'twere to do again: +Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin; +For John was come of honest kin. +Love never thinks of rich and poor; +She'd beg with John from door to door. +Forgive her, if it be a crime; +She'll never do't another time. +She ne'er before in all her life +Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife." +One argument she summ'd up all in, +"The thing was done and past recalling; +And therefore hoped she should recover +His favour when his passion's over. +She valued not what others thought her, +And was--his most obedient daughter." +Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, +Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: +Away they rode in homely sort, +Their journey long, their money short; +The loving couple well bemir'd; +The horse and both the riders tir'd: +Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; +Phyl cried! and John began to curse: +Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, +When first she ventured out with him; +John wish'd that he had broke a leg, +When first for her he quitted Peg. + But what adventures more befell 'em, +The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; +How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, +Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd: +How oft she broke her marriage vows, +In kindness to maintain her spouse, +Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; +For now the surgeon must be paid, +To whom those perquisites are gone, +In Christian justice due to John. + When food and raiment now grew scarce, +Fate put a period to the farce, +And with exact poetic justice; +For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; +They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, +Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore. + + +[Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.--_Swift_.] + + + + +HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX +ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718 + +Virtue conceal'd within our breast +Is inactivity at best: +But never shall the Muse endure +To let your virtues lie obscure; +Or suffer Envy to conceal +Your labours for the public weal. +Within your breast all wisdom lies, +Either to govern or advise; +Your steady soul preserves her frame, +In good and evil times, the same. +Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, +Stand in your sacred presence awed; +Your hand alone from gold abstains, +Which drags the slavish world in chains. + Him for a happy man I own, +Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2] +And happy he who wisely knows +To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; +Or, if it please the powers divine, +Can suffer want and not repine. +The man who infamy to shun +Into the arms of death would run; +That man is ready to defend, +With life, his country or his friend. + + +[Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less +friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, _passim_; and +an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.--_W. E. B._] + + +[Footnote 2: + "Non possidentem multa vocaveris + recte beatum: rectius occupat + nomen beati, qui deorum + muneribus sapienter uti + duramque callet pauperiem pati, + pejusque leto flagitium timet."] + + +TO MR. DELANY,[1] + +OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING + +To you whose virtues, I must own +With shame, I have too lately known; +To you, by art and nature taught +To be the man I long have sought, +Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, +Placed you in life too far behind: +Or, what I should repine at more, +Placed me in life too far before: +To you the Muse this verse bestows, +Which might as well have been in prose; +No thought, no fancy, no sublime, +But simple topics told in rhyme. + Three gifts for conversation fit +Are humour, raillery, and wit: +The last, as boundless as the wind, +Is well conceived, though not defined; +For, sure by wit is only meant +Applying what we first invent. +What humour is, not all the tribe +Of logic-mongers can describe; +Here only nature acts her part, +Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: +For wit and humour differ quite; +That gives surprise, and this delight, +Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, +Only by affectation spoil'd; +'Tis never by invention got, +Men have it when they know it not. + Our conversation to refine, +True humour must with wit combine: +From both we learn to rally well, +Wherein French writers most excel; +[2]Voiture, in various lights, displays +That irony which turns to praise: +His genius first found out the rule +For an obliging ridicule: +He flatters with peculiar air +The brave, the witty, and the fair: +And fools would fancy he intends +A satire where he most commends. + But as a poor pretending beau, +Because he fain would make a show, +Nor can afford to buy gold lace, +Takes up with copper in the place: +So the pert dunces of mankind, +Whene'er they would be thought refined, +Because the diff'rence lies abstruse +'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, +To show their parts will scold and rail, +Like porters o'er a pot of ale. + Such is that clan of boisterous bears, +Always together by the ears; +Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe +That meet for nothing but to gibe; +Who first run one another down, +And then fall foul on all the town; +Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, +And call'd by excellence The Club. +I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, +All special friends, and always jar. + The mettled and the vicious steed +Do not more differ in their breed, +Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, +As rudeness is to repartee. + If what you said I wish unspoke, +'Twill not suffice it was a joke: +Reproach not, though in jest, a friend +For those defects he cannot mend; +His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, +If named with scorn, gives just offence. + What use in life to make men fret, +Part in worse humour than they met? +Thus all society is lost, +Men laugh at one another's cost: +And half the company is teazed +That came together to be pleased: +For all buffoons have most in view +To please themselves by vexing you. + When jests are carried on too far, +And the loud laugh begins the war, +You keep your countenance for shame, +Yet still you think your friend to blame; +For though men cry they love a jest, +'Tis but when others stand the test; +And (would you have their meaning known) +They love a jest when 'tis their own. + You wonder now to see me write +So gravely where the subject's light; +Some part of what I here design +Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; +Who full of humour, fire, and wit, +Not always judges what is fit, +But loves to take prodigious rounds, +And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, +You must, although the point be nice, +Venture to give him some advice; +Few hints from you will set him right, +And teach him how to be polite. +Bid him like you, observe with care, +Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; +Nor indiscreetly to suppose +All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose. +To study the obliging jest, +By reading those who teach it best; +For prose I recommend Voiture's, +For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. +He'll find the secret out from thence, +To rhyme all day without offence; +And I no more shall then accuse +The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse. + If he be guilty, you must mend him; + If he be innocent, defend him. + + + +[Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, +born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged +Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. +Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too +hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died +1648.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.] + +[Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively +party, _post_, p. 137.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +AN ELEGY[1] + +ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; +WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720 + +Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, +By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; +Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound +Redeem him from his prison underground. +His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst +Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. +Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know +His faithful steward in the shades below. +He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; +He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: +And by his looks, had he held out his palms, +He might be thought an object fit for alms. +So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, +He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself. + Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; +Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; +And under hand and seal, the Irish nation +Were forc'd to own to him their obligation. + He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, +In half a minute is not worth a groat. +His coffers from the coffin could not save, +Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave. +A golden monument would not be right, +Because we wish the earth upon him light. + Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, +Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; +He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; +The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. + Old as he was, no vulgar known disease +On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; +"[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight +Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; +And, as he saw his darling money fail, +Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." +He who so long was current, 'twould be strange +If he should now be cry'd down since his change. + The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; +Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! +A dismal banker must that banker be, +Who gives no bills but of mortality! + + +[Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who +died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be +in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was +brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the +company.--_C. Walker_.] + +[Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.--_F_.] + + + + +EPITAPH ON THE SAME + +Beneath this verdant hillock lies +Demar, the wealthy and the wise, +His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, +Have put his carcass in a chest; +The very chest in which, they say, +His other self, his money, lay. +And, if his heirs continue kind +To that dear self he left behind, +I dare believe, that four in five +Will think his better self alive. + + +[Footnote 1: + "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd + His money bags together sew'd + And that he might securely rest," +Variation--From the Chetwode MS.--_W. E. B_.] + + + +TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, +ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT + +You always are making a god of your spouse; +But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; +Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, +And you adore him, because he adores you. +Your argument's weak, and so you will find; +For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. + + + + +VERSES +WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S + +Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? +Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. +In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, +You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. +In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, +You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. +O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, +Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request! +Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, +Instead of the deans, make the deanery double. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St. +Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his +hospitality. See Journal to Stella, _passim_, "Prose Works," vol. +ii--_W. E. B._] + + + +ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] + +A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, +Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, +Found out a new method at once of confessing, +And making the most of so mighty a blessing: +To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse, +By making his patron preside in his house; +And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, +That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense; +So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat +With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. +Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, +Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine. + + +[Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as +appears from the verses which follow.--_Scott_.] + + + +APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 + +Right Trusty, and so forth--we let you know +We are very ill used by you mortals below. +For, first, I have often by chemists been told, +(Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold; +Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it, +That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it. +Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine, +I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine; +To me the good fellows apply for relief, +Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef: +Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards +Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards. +That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think, +And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink. +But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd, +I alone can inspire the poetical crowd: +This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College, +Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge. +This every pretender in rhyme will admit, +Without troubling his head about judgment or wit. +These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom, +And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em. +They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls, +And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls. + But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany, +Whom I for your sake have used better than any, +And, of my mere motion, and special good grace, +Intended in time to succeed in your place, +On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came, +With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name, +To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass, +Where for fear of the cold I never can pass, +Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil, +Of value five shillings, in English a pencil, +Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write, +While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light. +My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath, +That she stopt in her course to look at them both; +That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding; +And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading: +That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day, +But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey: +And by the description, I certainly know, +'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago; +Whom when I with the best of my talents endued, +On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude: +That some verses were writ with felonious intent, +Direct to the North, where I never once went: +That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane, +But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again; +Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4] +And presently guessed the fancy was mine. +She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen +At night between Cavan Street and College Green. + Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown, +The reason is plain, they are none of his own; +And observe while you live that no man is shy +To discover the goods he came honestly by. +If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it, +And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it. +Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark, +There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark; +And let them be seen by the world if he dare, +I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware. +But as for the poem he writ on your sash, +I think I have now got him under my lash; +My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow, +And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow. +Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread +In all parts of the globe where your language is read. + He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal, +When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual: +But the secret is this; I did lately intend +To write a few verses on you as my friend: +I studied a fortnight, before I could find, +As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind, +And resolved the next winter (for that is my time, +When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme; +Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus; +When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us, +Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick +(For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,) +And from my own stock provided with topics, +He gets to a window beyond both the tropics, +There out of my sight, just against the north zone, +Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own; +And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow: +Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo? +High treason by statute! yet here you object, +He only stole hints, but the verse is correct; +Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd; +So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd. +Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance, +We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence. +Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire, +To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire; +We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen, +To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. +And we order our subjects of every degree +To believe all his verses were written by me: +And under the pain of our highest displeasure, +To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure. +And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime, +I'm too much revenged already by Time, +In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases, +But will now be her friend whenever she pleases. +And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover +Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over. + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also +with the copy transcribed by Stella.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: Diana.] + +[Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran: + "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line + And found by the wit the Fancy was mine + For none of his poems were ever yet shown + Which he in his conscience could claim for his own." +_Forster_.] + + + +NEWS FROM PARNASSUS +BY DR. DELANY + +OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720 + + +Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. +The poets assembled here on the eleventh, +Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know +He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below; +But declared that no bard should this honour inherit, +Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit: +Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case, +For each bard believed he'd a right to the place; +So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate, +He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate: +'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose, +Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose; +Till at length he determined that every bard +Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard. + First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1] +Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration: +"Since the soul of great Milton was given to me, +I hope the convention will quickly agree."-- +"Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool? +Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school? +Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time, +And given in return neither reason nor rhyme." +To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you, +I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you: +Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd, +Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd; +That at my instigation, a poem you writ, +Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit; +That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice, +Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice. +Jove sent her to me, her power to try; +The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny? +She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire. +Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher." + The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding, +For he merited much for his wit and his breeding. +'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him, +He else might expect they should pay what they owe him. +And therefore they prudently chose to discard +The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward: +The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance, +"You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France: +You bend your ambition to rise in the state; +I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great." + Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3] +"The convention allows me a versificator." +Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit; +By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit. +I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth, +The greatest objection against you's your youth; +Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside; +If you live you shall certainly one day preside." + Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets, +"'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4] + You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before; +But give me the bard that can teach them to soar. +Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess, +Who lately attempted my style with success; +Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit, +And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit: +Who makes it appear, by all he has writ, +His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit; +Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease, +But excels even Virgil in elegant praise: +Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due +Yet writes in a manner entirely new; +Though none with more ease their depths can explore, +Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store; +Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see, +In scorning to borrow from any but me: +It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays +Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays. +This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift: +The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No. +66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir +Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift +writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and +he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into +blank verse.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a +"formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a +"pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and +"Odyssey."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."--_N_.] + +[Footnote 5: Diana.] + + + + +APOLLO'S EDICT +OCCASIONED BY "NEWS FROM PARNASSUS" + +Ireland is now our royal care, +We lately fix'd our viceroy there. +How near was she to be undone, +Till pious love inspired her son! +What cannot our vicegerent do, +As poet and as patriot too? +Let his success our subjects sway, +Our inspirations to obey, +And follow where he leads the way: +Then study to correct your taste; +Nor beaten paths be longer traced. + No simile shall be begun, +With rising or with setting sun; +And let the secret head of Nile +Be ever banish'd from your isle. + When wretched lovers live on air, +I beg you'll the chameleon spare; +And when you'd make a hero grander, +Forget he's like a salamander.[1] + No son of mine shall dare to say, +Aurora usher'd in the day, +Or ever name the milky-way. +You all agree, I make no doubt, +Elijah's mantle is worn out. + The bird of Jove shall toil no more +To teach the humble wren to soar. +Your tragic heroes shall not rant, +Nor shepherds use poetic cant. +Simplicity alone can grace +The manners of the rural race. +Theocritus and Philips be +Your guides to true simplicity. + When Damon's soul shall take its flight, +Though poets have the second-sight, +They shall not see a trail of light. +Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, +Nor a new star adorn the skies: +For who can hope to place one there, +As glorious as Belinda's hair? +Yet, if his name you'd eternize, +And must exalt him to the skies; +Without a star this may be done: +So Tickell mourn'd his Addison. + If Anna's happy reign you praise, +Pray, not a word of halcyon days: +Nor let my votaries show their skill +In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2] +For know I cannot bear to hear +The mimicry of "deep, yet clear." + Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, +Against the phoenix I protest. +When poets soar in youthful strains, +No Phaethon to hold the reins. + When you describe a lovely girl, +No lips of coral, teeth of pearl. + Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, +However beauteous, for his mother; +Nor shall his darts at random fly +From magazine in Celia's eye. +With woman compounds I am cloy'd, +Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3] +For foreign aid what need they roam, +Whom fate has amply blest at home? + Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, +Has form'd a model for your land, +Whom Jove endued with every grace; +The glory of the Granard race; +Now destined by the powers divine +The blessing of another line. +Then, would you paint a matchless dame, +Whom you'd consign to endless fame? +Invoke not Cytherea's aid, +Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; +Nor need you on the Graces call; +Take qualities from Donegal.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," _ante_, p. +46.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.] + +[Footnote 3: _Ante_, p. 50.] + +[Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of +Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.--_Scott_.] + + + + +THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST + +Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen +Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was +composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having +reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he +executed the following very spirited translation.--_W. E. B._ + +TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720 + +O'ROURKE'S noble fare + Will ne'er be forgot, +By those who were there, + Or those who were not. + +His revels to keep, + We sup and we dine +On seven score sheep, + Fat bullocks, and swine. + +Usquebaugh to our feast + In pails was brought up, +A hundred at least, + And a madder[1] our cup. + +O there is the sport! + We rise with the light +In disorderly sort, + From snoring all night. + +O how was I trick'd! + My pipe it was broke, +My pocket was pick'd, + I lost my new cloak. + +I'm rifled, quoth Nell, + Of mantle and kercher,[2] +Why then fare them well, + The de'el take the searcher. + +Come, harper, strike up; + But, first, by your favour, +Boy, give us a cup: + Ah! this hath some savour. + +O'Rourke's jolly boys + Ne'er dreamt of the matter, +Till, roused by the noise, + And musical clatter, + +They bounce from their nest, + No longer will tarry, +They rise ready drest, + Without one Ave-Mary. + +They dance in a round, + Cutting capers and ramping; +A mercy the ground + Did not burst with their stamping. + +The floor is all wet + With leaps and with jumps, +While the water and sweat + Splish-splash in their pumps. + +Bless you late and early, + Laughlin O'Enagin![3] +But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. + Margery Grinagin.[5] + +Bring straw for our bed, + Shake it down to the feet, +Then over us spread + The winnowing sheet. + +To show I don't flinch, + Fill the bowl up again: +Then give us a pinch + Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6] + +Good lord! what a sight, + After all their good cheer, +For people to fight + In the midst of their beer! + +They rise from their feast, + And hot are their brains, +A cubit at least + The length of their skeans.[7] + +What stabs and what cuts, + What clattering of sticks; +What strokes on the guts, + What bastings and kicks! + +With cudgels of oak, + Well harden'd in flame, +A hundred heads broke, + A hundred struck lame. + +You churl, I'll maintain + My father built Lusk, +The castle of Slane, + And Carrick Drumrusk: + +The Earl of Kildare, + And Moynalta his brother, +As great as they are, + I was nurst by their mother.[8] + +Ask that of old madam: + She'll tell you who's who, +As far up as Adam, + She knows it is true. + +Come down with that beam, + If cudgels are scarce, +A blow on the weam, + Or a kick on the a----se. + + +[Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the +women.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: An Irish oath.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,--_F_.] + +[Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; +their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or +foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.--_F_.] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] + +When first Diana leaves her bed, + Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, +A frowzy dirty-colour'd red + Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face: + +But by degrees, when mounted high, + Her artificial face appears +Down from her window in the sky, + Her spots are gone, her visage clears. + +'Twixt earthly females and the moon, + All parallels exactly run; +If Celia should appear too soon, + Alas, the nymph would be undone! + +To see her from her pillow rise, + All reeking in a cloudy steam, +Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, + Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme! + +The soot or powder which was wont + To make her hair look black as jet, +Falls from her tresses on her front, + A mingled mass of dirt and sweat. + +Three colours, black, and red, and white + So graceful in their proper place, +Remove them to a different light, + They form a frightful hideous face: + +For instance, when the lily slips + Into the precincts of the rose, +And takes possession of the lips, + Leaving the purple to the nose: + +So Celia went entire to bed, + All her complexion safe and sound; +But, when she rose, the black and red, + Though still in sight, had changed their ground. + +The black, which would not be confined, + A more inferior station seeks, +Leaving the fiery red behind, + And mingles in her muddy cheeks. + +The paint by perspiration cracks, + And falls in rivulets of sweat, +On either side you see the tracks + While at her chin the conflu'nts meet. + +A skilful housewife thus her thumb, + With spittle while she spins anoints; +And thus the brown meanders come + In trickling streams betwixt her joints. + +But Celia can with ease reduce, + By help of pencil, paint, and brush, +Each colour to its place and use, + And teach her cheeks again to blush. + +She knows her early self no more, + But fill'd with admiration stands; +As other painters oft adore + The workmanship of their own hands. + +Thus, after four important hours, + Celia's the wonder of her sex; +Say, which among the heavenly powers + Could cause such wonderful effects? + +Venus, indulgent to her kind, + Gave women all their hearts could wish, +When first she taught them where to find + White lead, and Lusitanian dish. + +Love with white lead cements his wings; + White lead was sent us to repair +Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things, + A lady's face, and China-ware. + +She ventures now to lift the sash; + The window is her proper sphere; +Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash, + Nor let the beaux approach too near. + +Take pattern by your sister star; + Delude at once and bless our sight; +When you are seen, be seen from far, + And chiefly choose to shine by night. + +In the Pall Mall when passing by, + Keep up the glasses of your chair, +Then each transported fop will cry, + "G----d d----n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!" + +But art no longer can prevail, + When the materials all are gone; +The best mechanic hand must fail, + Where nothing's left to work upon. + +Matter, as wise logicians say, + Cannot without a form subsist; +And form, say I, as well as they, + Must fail if matter brings no grist. + +And this is fair Diana's case; + For, all astrologers maintain, +Each night a bit drops off her face, + When mortals say she's in her wane: + +While Partridge wisely shows the cause + Efficient of the moon's decay, +That Cancer with his pois'nous claws + Attacks her in the milky way: + +But Gadbury,[2] in art profound, + From her pale cheeks pretends to show +That swain Endymion is not sound, + Or else that Mercury's her foe. + +But let the cause be what it will, + In half a month she looks so thin, +That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill, + See but her forehead and her chin. + +Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, + Till midnight never shows her head; +So rotting Celia strolls the street, + When sober folks are all a-bed: + +For sure, if this be Luna's fate, + Poor Celia, but of mortal race, +In vain expects a longer date + To the materials of her face. + +When Mercury her tresses mows, + To think of oil and soot is vain: +No painting can restore a nose, + Nor will her teeth return again. + +Two balls of glass may serve for eyes, + White lead can plaister up a cleft; +But these, alas, are poor supplies + If neither cheeks nor lips be left. + +Ye powers who over love preside! + Since mortal beauties drop so soon, +If ye would have us well supplied, + Send us new nymphs with each new moon! + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with the copy transcribed by +Stella.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of +ephemerides.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in +August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see +"Dictionary of National Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] + +AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, +A reverend Dean began to woo[2] +A handsome, young, imperious girl, +Nearly related to an earl.[3] +Her parents and her friends consent; +The couple to the temple went: +They first invite the Cyprian queen; +'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" +But Cupid in disdain could scarce +Forbear to bid them kiss his ---- +The Graces next, and all the Muses, +Were bid in form, but sent excuses. +Juno attended at the porch, +With farthing candle for a torch; +While mistress Iris held her train, +The faded bow bedropt with rain. +Then Hebe came, and took her place, +But show'd no more than half her face. + Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, +In joy the marriage-day was spent; +The marriage-_day_, you take me right, +I promise nothing for the night. +The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, +Assumes an artificial vigour; +A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace +His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; +Like the faint red upon a pippin, +Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. + And thus set out this happy pair, +The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; +But, what I gladly would forget, +The swain is old, the nymph coquette. +Both from the goal together start; +Scarce run a step before they part; +No common ligament that binds +The various textures of their minds; +Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, +Less corresponding than their years. +The Dean desires his coffee soon, +She rises to her tea at noon. +While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, +She at the glass consults her looks; +While Betty's buzzing at her ear, +Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! +So odd a choice how could she make! +Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. +Then, on her finger ends she counts, +Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. +The Dean, she heard her uncle say, +Is sixty, if he be a day; +His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; +You see the crow's feet round his eyes. + At one she rambles to the shops, +To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; +Or calls a council of her maids, +And tradesmen, to compare brocades. +Her weighty morning business o'er, +Sits down to dinner just at four; +Minds nothing that is done or said, +Her evening work so fills her head. +The Dean, who used to dine at one, +Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; +In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, +Looks like the chaplain of the household; +Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, +In French brocades, and Flanders lace; +He wonders what employs her brain, +But never asks, or asks in vain; +His mind is full of other cares, +And, in the sneaking parson's airs, +Computes, that half a parish dues +Will hardly find his wife in shoes. + Canst thou imagine, dull divine, +'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? +Hath she no other wants beside? +You feed her lust as well as pride, +Enticing coxcombs to adore, +And teach her to despise thee more. + If in her coach she'll condescend +To place him at the hinder end, +Her hoop is hoist above his nose, +His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] +She drops him at the church, to pray, +While she drives on to see the play. +He like an orderly divine, +Comes home a quarter after nine, +And meets her hasting to the ball: +Her chairmen push him from the wall. +The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, +And calls the family to prayers; +Then goes alone to take his rest +In bed, where he can spare her best. +At five the footmen make a din, +Her ladyship is just come in; +The masquerade began at two, +She stole away with much ado; +And shall be chid this afternoon, +For leaving company so soon: +She'll say, and she may truly say't, +She can't abide to stay out late. + But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, +Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: +The cause, alas! is quickly guest; +The town has whisper'd round the jest. +Think on some remedy in time, +The Dean you see, is past his prime, +Already dwindled to a lath: +No other way but try the Bath. + For Venus, rising from the ocean, +Infused a strong prolific potion, +That mix'd with Acheloüs spring, +The horned flood, as poets sing, +Who, with an English beauty smitten, +Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; +The genial virtue with him brought, +And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; +Then fled, and left his horn behind, +For husbands past their youth to find; +The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, +Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, +Where childless wives crowd every morn, +To drink in Acheloüs horn;[6] +Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs +Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. +And here the father often gains +That title by another's pains. + Hither, though much against his grain +The Dean has carried Lady Jane. +He, for a while, would not consent, +But vow'd his money all was spent: +Was ever such a clownish reason! +And must my lady slip her season? +The doctor, with a double fee, +Was bribed to make the Dean agree. + Here, all diversions of the place +Are proper in my lady's case: +With which she patiently complies, +Merely because her friends advise; +His money and her time employs +In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; +Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, +Since others oft have found one there; +Where if the Dean by chance appears, +It shames his cassock and his years. +He keeps his distance in the gallery, +Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; +For 'twould his character expose, +To bathe among the belles and beaux. + So have I seen, within a pen, +Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; +But, when let out, they run and muddle, +As instinct leads them, in a puddle; +The sober hen, not born to swim, +With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] + The Dean, with all his best endeavour, +Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. +A victim to the last essays +Of vigour in declining days, +He dies, and leaves his mourning mate +(What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. + The widow goes through all her forms: +New lovers now will come in swarms. +O, may I see her soon dispensing +Her favours to some broken ensign! +Him let her marry for his face, +And only coat of tarnish'd lace; +To turn her naked out of doors, +And spend her jointure on his whores; +But, for a parting present, leave her +A rooted pox to last for ever! + + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated +January, 1721-2.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: + "A rich divine began to woo," + "A grave divine resolved to woo," +are Swift's successive changes of this line.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but +he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: + "If by a more than usual grace + She lends him in her chariot place, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose + For fear his gown should soil her clothes."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib. +ix.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was +erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to +James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of +Modena, having conceived after bathing there.--Collinson's "History of +Somersetshire."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first +draft.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.--_Forster_.] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF POETRY + +The farmer's goose, who in the stubble +Has fed without restraint or trouble, +Grown fat with corn and sitting still, +Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; +And hardly waddles forth to cool +Her belly in the neighbouring pool! +Nor loudly cackles at the door; +For cackling shows the goose is poor. + But, when she must be turn'd to graze, +And round the barren common strays, +Hard exercise, and harder fare, +Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; +Her body light, she tries her wings, +And scorns the ground, and upward springs; +While all the parish, as she flies, +Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. + Such is the poet fresh in pay, +The third night's profits of his play; +His morning draughts till noon can swill, +Among his brethren of the quill: +With good roast beef his belly full, +Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, +Deep sunk in plenty and delight, +What poet e'er could take his flight? +Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, +What poet e'er could sing a note? +Nor Pegasus could bear the load +Along the high celestial road; +The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, +To raise the lumber from the earth. + But view him in another scene, +When all his drink is Hippocrene, +His money spent, his patrons fail, +His credit out for cheese and ale; +His two-years coat so smooth and bare, +Through every thread it lets in air; +With hungry meals his body pined, +His guts and belly full of wind; +And, like a jockey for a race, +His flesh brought down to flying case: +Now his exalted spirit loathes +Encumbrances of food and clothes; +And up he rises like a vapour, +Supported high on wings of paper. +He singing flies, and flying sings, +While from below all Grub-Street rings. + + + + +THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 + +Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, +Arma virûm, tabulaeque, et Troïa gaza per undas. +VIRG. + +For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, +projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and +ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, +see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," +Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and +arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his +grandfather.--_W. E. B._ + + +Ye wise philosophers, explain + What magic makes our money rise, +When dropt into the Southern main; + Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes? + +Put in your money fairly told; + _Presto_! be gone--'Tis here again: +Ladies and gentlemen, behold, + Here's every piece as big as ten. + +Thus in a basin drop a shilling, + Then fill the vessel to the brim, +You shall observe, as you are filling, + The pond'rous metal seems to swim: + +It rises both in bulk and height, + Behold it swelling like a sop; +The liquid medium cheats your sight: + Behold it mounted to the top! + +In stock three hundred thousand pounds, + I have in view a lord's estate; +My manors all contiguous round! + A coach-and-six, and served in plate! + +Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, + Puts all upon a desperate bet; +Then plunges in the Southern waves, + Dipt over head and ears--in debt. + +So, by a calenture misled, + The mariner with rapture sees, +On the smooth ocean's azure bed, + Enamell'd fields and verdant trees: + +With eager haste he longs to rove + In that fantastic scene, and thinks +It must be some enchanted grove; + And in he leaps, and down he sinks. + +Five hundred chariots just bespoke, + Are sunk in these devouring waves, +The horses drown'd, the harness broke, + And here the owners find their graves. + +Like Pharaoh, by directors led, + They with their spoils went safe before; +His chariots, tumbling out the dead, + Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore. + +Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, + The young adventurer o'er the deep +An eagle's flight and state assumes, + And scorns the middle way to keep. + +On paper wings he takes his flight, + With wax the father bound them fast; +The wax is melted by the height, + And down the towering boy is cast. + +A moralist might here explain + The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] +Describe his fall into the main, + And from a fable form a truth. + +His wings are his paternal rent, + He melts the wax at every flame; +His credit sunk, his money spent, + In Southern Seas he leaves his name. + +Inform us, you that best can tell, + Why in that dangerous gulf profound, +Where hundreds and where thousands fell, + Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd? + +So have I seen from Severn's brink + A flock of geese jump down together; +Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, + And, swimming, never wet a feather. + +But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, + Directors better knew their tools; +We see the nation's credit crack'd, + Each knave has made a thousand fools. + +One fool may from another win, + And then get off with money stored; +But, if a sharper once comes in, + He throws it all, and sweeps the board. + +As fishes on each other prey, + The great ones swallowing up the small, +So fares it in the Southern Sea; + The whale directors eat up all. + +When stock is high, they come between, + Making by second-hand their offers; +Then cunningly retire unseen, + With each a million in his coffers. + +So, when upon a moonshine night, + An ass was drinking at a stream, +A cloud arose, and stopt the light, + By intercepting every beam: + +The day of judgment will be soon, + Cries out a sage among the crowd; +An ass has swallow'd up the moon! + The moon lay safe behind the cloud. + +Each poor subscriber to the sea + Sinks down at once, and there he lies; +Directors fall as well as they, + Their fall is but a trick to rise. + +So fishes, rising from the main, + Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; +The moisture dried, they sink again, + And dip their fins again to fly. + +Undone at play, the female troops + Come here their losses to retrieve; +Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, + Like Lapland witches in a sieve. + +Thus Venus to the sea descends, + As poets feign; but where's the moral? +It shows the Queen of Love intends + To search the deep for pearl and coral. + +The sea is richer than the land, + I heard it from my grannam's mouth, +Which now I clearly understand; + For by the sea she meant the South. + +Thus, by directors we are told, + "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; +Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, + Look round, and see how thick it lies: + +"We, gentlemen, are your assisters, + We'll come, and hold you by the chin."-- +Alas! all is not gold that glisters, + Ten thousand sink by leaping in. + +O! would those patriots be so kind, + Here in the deep to wash their hands, +Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find + The sea indeed had golden sands. + +A shilling in the bath you fling, + The silver takes a nobler hue, +By magic virtue in the spring, + And seems a guinea to your view. + +But, as a guinea will not pass + At market for a farthing more, +Shown through a multiplying glass, + Than what it always did before: + +So cast it in the Southern seas, + Or view it through a jobber's bill; +Put on what spectacles you please, + Your guinea's but a guinea still. + +One night a fool into a brook + Thus from a hillock looking down, +The golden stars for guineas took, + And silver Cynthia for a crown. + +The point he could no longer doubt; + He ran, he leapt into the flood; +There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, + All cover'd o'er with slime and mud. + +"Upon the water cast thy bread, + And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] +But gold, upon this ocean spread, + Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it: + +There is a gulf, where thousands fell, + Here all the bold adventurers came, +A narrow sound, though deep as Hell-- + 'Change Alley is the dreadful name. + +Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, + Yet he that on the surface lies, +Without a pilot seldom knows + The time it falls, or when 'twill rise. + +Subscribers here by thousands float, + And jostle one another down; +Each paddling in his leaky boat, + And here they fish for gold, and drown. + +"Now buried in the depth below, + Now mounted up to Heaven again, +They reel and stagger to and fro, + At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4] + +Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, + A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, +Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, + And strip the bodies of the dead. + +But these, you say, are factious lies, + From some malicious Tory's brain; +For, where directors get a prize, + The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain. + +Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, + Some cully often wins a bet, +By venturing on the cheating side, + Though not into the secret let. + +While some build castles in the air, + Directors build them in the seas; +Subscribers plainly see them there, + For fools will see as wise men please. + +Thus oft by mariners are shown + (Unless the men of Kent are liars) +Earl Godwin's castles overflown, + And palace roofs, and steeple spires. + +Mark where the sly directors creep, + Nor to the shore approach too nigh! +The monsters nestle in the deep, + To seize you in your passing by. + +Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, + Who, taught by instinct how to shun +The crocodile, that lurking lies, + Run as they drink, and drink and run. + +Antæus could, by magic charms, + Recover strength whene'er he fell; +Alcides held him in his arms, + And sent him up in air to Hell. + +Directors, thrown into the sea, + Recover strength and vigour there; +But may be tamed another way, + Suspended for a while in air. + +Directors! for 'tis you I warn, + By long experience we have found +What planet ruled when you were born; + We see you never can be drown'd. + +Beware, nor overbulky grow, + Nor come within your cully's reach; +For, if the sea should sink so low + To leave you dry upon the beach, + +You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: + Your foes already waiting stand, +To tear you like a founder'd hulk, + While you lie helpless on the sand. + +Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, + The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: +The monster into parts divide, + And strip the bones, and melt the oil. + +Oh! may some western tempest sweep + These locusts whom our fruits have fed, +That plague, directors, to the deep, + Driven from the South Sea to the Red! + +May he, whom Nature's laws obey, + Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, +"Quiet the raging of the sea, + And still the madness of the crowd!" + +But never shall our isle have rest, + Till those devouring swine run down, +(The devils leaving the possest) + And headlong in the waters drown. + +The nation then too late will find, + Computing all their cost and trouble, +Directors' promises but wind, + South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble. + + + +[Footnote 1: Phaëthon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. +xi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.] + +[Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.] + +[Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in +1866.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE + +ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, +Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: +Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et altè +Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps +Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una. +Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; +Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet. + + + + +A PROLOGUE + +BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS SENT WITH THE PROLOGUE + +The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not +allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon +which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. + The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company +of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, +etc. to act in. + + +Our set of strollers, wandering up and down, +Hearing the house was empty, came to town; +And, with a license from our good lord mayor, +Went to one Griffith, formerly a player: +Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe, +To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe, +To let our company supply their places, +And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces. +Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me; +I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he. +When we perform, look sharp among our crew, +There's not a creature here you ever knew. +The former folks were servants to the king; +We, humble strollers, always on the wing. +Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole, +Rather than starve, a better man would stroll. + Stay! let me see--Three hundred pounds a-year, +For leave to act in town!--'Tis plaguy dear. +Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark, +For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk. +Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix, +The public should bestow the actors six; +A score of guineas given underhand, +For a good word or so, we understand. +To help an honest lad that's out of place, +May cost a crown or so; a common case: +And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought +To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat. +But, in the chronicles of former ages, +Who ever heard of servants paying wages? + I pity Elrington with all my heart; +Would he were here this night to act my part! +I told him what it was to be a stroller; +How free we acted, and had no comptroller: +In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor, +First get a license, then produce our ware; +We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum: +Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come; +And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on, +Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone. +I told him in the smoothest way I could, +All this, and more, yet it would do no good. +But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks, +He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2] +To whom our country has been always dear, +Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here, +Owns all your favours, here intends to stay, +And, as a stroller, act in every play: +And the whole crew this resolution takes, +To live and die all strollers, for your sakes; +Not frighted with an ignominious name, +For your displeasure is their only shame. + A pox on Elrington's majestic tone! +Now to a word of business in our own. + Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last: +Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. +Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss, +The next we act shall be as good as this. + + +[Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great +reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by +Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the +death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the +management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic +consideration. He died in July, 1732.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in +comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786; +Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National +Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +EPILOGUE[1] + +TO MR. HOPPY'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, AT SMOCK-ALLEY + + +HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, +I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. +He's not the first person who never did write, +And yet has been fed by a benefit-night. +The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye, +In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury. +But then you must know, those players still act on +Some very good reasons, for such benefaction. + A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail; +From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. +Your emerited actors, and actresses too, +For what they have done (though no more they can do) +And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G----, +And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea; +A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright, +Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night. + Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found +That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound, +Paid to him clear money once every year: +And however some think it a little too dear, +Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow, +Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow. + First, because by the King to us he was sent, +To guide the whole session of this parliament. +To preside in our councils, both public and private, +And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at. +When bold B---- roars, and meek M---- raves, +When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be----h by halves, +When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories; +And to himself constant when a member no more is, +But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes; +As S----t is dull, and with S----d, who dotes; +Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low, +And with eloquent bow, the house he must show, +That that worthy member who spoke last must give +The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive, +That his sentiment on this affair isn't right; +That he mightily wonders which way he came by't: +That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown; +And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down. + For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear, +Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year, +And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood, +To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good; +To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit; +And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit. +To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat, +And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat: +All which he deserves; for although all the day +He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay; +And if he rise early to watch for the state, +To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late. +Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say +Hop has got all the money for our acting this play, +Which makes us poor actors look _je ne sçai quoy_. + + +[Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the +avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the +company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to +have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But +it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous +guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's +accuracy of numbers.--_Scott_. Perhaps so, but the note to this +piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the _Captain_, one evening, at the +end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at +_Gallstown_"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous +guests." This is very different from "composed."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PROLOGUE[1] + +TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. +BY DR. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721 + + +Great cry, and little wool--is now become +The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom; +No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp; +Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. +Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry; +Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! +Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange +To shift your clothes, since you delight in change. +One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell-- +The men will like you every bit as well. + See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff, +And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough; +My wife admires me more, and swears she never, +In any dress, beheld me look so clever. +And if a man be better in such ware, +What great advantage must it give the fair! +Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds; +Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds; +Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find +Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined-- +And what are they but maggots in the mind? +For which I think it reason to conclude, +That clothes may change our temper like our food. +Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes +Too much about the party-colour'd dyes; +Although the lustre is from you begun, +We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun. + How sweet and innocent's the country maid, +With small expense in native wool array'd; +Who copies from the fields her homely green, +While by her shepherd with delight she's seen! +Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool +How much more lovely, and how beautiful, +Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove! +While wool would help to warm us into love! +Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, +We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece! + + +[Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the +Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish +Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.--_W. E. B._] + + + +EPILOGUE +TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. +BY THE DEAN. SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH + +Who dares affirm this is no pious age, +When charity begins to tread the stage? +When actors, who at best are hardly savers, +Will give a night of benefit to weavers? +Stay--let me see, how finely will it sound! +_Imprimis_, From his grace[1] a hundred pound. +Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors; +And then comes in the _item_ of the actors. +_Item_, The actors freely give a day-- +The poet had no more who made the play. + But whence this wondrous charity in players? +They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: +Under the rose, since here are none but friends, +(To own the truth) we have some private ends. +Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, +Hold up the prices of their old brocades; +We'll dress in manufactures made at home; +Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2] +We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen +And Antony shall court her in ratteen. +In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad, +And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid, +In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, +See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; +And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, +With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage. +In short, our kings and princesses within +Are all resolved this project to begin; +And you, our subjects, when you here resort, +Must imitate the fashion of the court. + O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, +Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: +But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, +And scarce a crown is left to see the play. +Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs +Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; +But wit and weaving had the same beginning; +Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: +And, next, observe how this alliance fits, +For weavers now are just as poor as wits: +Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, +For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; +But weavers will be kinder to the players, +And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs. +And to your knowledge, there is often less in +The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing. + + +[Footnote 1: Archbishop King.] + +[Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.," +lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish +Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANSWER +TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE. +IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY. + +Femineo generi tribuantur. + +The Muses, whom the richest silks array, +Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; +The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, +And gives each colour to the pictured maids; +Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, +Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine. +And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff +And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? + The player in mimic piety may storm, +Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm: +The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, +May curse the belles and chintzes of the age: +Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, +And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. + The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, +Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; +Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, +Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: +Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, +And be the emblem of your innocence. + Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, +Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour: +Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, +Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. +Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, +For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these? +Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade +Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid. +Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, +Thus act subservient to a poplin gown? +Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough +The under petticoat be made of stuff. +Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May, +When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay! +And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they? + In what weak colours would the plaid appear, +Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair! +The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff; +Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough? +Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, +Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, +Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, +And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky! +Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full: +And all this for the benefit of wool! + "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers, +That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?" +The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, +Demand their care, to make their webs complete: +These may they tend, their promises receive; +We cannot pay too much for what they give! + + + + +ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE + +THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. +BY DR. DELANY + +'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, +You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; +'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, +You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; +'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, +And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; +'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, +And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; +'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, +Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; +'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, +And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; +'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, +'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, +'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, +It is part of the new, and part of the old; +It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse-- +wish then, dear George, it were better or worse. + +[Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George +Rochfort, Esq.--_F._] + + + + +THE COUNTRY LIFE + +PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, +THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort. +_George_, his eldest son. +_Nim_, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting. +_Dan_, Mr. Jackson, a parson. +Gaulstown, the Baron's seat. +_Sheridan_, a pedant and pedagogue. +_Delany_, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor +of Ireland. +Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal. +Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady. + + +Thalia, tell, in sober lays, +How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days; +And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, +Yet _Neget quis carmina Gallo?_ +Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I +Not Sheridan, but friend Delany. +Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers +We sally forth at different hours; +At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, +Goes round the house to wake the rest; +At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, +Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2] +At ten my lady comes and hectors +And kisses George, and ends our lectures; +And when she has him by the neck fast, +Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast. +We squander there an hour or more, +And then all hands, boys, to the oar; +All, heteroclite Dan except, +Who never time nor order kept, +But by peculiar whimseys drawn, +Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn: +O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, +Or mars a text, or mends his hose; +Or--but proceed we in our journal-- +At two, or after, we return all: +From the four elements assembling, +Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, +From airy garrets some descend, +Some from the lake's remotest end; +My lord and Dean the fire forsake, +Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; +The loiterers quake, no corner hides them +And Lady Betty soundly chides them. +Now water brought, and dinner done; +With "Church and King" the ladies gone. +Not reckoning half an hour we pass +In talking o'er a moderate glass. +Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief +Steals off to doze away his beef; +And this must pass for reading Hammond-- +While George and Dean go to backgammon. +George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, +And then, again, boys, to the oar. +But when the sun goes to the deep, +(Not to disturb him in his sleep, +Or make a rumbling o'er his head, +His candle out, and he a-bed,) +We watch his motions to a minute, +And leave the flood when he goes in it. +Now stinted in the shortening day, +We go to prayers and then to play, +Till supper comes; and after that +We sit an hour to drink and chat. +'Tis late--the old and younger pairs, +By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs. +The weary Dean goes to his chamber; +And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, +So when the circle we have run, +The curtain falls and all is done. + I might have mention'd several facts, +Like episodes between the acts; +And tell who loses and who wins, +Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; +How Dan caught nothing in his net, +And how the boat was overset. +For brevity I have retrench'd +How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: +It would be an exploit to brag on, +How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; +How steady in the storm he sat, +And saved his oar, but lost his hat: +How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) +Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; +How skilfully Dan mends his nets; +How fortune fails him when he sets; +Or how the Dean delights to vex +The ladies, and lampoon their sex: +I might have told how oft Dean Perceval +Displays his pedantry unmerciful, +How haughtily he cocks his nose, +To tell what every schoolboy knows: +And with his finger and his thumb, +Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: +But now there needs no more be said on't, +Nor how his wife, that female pedant, +Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: +For candles how she trucks her dripping; +Was forced to send three miles for yeast, +To brew her ale, and raise her paste; +Tells everything that you can think of, +How she cured Charley of the chincough; +What gave her brats and pigs the measles, +And how her doves were killed by weasels; +How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright +She had with dreams the other night. + But now, since I have gone so far on, +A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; +And tell how little weight he sets +On all Whig papers and gazettes; +But for the politics of Pue,[4] +Thinks every syllable is true: +And since he owns the King of Sweden [5] +Is dead at last, without evading, +Now all his hopes are in the czar; +"Why, Muscovy is not so far; +Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, +And in a month he's at your gates; +Perhaps from what the packet brings, +By Christmas we shall see strange things." +Why should I tell of ponds and drains, +What carps we met with for our pains; +Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable +To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? +But you, who are a scholar, know +How transient all things are below, +How prone to change is human life! +Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife-- +This grand event has broke our measures; +Their reign began with cruel seizures; +The Dean must with his quilt supply +The bed in which those tyrants lie; +Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, +(My lady says, she can't afford one,) +George is half scared out of his wits, +For Clem gets all the dainty bits. +Henceforth expect a different survey, +This house will soon turn topsyturvy; +They talk of farther alterations, +Which causes many speculations. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for +his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: The butler.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p. +347.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a +"petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to +"Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of +Gaulstown.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] + +WOULD you that Delville I describe? +Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: +For who would be satirical +Upon a thing so very small? + You scarce upon the borders enter, +Before you're at the very centre. +A single crow can make it night, +When o'er your farm she takes her flight: +Yet, in this narrow compass, we +Observe a vast variety; +Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, +Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs, +And hills and dales, and woods and fields, +And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields: +All to your haggard brought so cheap in, +Without the mowing or the reaping: +A razor, though to say't I'm loth, +Would shave you and your meadows both. + Though small's the farm, yet here's a house +Full large to entertain a mouse; +But where a rat is dreaded more +Than savage Caledonian boar; +For, if it's enter'd by a rat, +There is no room to bring a cat. + A little rivulet seems to steal +Down through a thing you call a vale, +Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, +Like rain along a blade of leek: +And this you call your sweet meander, +Which might be suck'd up by a gander, +Could he but force his nether bill +To scoop the channel of the rill. +For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, +Were it as big as city gutter. +Next come I to your kitchen garden, +Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; +And round this garden is a walk +No longer than a tailor's chalk; +Thus I compare what space is in it, +A snail creeps round it in a minute. +One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze +Up through a tuft you call your trees: +And, once a year, a single rose +Peeps from the bud, but never blows; +In vain then you expect its bloom! +It cannot blow for want of room. + In short, in all your boasted seat, +There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. + + +[Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's +friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is +unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.--_W. E. B._] + + + +ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE + +A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, +Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. +This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent, +And bid him go ask what his votary meant? +"Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: +'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser! +Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, +I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; +For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; +And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train." + + + + +CARBERIAE RUPES + +IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723 + + +Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo +Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, +Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa +Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur +Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis. +Nam, longâ venti rabie, atque aspergine crebrâ +Aequorei laticis, specus imâ rupe cavatur: +Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant; +Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas. +Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem +Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum +In capita anguipedum coelo jaculâsse gigantum. + Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu +Exesa è scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, +Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo +Cautibus enormè junctis laquearia tecti +Formantur; moles olim ruitura supernè. +Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, +Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae. + Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, +Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; +Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextrâ +Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, +Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procellâ: +Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia latè, +Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, +Terretur tamen, et longè fugit, arva relinquens. + Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, +Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, +Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt. + Piscator terrâ non audet vellere funem; +Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aëra sudum +Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat. + + + + +CARBERY ROCKS + +TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN + +Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds +Its airy head amid the azure clouds, +Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props, +Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops; +With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound, +From shore to shore the rocks return the sound: +The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, +And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: +For, long the whirling winds and beating tides +Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides. +Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge +Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge. +Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, +When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; +Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, +To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load. + Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide +Presents an orifice on either side. +A dismal orifice, from sea to sea +Extended, pervious to the God of Day: +Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form +An arch, the ruin of a future storm: +High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, +And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake. + But when bleak Winter with his sullen train +Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; +When o'er the craggy steep without control, +Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; +Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, +Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, +Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, +Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, +Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: +Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore. +The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks +Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, +Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, +Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. + The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, +The wither'd herb improvident they crop, +Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, +Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep. + The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, +Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, +Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, +Wearies with vows the monarch of the main. + + + + +COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES + +ON MR. FORD[1] + + +COME, be content, since out it must, +For Stella has betray'd her trust; +And, whispering, charged me not to say +That Mr. Ford was born to-day; +Or, if at last I needs must blab it, +According to my usual habit, +She bid me, with a serious face, +Be sure conceal the time and place; +And not my compliment to spoil, +By calling this your native soil; +Or vex the ladies, when they knew +That you are turning forty-two: +But, if these topics shall appear +Strong arguments to keep you here, +I think, though you judge hardly of it, +Good manners must give place to profit. + The nymphs, with whom you first began, +Are each become a harridan; +And Montague so far decay'd, +Her lovers now must all be paid; +And every belle that since arose, +Has her contemporary beaux. +Your former comrades, once so bright, +With whom you toasted half the night, +Of rheumatism and pox complain, +And bid adieu to dear champaign. +Your great protectors, once in power, +Are now in exile or the Tower. +Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, +Who hate your person and your cause, +If once they get you on the spot, +You must be guilty of the plot; +For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire, +But use you ten times worse than Prior. + In London! what would you do there? +Can you, my friend, with patience bear +(Nay, would it not your passion raise +Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase) +To see a scoundrel strut and hector, +A foot-boy to some rogue director, +To look on vice triumphant round, +And virtue trampled on the ground? +Observe where bloody **** stands +With torturing engines in his hands, +Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail, +Threatening the pillory and jail: +If this you think a pleasing scene, +To London straight return again; +Where, you have told us from experience, +Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians. + I thought my very spleen would burst, +When fortune hither drove me first; +Was full as hard to please as you, +Nor persons' names nor places knew: +But now I act as other folk, +Like prisoners when their gaol is broke. + If you have London still at heart, +We'll make a small one here by art; +The difference is not much between +St. James's Park and Stephen's Green; +And Dawson Street will serve as well +To lead you thither as Pall Mall. +Nor want a passage through the palace, +To choke your sight, and raise your malice. +The Deanery-house may well be match'd, +Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2] +Nor shall I, when you hither come, +Demand a crown a-quart for stum. +Then for a middle-aged charmer, +Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3] +She's now as handsome every bit, +And has a thousand times her wit +The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, +Will half supply a Gay and Pope. +Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not, +No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot. +I throw into the bargain Tim; +In London can you equal him? +What think you of my favourite clan, +Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan; +Fellows of modest worth and parts, +With cheerful looks and honest hearts? + Can you on Dublin look with scorn? +Yet here were you and Ormond born. + O! were but you and I so wise, +To see with Robert Grattan's eyes! +Robin adores that spot of earth, +That literal spot which gave him birth; +And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste, +As fine as Hampton-court at least." +When to your friends you would enhance +The praise of Italy or France, +For grandeur, elegance, and wit, +We gladly hear you, and submit; +But then, to come and keep a clutter, +For this or that side of a gutter, +To live in this or t'other isle, +We cannot think it worth your while; +For, take it kindly or amiss, +The difference but amounts to this, +We bury on our side the channel +In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7] +You for the news are ne'er to seek; +While we, perhaps, may wait a week; +You happy folks are sure to meet +A hundred whores in every street; +While we may trace all Dublin o'er +Before we find out half a score. + You see my arguments are strong, +I wonder you held out so long; +But, since you are convinced at last, +We'll pardon you for what has past. +So--let us now for whist prepare; +Twelve pence a corner, if you dare. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his +friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the +poem, "Stella at Wood Park."--Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's +intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a +fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and +nation."--_Nichols_.] + +[Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till +about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, +"exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind +than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the +Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i, +172.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death +of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.] + +[Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.--_H._] + +[Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.--_H._] + +[Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in +1733.] + + + + +ON DREAMS + +AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS + +Petronii Fragmenta, xxx. + + +THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, +And with false flitting shades our minds delude +Jove never sends us downward from the skies; +Nor can they from infernal mansions rise; +But are all mere productions of the brain, +And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1] + +For when in bed we rest our weary limbs, +The mind unburden'd sports in various whims; +The busy head with mimic art runs o'er +The scenes and actions of the day before.[2] + +The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, +To regal rage devotes some patriot's head. +With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, +The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt. + +The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, +And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. +With like remorse his brother of the trade, +The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. + +The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, +And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. +Nor less Tom-t--d-man, of true statesman mould, +Collects the city filth in search of gold. + +Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, +And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. +His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, +Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob. + +The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, +Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. +The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, +Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes. + +The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, +As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: +While the sly mountebank attends his trade, +Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. + +The hireling senator of modern days +Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: +And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace +Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face. + + +[Footnote 1: +"Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, +Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, +Sed sibi quisque facit."] + +[Footnote 2: + "Nam cum prostrata sopore +Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, +Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, +IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724 + + +Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, +Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. +Can anything be more unkind? +Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? +Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,-- +A friend that loves to see and hear you. +Why am I robb'd of that delight, +When you can be no loser by't +Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) +That if you heard you'd be no gainer? +For sure you are not yet to learn, +That hearing is not your concern. +Then be your doors no longer barr'd: +Your business, sir, is to be heard. + + + + +THE ANSWER + +The wise pretend to make it clear, +'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. +Why are we then so fond of two, +When by experience one would do? + 'Tis true, say they, cut off the head, +And there's an end; the man is dead; +Because, among all human race, +None e'er was known to have a brace: +But confidently they maintain, +That where we find the members twain, +The loss of one is no such trouble, +Since t'other will in strength be double. +The limb surviving, you may swear, +Becomes his brother's lawful heir: +Thus, for a trial, let me beg of +Your reverence but to cut one leg off, +And you shall find, by this device, +The other will be stronger twice; +For every day you shall be gaining +New vigour to the leg remaining. +So, when an eye has lost its brother, +You see the better with the other, +Cut off your hand, and you may do +With t'other hand the work of two: +Because the soul her power contracts, +And on the brother limb reacts. + But yet the point is not so clear in +Another case, the sense of hearing: +For, though the place of either ear +Be distant, as one head can bear, +Yet Galen most acutely shows you, +(Consult his book _de partium usu_) +That from each ear, as he observes, +There creep two auditory nerves, +Not to be seen without a glass, +Which near the _os petrosum_ pass; +Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there, +One goes to this, and one to t'other ear; +Which made my grandam always stuff her ears +Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers. +You see my learning; but, to shorten it, +When my left ear was deaf a fortnight, +To t'other ear I felt it coming on: +And thus I solve this hard phenomenon. + +'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies +To weak, or old, or clouded eyes: +Your arms, though both your eyes were lost, +Would guard your nose against a post: +Without your legs, two legs of wood +Are stronger, and almost as good: +And as for hands, there have been those +Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1] +But no contrivance yet appears +To furnish artificial ears. + + +[Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot. +And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush +betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it +done at all.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME +TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724 + +NELL scolded in so loud a din, +That Will durst hardly venture in: +He mark'd the conjugal dispute; +Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute; +But, when he saw his friend appear, +Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!" +At sight of Will she bawl'd no more, +But hurried out and clapt the door. + Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell, +(Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell. +Why what a peal the jade has rung! +D--n her, why don't you slit her tongue? +For nothing else will make it cease. +Dear Will, I suffer this for peace: +I never quarrel with my wife; +I bear it for a quiet life. +Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it; +Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it. + Will went again to visit Dick; +And entering in the very nick, +He saw virago Nell belabour, +With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour. +Poor Will, who needs must interpose, +Received a brace or two of blows. +But now, to make my story short, +Will drew out Dick to take a quart. +Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims; +Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs? +If she were mine, and had such tricks, +I'd teach her how to handle sticks: +Z--ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1] +Or truck the carrion for tobacco: +I'd send her far enough away---- +Dear Will; but what would people say? +Lord! I should get so ill a name, +The neighbours round would cry out shame. + Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; +But who believed him when he said it? +Can he, who makes himself a slave, +Consult his peace, or credit save? +Dick found it by his ill success, +His quiet small, his credit less. +She served him at the usual rate; +She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: +And what he thought the hardest case, +The parish jeer'd him to his face; +Those men who wore the breeches least, +Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. +At home he was pursued with noise; +Abroad was pester'd by the boys: +Within, his wife would break his bones: +Without, they pelted him with stones; +The 'prentices procured a riding,[2] +To act his patience and her chiding. +False patience and mistaken pride! +There are ten thousand Dicks beside; +Slaves to their quiet and good name, +Are used like Dick, and bear the blame. + + +[Footnote 1: See _post_, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."] + +[Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to +ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in +this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through +the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and +her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, +enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix, +370, 578.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS +1726 + +Ye poets ragged and forlorn, + Down from your garrets haste; +Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, + Not yet consign'd to paste; + +I know a trick to make you thrive; + O, 'tis a quaint device: +Your still-born poems shall revive, + And scorn to wrap up spice. + +Get all your verses printed fair, + Then let them well be dried; +And Curll[1] must have a special care + To leave the margin wide. + +Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; + And when he sets to write, +No letter with an envelope + Could give him more delight. + +When Pope has fill'd the margins round, + Why then recall your loan; +Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, + And swear they are your own. + +[Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, +_passim.--W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer +(preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the +covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters +themselves.] + + + + +A PASTORAL DIALOGUE + +WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, +WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1] + + +This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the +following explanatory introduction: + +Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It +was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond +was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of +Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer +there. It is within a mile of Richmond. + +"Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now +Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the +Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles +from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert +the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the +ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the +above dialogue."--_Dublin Edition_, 1734. + + +In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, +And all that he or they can say; +Sing on I must, and sing I will, +Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill. + Last Friday night, as neighbours use, +This couple met to talk of news: +For, by old proverbs, it appears, +That walls have tongues, and hedges ears. + +MARBLE HILL + +Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, +Your mistress now is grown a queen; +You'll find it soon by woful proof, +She'll come no more beneath your roof. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +The kingly prophet well evinces, +That we should put no trust in princes: +My royal master promised me +To raise me to a high degree: +But now he's grown a king, God wot, +I fear I shall be soon forgot. +You see, when folks have got their ends, +How quickly they neglect their friends; +Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, +Pray God, they now may find as true! + +MARBLE HILL + +My house was built but for a show, +My lady's empty pockets know; +And now she will not have a shilling, +To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; +For all the courtly madams round +Now pay four shillings in the pound; +'Tis come to what I always thought: +My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2] +Had you and I been courtiers born, +We should not thus have lain forlorn; +For those we dext'rous courtiers call, +Can rise upon their masters' fall: +But we, unlucky and unwise, +Must fall because our masters rise. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +My master, scarce a fortnight since, +Was grown as wealthy as a prince; +But now it will be no such thing, +For he'll be poor as any king; +And by his crown will nothing get, +But like a king to run in debt. + +MARBLE HILL + +No more the Dean, that grave divine, +Shall keep the key of my (no) wine; +My ice-house rob, as heretofore, +And steal my artichokes no more; +Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen +Bedraggled in my walks so green: +Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; +And here no more will dangle Pope. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, +To spunge a breakfast once a-week; +To cry the bread was stale, and mutter +Complaints against the royal butter. +But now I fear it will be said, +No butter sticks upon his bread.[4] +We soon shall find him full of spleen, +For want of tattling to the queen; +Stunning her royal ears with talking; +His reverence and her highness walking: +While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller, +Sits mounted on the garden-roller. +A goodly sight to see her ride, +With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. +In velvet cap his head lies warm, +His hat, for show, beneath his arm. + +MARBLE HILL + +Some South-Sea broker from the city +Will purchase me, the more's the pity; +Lay all my fine plantations waste, +To fit them to his vulgar taste: +Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, +My master Pope will break his heart. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +In my own Thames may I be drownded, +If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: +Except her majesty prevails +To place me with the Prince of Wales; +And then I shall be free from fears, +For he'll be prince these fifty years. +I then will turn a courtier too, +And serve the times as others do. +Plain loyalty, not built on hope, +I leave to your contriver, Pope; +None loves his king and country better, +Yet none was ever less their debtor. + +MARBLE HILL + +Then let him come and take a nap +In summer on my verdant lap; +Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, +To Kensington, or hot St. James's; +Nor shall I dull in silence sit; +For 'tis to me he owes his wit; +My groves, my echoes, and my birds, +Have taught him his poetic words. +We gardens, and you wildernesses, +Assist all poets in distresses. +Him twice a-week I here expect, +To rattle Moody[7] for neglect; +An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge +In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; +And I can hardly get him down +Three times a-week to brush my gown. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +I pity you, dear Marble Hill; +But hope to see you flourish still. +All happiness--and so adieu. + +MARBLE HILL + +Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you. + + +[Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after +supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden +on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at +the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th, +wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room +where he was born.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the +narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to +Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death, +described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy +could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and +states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the +King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty +thousand pounds to her family.--See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p. +304; v, p. 456.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his +esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral +Epistle."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean +suspected.] + +[Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England +after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of +religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See +Voltaire, "Siècle de Louis XIV."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: The gardener.] + + + + +DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 + + + 'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire +In men, Possession and Desire! +Think what they wish so great a blessing; +So disappointed when possessing! + A moralist profoundly sage +(I know not in what book or page, +Or whether o'er a pot of ale) +Related thus the following tale. + Possession, and Desire, his brother, +But still at variance with each other, +Were seen contending in a race; +And kept at first an equal pace; +'Tis said, their course continued long, +For this was active, that was strong: +Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt, +Misled them many a league about; +Seduced by some deceiving light, +They take the wrong way for the right; +Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, +They often climb, and often creep. + Desire, the swifter of the two, +Along the plain like lightning flew: +Till, entering on a broad highway, +Where power and titles scatter'd lay, +He strove to pick up all he found, +And by excursions lost his ground: +No sooner got, than with disdain +He threw them on the ground again; +And hasted forward to pursue +Fresh objects, fairer to his view, +In hope to spring some nobler game; +But all he took was just the same: +Too scornful now to stop his pace, +He spurn'd them in his rival's face. + Possession kept the beaten road, +And gather'd all his brother strew'd; +But overcharged, and out of wind, +Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind. + Desire had now the goal in sight; +It was a tower of monstrous height; +Where on the summit Fortune stands, +A crown and sceptre in her hands; +Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell, +Where many a bold adventurer fell. +Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile, +And saw the treacherous goddess smile; +But as he climb'd to grasp the crown, +She knock'd him with the sceptre down! +He tumbled in the gulf profound; +There doom'd to whirl an endless round. + Possession's load was grown so great, +He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight; +And, as he now expiring lay, +Flocks every ominous bird of prey; +The raven, vulture, owl, and kite, +At once upon his carcass light, +And strip his hide, and pick his bones, +Regardless of his dying groans. + + + + +ON CENSURE +1727 + +Ye wise, instruct me to endure +An evil, which admits no cure; +Or, how this evil can be borne, +Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. +Bare innocence is no support, +When you are tried in Scandal's court. +Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; +All others, who inferior sit, +Conceive themselves in conscience bound +To join, and drag you to the ground. +Your altitude offends the eyes +Of those who want the power to rise. +The world, a willing stander-by, +Inclines to aid a specious lie: +Alas! they would not do you wrong; +But all appearances are strong. + Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay +On what detracting people say! +For let mankind discharge their tongues +In venom, till they burst their lungs, +Their utmost malice cannot make +Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; +Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, +Or put one feature out of place; +Nor will you find your fortune sink +By what they speak or what they think; +Nor can ten hundred thousand lies +Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. + The most effectual way to balk +Their malice, is--to let them talk. + + + + +THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND +1727 + + +A set of phrases learn'd by rote; +A passion for a scarlet coat; +When at a play, to laugh or cry, +Yet cannot tell the reason why; +Never to hold her tongue a minute, +While all she prates has nothing in it; +Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, +And take his nonsense all for wit; +Her learning mounts to read a song, +But half the words pronouncing wrong; +Has every repartee in store +She spoke ten thousand times before; +Can ready compliments supply +On all occasions cut and dry; +Such hatred to a parson's gown, +The sight would put her in a swoon; +For conversation well endued, +She calls it witty to be rude; +And, placing raillery in railing, +Will tell aloud your greatest failing; +Nor make a scruple to expose +Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; +Can at her morning tea run o'er +The scandal of the day before; +Improving hourly in her skill, +To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. + In choosing lace, a critic nice, +Knows to a groat the lowest price; +Can in her female clubs dispute, +What linen best the silk will suit, +What colours each complexion match, +And where with art to place a patch. + If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, +Can finely counterfeit a fright; +So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, +She ravishes all hearts to hear her. +Can dext'rously her husband teaze, +By taking fits whene'er she please; +By frequent practice learns the trick +At proper seasons to be sick; +Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, +At once creating love and pity; +If Molly happens to be careless, +And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, +She gets a cold as sure as death, +And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; +Admires how modest women can +Be so robustious like a man. + In party, furious to her power; +A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; +Her arguments directly tend +Against the side she would defend; +Will prove herself a Tory plain, +From principles the Whigs maintain; +And, to defend the Whiggish cause, +Her topics from the Tories draws. + O yes! if any man can find +More virtues in a woman's mind, +Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1] +She'll pay the charges to a farthing; +Take notice, she has my commission +To add them in the next edition; +They may outsell a better thing: +So, holla, boys; God save the King! + + +[Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.--_F._] + + + + +CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 + + +As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, +Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, +He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, +And promised to pay for it when he came back. +His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; +His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't. +The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, +And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!" +But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, +Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side! +And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, +He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!" +The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; +Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: +Then said, I must speak to the people a little; +But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1] +My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) +He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. +Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, +Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; +My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, +And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; +Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, +Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch. + + +[Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.--_F._] + + +[Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was +the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of +stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD" + +1727 + + +POPE has the talent well to speak, + But not to reach the ear; +His loudest voice is low and weak, + The Dean too deaf to hear. + +Awhile they on each other look, + Then different studies choose; +The Dean sits plodding on a book; + Pope walks, and courts the Muse. + +Now backs of letters, though design'd + For those who more will need 'em, +Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, + Himself can hardly read 'em. + +Each atom by some other struck, + All turns and motions tries; +Till in a lump together stuck, + Behold a poem rise: + +Yet to the Dean his share allot; + He claims it by a canon; +That without which a thing is not, + Is _causa sine quâ non_. + +Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; + For, had our deaf divine +Been for your conversation fit, + You had not writ a line. + +Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed + The sexton reason'd well; +And justly half the merit claim'd, + Because he rang the bell. + + + + +A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS + +WRITTEN AT LONDON + + +By poets we are well assured +That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; +A complicated heap of ills, +Despising boluses and pills. +Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, +Since first I gave my heart to you. +Now, by your cruelty hard bound, +I strain my guts, my colon wound. +Now jealousy my grumbling tripes +Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. +When pity in those eyes I view, +My bowels wambling make me spew. +When I an amorous kiss design'd, +I belch'd a hurricane of wind. +Once you a gentle sigh let fall; +Remember how I suck'd it all; +What colic pangs from thence I felt, +Had you but known, your heart would melt, +Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, +Till Nature pointed out a vent. +How have you torn my heart to pieces +With maggots, humours, and caprices! +By which I got the hemorrhoids; +And loathsome worms my _anus_ voids. +Whene'er I hear a rival named, +I feel my body all inflamed; +Which, breaking out in boils and blains, +With yellow filth my linen stains; +Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, +Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; +And then I drag a bloated _corpus_, +Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; +When, if I cannot purge or stale, +I must be tapp'd to fill a pail. + + +[Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.--_H._] + + +BOUTS RIMEZ[1] + +ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA + + +Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, + Of classic beauty, _haec et illa_; +Not all his birch inspires such wit + As th'ogling beams of Domitilla. + +Let nobles toast, in bright champaign, + Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; +I'll drink her health, again, again, + In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla. + +At Goodman's Fields I've much admired + The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; +But what are they to the soft step, + The gliding air of Domitilla? + +Virgil has eternized in song + The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3] +Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; + He might have dream'd of Domitilla. + +Great Theodose condemn'd a town + For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4] +And deuce take London! if some knight + O' th' city wed not Domitilla. + +Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, + Gives us a medal of Plantilla; +But O! the empress has not eyes, + Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla. + +Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, + Piled on the mules of king At-tila, +Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) + Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla. + +Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, + Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- +--bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let + To verse--but now for Domitilla. + +Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch + To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6] +And thus I offer up my catch + To the snow-white hands of Domitilla. + + +[Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a +line, and to which rhymes must be found.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, _inter alia_, for his +enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints. +See his Works, _edit._ Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a +remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to +Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the +"Journal."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.] + +[Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several +books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."] + + + + +HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS +UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT + + +Now the active young attorneys +Briskly travel on their journeys, +Looking big as any giants, +On the horses of their clients; +Like so many little Marses +With their tilters at their a--s, +Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, +And with harness-buckles furnish'd, +And with whips and spurs so neat, +And with jockey-coats complete, +And with boots so very greasy, +And with saddles eke so easy, +And with bridles fine and gay, +Bridles borrow'd for a day, +Bridles destined far to roam, +Ah! never, never to come home. +And with hats so very big, sir, +And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, +And with ruffles to be shown, +Cambric ruffles not their own; +And with Holland shirts so white, +Shirts becoming to the sight, +Shirts bewrought with different letters, +As belonging to their betters. +With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, +Gotten from their dainty doxies, +And with rings so very trim, +Lately taken out of lim--[1] +And with very little pence, +And as very little sense; +With some law, but little justice, +Having stolen from my hostess, +From the barber and the cutler, +Like the soldier from the sutler; +From the vintner and the tailor, +Like the felon from the jailor; +Into this and t'other county, +Living on the public bounty; +Thorough town and thorough village, +All to plunder, all to pillage: +Thorough mountains, thorough valleys, +Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, +Some to--kiss with farmers' spouses, +And make merry in their houses; +Some to tumble country wenches +On their rushy beds and benches; +And if they begin a fray, +Draw their swords, and----run away; +All to murder equity, +And to take a double fee; +Till the people are all quiet, +And forget to broil and riot, +Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, +Safely glad to sup their porridge, +And vacation's over--then, +Hey, for London town again. + + +[Footnote 1: _Limbo_, any place of misery and restraint. + "For he no sooner was at large, + But Trulla straight brought on the charge, + And in the selfsame _Limbo_ put + The knight and squire where he was shut." + _Hudibras_, Part i, canto iii, 1,000. +Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PUPPET-SHOW + + +The life of man to represent, + And turn it all to ridicule, +Wit did a puppet-show invent, + Where the chief actor is a fool. + +The gods of old were logs of wood, + And worship was to puppets paid; +In antic dress the idol stood, + And priest and people bow'd the head. + +No wonder then, if art began + The simple votaries to frame, +To shape in timber foolish man, + And consecrate the block to fame. + +From hence poetic fancy learn'd + That trees might rise from human forms; +The body to a trunk be turn'd, + And branches issue from the arms. + +Thus Dædalus and Ovid too, + That man's a blockhead, have confest: +Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue; + Life is a farce, the world a jest. + +The same great truth South Sea has proved + On that famed theatre, the alley; +Where thousands, by directors moved + Are now sad monuments of folly. + +What Momus was of old to Jove, + The same a Harlequin is now; +The former was buffoon above, + The latter is a Punch below. + +This fleeting scene is but a stage, + Where various images appear; +In different parts of youth and age, + Alike the prince and peasant share. + +Some draw our eyes by being great, + False pomp conceals mere wood within; +And legislators ranged in state + Are oft but wisdom in machine. + +A stock may chance to wear a crown, + And timber as a lord take place; +A statue may put on a frown, + And cheat us with a thinking face. + +Others are blindly led away, + And made to act for ends unknown; +By the mere spring of wires they play, + And speak in language not their own. + +Too oft, alas! a scolding wife + Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; +And many drink the cup of life, + Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan. + +In short, whatever men pursue, + Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: +This mimic race brings all to view: + Alike they dress, they talk, they move. + +Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, + Mortals to please and to deride; +And, when death breaks thy vital band, + Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride. + +Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, + Thy image shall preserve thy fame; +Ages to come thy worth shall own, + Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name. + +Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, + Before he looks in nature's glass; +Puns cannot form a witty scene, + Nor pedantry for humour pass. + +To make men act as senseless wood, + And chatter in a mystic strain, +Is a mere force on flesh and blood, + And shows some error in the brain. + +He that would thus refine on thee, + And turn thy stage into a school, +The jest of Punch will ever be, + And stand confest the greater fool. + + +[Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.] + +[Footnote 2: Sheridan.] + + + + +THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY + +IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728 + + +SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part +In you, who ought to know my heart, +Are well acquainted with my zeal +For all the female commonweal-- +How could it come into your mind +To pitch on me, of all mankind, +Against the sex to write a satire, +And brand me for a woman-hater? +On me, who think them all so fair, +They rival Venus to a hair; +Their virtues never ceased to sing, +Since first I learn'd to tune a string? +Methinks I hear the ladies cry, +Will he his character belie? +Must never our misfortunes end? +And have we lost our only friend? +Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears, +No more let fall those precious tears. +Sooner shall, etc. + +[Here several verses are omitted.] + +The hound be hunted by the hare, +Than I turn rebel to the fair. + 'Twas you engaged me first to write, +Then gave the subject out of spite: +The journal of a modern dame, +Is, by my promise, what you claim. +My word is past, I must submit; +And yet perhaps you may be bit. +I but transcribe; for not a line +Of all the satire shall be mine. +Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes +The common slanders of the times, +Of modern times, the guilt is yours, +And me my innocence secures. +Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, +The annals of a female day. + By nature turn'd to play the rake well, +(As we shall show you in the sequel,) +The modern dame is waked by noon, +(Some authors say not quite so soon,) +Because, though sore against her will, +She sat all night up at quadrille. +She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, +And asks if it be time to rise; +Of headache and the spleen complains; +And then, to cool her heated brains, +Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, +Takes a large dram of citron water. +Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray, +Don't I look frightfully to-day? +But was it not confounded hard? +Well, if I ever touch a card! +Four matadores, and lose codille! +Depend upon't, I never will. +But run to Tom, and bid him fix +The ladies here to-night by six." +"Madam, the goldsmith waits below; +He says, his business is to know +If you'll redeem the silver cup +He keeps in pawn?"--"Why, show him up." +"Your dressing-plate he'll be content +To take, for interest _cent. per cent._ +And, madam, there's my Lady Spade +Has sent this letter by her maid." +"Well, I remember what she won; +And has she sent so soon to dun? +Here, carry down these ten pistoles +My husband left to pay for coals: +I thank my stars they all are light, +And I may have revenge to-night." +Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, +She enters on her usual theme; +Her last night's ill success repeats, +Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: +"She slipt spadillo in her breast, +Then thought to turn it to a jest: +There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, +And to each other give the sign." +Through every game pursues her tale, +Like hunters o'er their evening ale. + Now to another scene give place: +Enter the folks with silks and lace: +Fresh matter for a world of chat, +Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: +"Observe this pattern--there's a stuff; +I can have customers enough. +Dear madam, you are grown so hard-- +This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: +Madam, if there be truth in man, +I never sold so cheap a fan." + This business of importance o'er, +And madam almost dress'd by four; +The footman, in his usual phrase, +Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." +She answers, in her usual style, +"The cook must keep it back a while; +I never can have time to dress, +No woman breathing takes up less; +I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; +I wish the dinner at Old Nick." +At table now she acts her part, +Has all the dinner cant by heart: +"I thought we were to dine alone, +My dear; for sure, if I had known +This company would come to-day-- +But really 'tis my spouse's way! +He's so unkind, he never sends +To tell when he invites his friends: +I wish ye may but have enough!" +And while with all this paltry stuff +She sits tormenting every guest, +Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, +In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, +Which modern ladies call polite; +You see the booby husband sit +In admiration at her wit! + But let me now a while survey +Our madam o'er her evening tea; +Surrounded with her noisy clans +Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, +When, frighted at the clamorous crew, +Away the God of Silence flew, +And fair Discretion left the place, +And modesty with blushing face; +Now enters overweening Pride, +And Scandal, ever gaping wide, +Hypocrisy with frown severe, +Scurrility with gibing air; +Rude laughter seeming like to burst, +And Malice always judging worst; +And Vanity with pocket glass, +And Impudence with front of brass; +And studied Affectation came, +Each limb and feature out of frame; +While Ignorance, with brain of lead, +Flew hovering o'er each female head. + Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, +A hundred tongues, as poets use, +When, to give every dame her due, +A hundred thousand were too few? +Or how should I, alas! relate +The sum of all their senseless prate, +Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, +Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? +Now comes the general scandal charge; +What some invent, the rest enlarge; +And, "Madam, if it be a lie, +You have the tale as cheap as I; +I must conceal my author's name: +But now 'tis known to common fame." + Say, foolish females, bold and blind, +Say, by what fatal turn of mind, +Are you on vices most severe, +Wherein yourselves have greatest share? +Thus every fool herself deludes; +The prude condemns the absent prudes: +Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, +Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; +Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes +To censure Phyllis for perfumes; +While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, +That Florimel wears iron stays; +Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, +Admires how girls can talk with fellows; +And, full of indignation, frets, +That women should be such coquettes: +Iris, for scandal most notorious, +Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" +And Rufa, with her combs of lead, +Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: +Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, +Talks half a day in praise of silence; +And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, +Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. + Now voices over voices rise, +While each to be the loudest vies: +They contradict, affirm, dispute, +No single tongue one moment mute; +All mad to speak, and none to hearken, +They set the very lap-dog barking; +Their chattering makes a louder din +Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; +Not schoolboys at a barring out +Raised ever such incessant rout; +The jumbling particles of matter +In chaos made not such a clatter; +Far less the rabble roar and rail, +When drunk with sour election ale. + Nor do they trust their tongues alone, +But speak a language of their own; +Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, +Far better than a printed book; +Convey a libel in a frown, +And wink a reputation down; +Or by the tossing of the fan, +Describe the lady and the man. + But see, the female club disbands, +Each twenty visits on her hands. +Now all alone poor madam sits +In vapours and hysteric fits; +"And was not Tom this morning sent? +I'd lay my life he never went; +Past six, and not a living soul! +I might by this have won a vole." +A dreadful interval of spleen! +How shall we pass the time between? +"Here, Betty, let me take my drops; +And feel my pulse, I know it stops; +This head of mine, lord, how it swims! +And such a pain in all my limbs!" +"Dear madam, try to take a nap"-- +But now they hear a footman's rap: +"Go, run, and light the ladies up: +It must be one before we sup." + The table, cards, and counters, set, +And all the gamester ladies met, +Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, +Our madam can sit up all night; +"Whoever comes, I'm not within." +Quadrille's the word, and so begin. + How can the Muse her aid impart, +Unskill'd in all the terms of art? +Or in harmonious numbers put +The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? +The superstitious whims relate, +That fill a female gamester's pate? +What agony of soul she feels +To see a knave's inverted heels! +She draws up card by card, to find +Good fortune peeping from behind; +With panting heart, and earnest eyes, +In hope to see spadillo rise; +In vain, alas! her hope is fed; +She draws an ace, and sees it red; +In ready counters never pays, +But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; +Ever with some new fancy struck, +Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. +"This morning, when the parson came, +I said I should not win a game. +This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? +I think I never had good luck in't. +I'm so uneasy in my stays: +Your fan, a moment, if you please. +Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; +I always lose when you look on." +"Lord! madam, you have lost codille: +I never saw you play so ill." +"Nay, madam, give me leave to say, +'Twas you that threw the game away: +When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, +You took it with a matadore; +I saw you touch your wedding ring +Before my lady call'd a king; +You spoke a word began with H, +And I know whom you meant to teach, +Because you held the king of hearts; +Fie, madam, leave these little arts." +"That's not so bad as one that rubs +Her chair to call the king of clubs; +And makes her partner understand +A matadore is in her hand." +"Madam, you have no cause to flounce, +I swear I saw you thrice renounce." +"And truly, madam, I know when +Instead of five you scored me ten. +Spadillo here has got a mark; +A child may know it in the dark: +I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails: +I wish some folks would pare their nails." + While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, +It passes but for common form: +But, conscious that they all speak true, +And give each other but their due, +It never interrupts the game, +Or makes them sensible of shame. + The time too precious now to waste, +The supper gobbled up in haste; +Again afresh to cards they run, +As if they had but just begun. +But I shall not again repeat, +How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. +At last they hear the watchman knock, +"A frosty morn--past four o'clock." +The chairmen are not to be found, +"Come, let us play the other round." + Now all in haste they huddle on +Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone; +But, first, the winner must invite +The company to-morrow night. + Unlucky madam, left in tears, +(Who now again quadrille forswears,) +With empty purse, and aching head, +Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed. + + + + +THE LOGICIANS REFUTED + + +Logicians have but ill defined +As rational, the human kind; +Reason, they say, belongs to man, +But let them prove it if they can. +Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, +By ratiocinations specious, +Have strove to prove, with great precision, +With definition and division, +_Homo est ratione praeditum;_ +But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, +And must, in spite of them, maintain, +That man and all his ways are vain; +And that this boasted lord of nature +Is both a weak and erring creature; +That instinct is a surer guide +Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; +And that brute beasts are far before 'em. +_Deus est anima brutorum._ +Whoever knew an honest brute +At law his neighbour prosecute, +Bring action for assault or battery, +Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? +O'er plains they ramble unconfined, +No politics disturb their mind; +They eat their meals, and take their sport +Nor know who's in or out at court. +They never to the levee go +To treat, as dearest friend, a foe: +They never importune his grace, +Nor ever cringe to men in place: +Nor undertake a dirty job, +Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1] +Fraught with invective, they ne'er go +To folks at Paternoster Row. +No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, +No pickpockets, or poetasters, +Are known to honest quadrupeds; +No single brute his fellow leads. +Brutes never meet in bloody fray, +Nor cut each other's throats for pay. +Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape +Comes nearest us in human shape; +Like man, he imitates each fashion, +And malice is his lurking passion: +But, both in malice and grimaces, +A courtier any ape surpasses. +Behold him, humbly cringing, wait +Upon the minister of state; +View him soon after to inferiors +Aping the conduct of superiors; +He promises with equal air, +And to perform takes equal care. +He in his turn finds imitators, +At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, +Their masters' manner still contract, +And footmen, lords and dukes can act. +Thus, at the court, both great and small +Behave alike, for all ape all. + + +[Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of +party-writers.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN + +WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; +AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE +THE HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I + +Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor +should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; +secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a +most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, +without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be +constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either +for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... +thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might +prevent dangers to come."--_W. E. B._ + + +Ere bribes convince you whom to choose, +The precepts of Lord Coke peruse. +Observe an elephant, says he, +And let him like your member be: +First take a man that's free from _Gaul_, +For elephants have none at all; +In flocks or parties he must keep; +For elephants live just like sheep. +Stubborn in honour he must be; +For elephants ne'er bend the knee. +Last, let his memory be sound, +In which your elephant's profound; +That old examples from the wise +May prompt him in his noes and ayes. + Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ, +In all the form of lawyer's wit: +And then, with Latin and all that, +Shows the comparison is pat. +Yet in some points my lord is wrong, +One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: +Now, men of parliament, God knows, +Are more like elephants of shows; +Whose docile memory and sense +Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; +To get their master half-a-crown, +They spread the flag, or lay it down: +Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, +And guarded nations from attacks, +Now practise every pliant gesture, +Opening their trunk for every tester. +Siam, for elephants so famed, +Is not with England to be named: +Their elephants by men are sold; +Ours sell themselves, and take the gold. + + + + +PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM + +BY MR. LINDSAY[1] + +_Dublin, Sept._ 7, 1728. + + +"A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, +In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; +While smiling Nature, in her best attire, +Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. +Can he, who knows that real good should please, +Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"-- +This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, +Upon his board the client pours the ore: +He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, +Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws. + + +[Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent +pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the +Justices of the Common Pleas.--_H._] + + + + +THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT + + +Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, +And honest Paulus judges right. +Then, why these quarrels to the sun, +Without whose aid you're all undone? +Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat? +Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; +The influence of whose golden beams +Soon licks up all unsavoury steams? +The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: +It has; but then it greased his fist. +True lawyers, for the wisest ends, +Have always been Apollo's friends. +Not for his superficial powers +Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; +Not for inspiring poets' brains +With penniless and starveling strains; +Not for his boasted healing art; +Not for his skill to shoot the dart; +Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; +Nor for his prophecies in riddles: +But for a more substantial cause-- +Apollo's patron of the laws; +Whom Paulus ever must adore, +As parent of the golden ore, +By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, +Begot upon his grandam Earth; +By Phoebus first produced to light; +By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: +Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, +By clients to her priests and trustees. +Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand +With even balance in her hand, +Must we suppose she has in view, +How to give every man his due; +Her scales you see her only hold, +To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold. + Now, should I own your case was grievous, +Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? +'Tis very true, and none denies, +At least, that such complaints are wise: +'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, +To cry, like statesmen, _Quanta patimur!_ +But, since the truth must needs be stretched +To prove that lawyers are so wretched, +This paradox I'll undertake, +For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; +By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, +May serve as arguments _ad hominem_: +Yet I disdain to offer those +Made use of by detracting foes. + I own the curses of mankind +Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: +The clamours of ten thousand tongues +Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; +I own, his conscience always free, +(Provided he has got his fee,) +Secure of constant peace within, +He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. + Yet well they merit to be pitied, +By clients always overwitted. +And though the gospel seems to say, +What heavy burdens lawyers lay +Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, +Nor lend a finger to their labour, +Always for saving their own bacon; +No doubt, the text is here mistaken: +The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: +To prove it, I appeal to fact; +And thus by demonstration show +What burdens lawyers undergo. + With early clients at his door, +Though he was drunk the night before, +And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, +The wretch must be at court by nine; +Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, +As ridden by a midnight hag; +Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, +In English vile, and viler French, +And Latin, vilest of the three; +And all for poor ten moidores fee! +Of paper how is he profuse, +With periods long, in terms abstruse! +What pains he takes to be prolix! +A thousand lines to stand for six! +Of common sense without a word in! +And is not this a grievous burden? + The lawyer is a common drudge, +To fight our cause before the judge: +And, what is yet a greater curse, +Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: +While he at ease, secure and light, +Walks boldly home at dead of night; +When term is ended, leaves the town, +Trots to his country mansion down; +And, disencumber'd of his load, +No danger dreads upon the road; +Despises rapparees,[2] and rides +Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. + Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, +To state this question _pro_ and _con_. +My satire may offend, 'tis true; +However, it concerns not you. +I own, there may, in every clan, +Perhaps, be found one honest man; +Yet link them close, in this they jump, +To be but rascals in the lump. +Imagine Lindsay at the bar, +He's much the same his brethren are; +Well taught by practice to imbibe +The fundamentals of his tribe: +And in his client's just defence, +Must deviate oft from common sense; +And make his ignorance discern'd, +To get the name of counsel-learn'd, +(As _lucus_ comes _a non lucendo_,) +And wisely do as other men do: +But shift him to a better scene, +Among his crew of rogues in grain; +Surrounded with companions fit, +To taste his humour, sense, and wit; +You'd swear he never took a fee, +Nor knew in law his A, B, C. + 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, +To keep good sense in crowds of fools. +And we admire the man, who saves +His honesty in crowds of knaves; +Nor yields up virtue at discretion, +To villains of his own profession. +Lindsay, you know what pains you take +In both, yet hardly save your stake; +And will you venture both anew, +To sit among that venal crew, +That pack of mimic legislators, +Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters? +For as the rabble daub and rifle +The fool who scrambles for a trifle; +Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, +Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; +You must expect the like disgrace, +Scrambling with rogues to get a place; +Must lose the honour you have gain'd, +Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: +Disclaim for ever all pretence +To common honesty and sense; +And join in friendship with a strict tie, +To M--l, C--y, and Dick Tighe.[3] + + +[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave +the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, +150.--_W. E .B._] + +[Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, +and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times +mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and +how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, +etc.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A DIALOGUE + +BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN +SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, +BOOK II, SATIRE I + +"Sunt quibus in Satirâ," etc. + +WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729 + + +DR. SWIFT + +Since there are persons who complain +There's too much satire in my vein; +That I am often found exceeding +The rules of raillery and breeding; +With too much freedom treat my betters, +Not sparing even men of letters: +You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, +What's your advice? Shall I give o'er? +Nor ever fools or knaves expose, +Either in verse or humorous prose: +And to avoid all future ill, +In my scrutoire lock up my quill? + +LAWYER + + Since you are pleased to condescend +To ask the judgment of a friend, +Your case consider'd, I must think +You should withdraw from pen and ink, +Forbear your poetry and jokes, +And live like other Christian folks; +Or if the Muses must inspire +Your fancy with their pleasing fire, +Take subjects safer for your wit +Than those on which you lately writ. +Commend the times, your thoughts correct, +And follow the prevailing sect; +Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story, +Shows all the malice of a Tory; +While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page, +Discovers freedom without rage. +To Woolston[4] recommend our youth, +For learning, probity, and truth; +That noble genius, who unbinds +The chains which fetter freeborn minds; +Redeems us from the slavish fears +Which lasted near two thousand years; +He can alone the priesthood humble, +Make gilded spires and altars tumble. + +DR. SWIFT + + Must I commend against my conscience, +Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense; +To such a subject tune my lyre, +And sing like one of Milton's choir, +Where devils to a vale retreat, +And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate; +Lament upon their hapless fall, +That Force free Virtue should enthrall? +Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power +Make me pollute the Muses' bower? + +LAWYER + + As from the tripod of Apollo, +Hear from my desk the words that follow: +"Some, by philosophers misled, +Must honour you alive and dead; +And such as know what Greece has writ, +Must taste your irony and wit; +While most that are, or would be great, +Must dread your pen, your person hate; +And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie, +And there without a mitre die." + + +[Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."] + +[Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the +Reformation."] + +[Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him, +see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles +caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in +1733.--_W.E.B._] + +[Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.--_F_.] + + + + +ON BURNING A DULL POEM + +1729 + + +An ass's hoof alone can hold +That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. +Methought, when I this poem read, +No vessel but an ass's head +Such frigid fustian could contain; +I mean, the head without the brain. +The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, +Went down like stupifying draughts; +I found my head begin to swim, +A numbness crept through every limb. +In haste, with imprecations dire, +I threw the volume in the fire; +When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, +It burnt to ashes in a trice. + How could I more enhance its fame? +Though born in snow, it died in flame. + + + + +AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD +OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN[1] TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE. 1730 + + +Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, + And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, +(A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year, + For the good of our church, a true English dean. +A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, +The worst you can say, he committed a rape. + +In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, + And there he grew fond of another man's wife; +Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her; + But she valued her honour much more than her life. +She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape +To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape. + +The dean he pursued, to recover his game; + And now to attack her again he prepares: +But the company stood in defence of the dame, + They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs. +His deanship was now in a damnable scrape, +And this was no time for committing a rape. + +To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, + And orders the landlord to bring him a whore; +No scruple came on him his gown to expose, + 'Twas what all his life he had practised before. +He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, +And got a good clap, but committed no rape. + +The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, + Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight; +For why, they had both been brought up to the trade + Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night. +His landlord was ready his deanship to ape +In every debauch but committing a rape. + +This Protestant zealot, this English divine, + In church and in state was of principles sound; +Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line, + And grieved that a Tory should live above ground. +Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape, +For no other crime but committing a rape? + +By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, + Each priest had a concubine _jure ecclesiae_; +Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a _commendam_? + And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: +Then why should the dean, when whores are so cheap, +Be put to the peril and toil of a rape? + +If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet, + (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,) +To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, + Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser. +But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape, +For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape. + +Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, + Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten? +To hang him, all England would lend him their garters, + Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3] +Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, +For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape. + +The dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing; + He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; +He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling; + But here was to pay the devil and all. +His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap, +And hang'd he must be for committing a rape. + +If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: + Why are they so wilful to struggle with men? +If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, + No devil nor dean could ravish them then. +Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape +Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape. + +Our church and our state dear England maintains, + For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: +She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, + And better would give us, if better she had. +But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, +When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape! + + +[Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered +himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the +Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."--_London Evening +Post_, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean +of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose +trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on +behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's +Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her +for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape +was committed against her in the city of Dublin."--_Daily Post-Boy_, June +23, 1730.--_Nichols_.] + +[Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years +ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.--See "The penitent death of +a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at +Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several +passages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements, +preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland. + +"_Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius +Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam assequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed +magisterium sanctitatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia fortasse +quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille +laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi_. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin, +Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."] + +[Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty +of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was +fined £300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of +Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the +Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ON STEPHEN DUCK +THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET + +A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730 + +The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, +The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." +From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; +For which her majesty allows him grains: +Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw +His poems, think them all not worth a straw! + Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble, +Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double. + +[Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small +collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal +Gardens of Richmond. + "How shall we fill a library with wit, + When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?" +POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Ep. 1.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 + +Five hours (and who can do it less in?) +By haughty Celia spent in dressing; +The goddess from her chamber issues, +Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues. + Strephon, who found the room was void, +And Betty otherwise employ'd, +Stole in, and took a strict survey +Of all the litter as it lay: +Whereof, to make the matter clear, +An inventory follows here. + And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, +Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd; +Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, +And turn'd it round on ev'ry side: +On such a point, few words are best, +And Strephon bids us guess the rest; +But swears, how damnably the men lie +In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. + Now listen, while he next produces +The various combs for various uses; +Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, +No brush could force a way betwixt; +A paste of composition rare, +Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: +A fore-head cloth with oil upon't, +To smooth the wrinkles on her front: +Here alum-flour, to stop the steams +Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: +There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, +[1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; +With puppy-water, beauty's help, +Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp. +Here gallipots and vials placed, +Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; +Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, +And ointments good for scabby chops. +Hard by a filthy bason stands, +Foul'd with the scouring of her hands: +The bason takes whatever comes, +The scrapings from her teeth and gums, +A nasty compound of all hues, +For here she spits, and here she spues. + But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels +When he beheld and smelt the towels, +Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd, +With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd; +No object Strephon's eye escapes; +Here petticoats in frouzy heaps; +Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, +All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot. +The stockings why should I expose, +Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2] +Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking, +Which Celia slept at least a week in? +A pair of tweezers next he found, +To pluck her brows in arches round; +Or hairs that sink the forehead low, +Or on her chin like bristles grow. + The virtues we must not let pass +Of Celia's magnifying glass; +When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't, +It shew'd the visage of a giant: +A glass that can to sight disclose +The smallest worm in Celia's nose, +And faithfully direct her nail +To squeeze it out from head to tail; +For, catch it nicely by the head, +It must come out, alive or dead. + Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest? +And must you needs describe the chest? +That careless wench! no creature warn her +To move it out from yonder corner! +But leave it standing full in sight, +For you to exercise your spight? +In vain the workman shew'd his wit, +With rings and hinges counterfeit, +To make it seem in this disguise +A cabinet to vulgar eyes: +Which Strephon ventur'd to look in, +Resolved to go thro' thick and thin. +He lifts the lid: there needs no more, +He smelt it all the time before. + As, from within Pandora's box, +When Epimetheus op'd the locks, +A sudden universal crew +Of human evils upward flew; +He still was comforted to find +That hope at last remain'd behind: +So Strephon, lifting up the lid, +To view what in the chest was hid, +The vapours flew from up the vent; +But Strephon, cautious, never meant +The bottom of the pan to grope, +And foul his hands in search of hope. +O! ne'er may such a vile machine +Be once in Celia's chamber seen! +O! may she better learn to keep +Those "secrets of the hoary deep." [3] + As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat, +Which, tho' with art you salt and beat, +As laws of cookery require, +And toast them at the clearest fire; +If from upon the hopeful chops +The fat upon a cinder drops, +To stinking smoke it turns the flame, +Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came, +And up exhales a greasy stench, +For which you curse the careless wench: +So things which must not be exprest, +When drop'd into the reeking chest, +Send up an excremental smell +To taint the part from whence they fell: +The petticoats and gown perfume, +And waft a stink round ev'ry room. + Thus finishing his grand survey, +Disgusted Strephon slunk away; +Repeating in his amorous fits, +"Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--!" +But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping, +Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: +His foul imagination links +Each dame he sees with all her stinks; +And, if unsavoury odours fly, +Conceives a lady standing by. +All women his description fits, +And both ideas jump like wits; +By vicious fancy coupled fast, +And still appearing in contrast. + I pity wretched Strephon, blind +To all the charms of woman kind. +Should I the Queen of Love refuse, +Because she rose from stinking ooze? +To him that looks behind the scene, +Statira's but some pocky quean. + When Celia in her glory shews, +If Strephon would but stop his nose, +(Who now so impiously blasphemes +Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, +Her washes, slops, and every clout, +With which he makes so foul a rout;) +He soon would learn to think like me, +And bless his ravish'd sight to see +Such order from confusion sprung, +Such gaudy tulips raised from dung. + + +[Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."--1732.] + +[Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."--1732.] + +[Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: + "Before their eyes in sudden view appear + The secrets of the hoary deep."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 + +If neither brass nor marble can withstand +The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; +If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, +And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; +When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine) +Is out at elbows, why should I repine? + + + + +CASSINUS AND PETER + +A TRAGICAL ELEGY + +1731 + + +Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, +Both special wits and lovers both, +Conferring, as they used to meet, +On love, and books, in rapture sweet; +(Muse, find me names to fit my metre, +Cassinus this, and t'other Peter.) +Friend Peter to Cassinus goes, +To chat a while, and warm his nose: +But such a sight was never seen, +The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen. +He seem'd as just crept out of bed; +One greasy stocking round his head, +The other he sat down to darn, +With threads of different colour'd yarn; +His breeches torn, exposing wide +A ragged shirt and tawny hide. +Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare, +But well embrown'd with dirt and hair +A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown, +(A rug, for nightgown he had none,) +His jordan stood in manner fitting +Between his legs, to spew or spit in; +His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, +And half unsmoked, lay by his side. + Him thus accoutred Peter found, +With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; +The leavings of his last night's pot +On embers placed, to drink it hot. + Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate: +What makes thee lie a-bed so late? +The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, +Their matins chant in every bush; +And I have heard thee oft salute +Aurora with thy early flute. +Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps! +How! not a word come from thy lips? + Then gave him some familiar thumps, +A college joke to cure the dumps. + The swain at last, with grief opprest, +Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest. + Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread, +Yet ask I must--is Celia dead? + How happy I, were that the worst! +But I was fated to be curst! + Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore? + O Peter, would it were no more! + Why, plague confound her sandy locks! +Say, has the small or greater pox +Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face? +Be easy, 'tis a common case. + O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, +Which time and accidents will tarnish: +But Celia has contrived to blast +Those beauties that might ever last. +Nor can imagination guess, +Nor eloquence divine express, +How that ungrateful charming maid +My purest passion has betray'd: +Conceive the most envenom'd dart +To pierce an injured lover's heart. + Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, +I know she loves the barber's boy. + Friend Peter, this I could excuse, +For every nymph has leave to choose; +Nor have I reason to complain, +She loves a more deserving swain. +But, oh! how ill hast thou divined +A crime, that shocks all human kind; +A deed unknown to female race, +At which the sun should hide his face: +Advice in vain you would apply-- +Then leave me to despair and die. +Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn +These elegies and sonnets burn; +And on the marble grave these rhymes, +A monument to after-times-- +"Here Cassy lies, by Celia slain, +And dying, never told his pain." + Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, +The loud Cerberian triple bark; +And there--behold Alecto stand, +A whip of scorpions in her hand: +Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry +Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry: +I come! I come! Medusa see, +Her serpents hiss direct at me. +Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: +"Avaunt--ye cannot say 'twas I."[1] + Dear Cassy, thou must purge and bleed; +I fear thou wilt be mad indeed. +But now, by friendship's sacred laws, +I here conjure thee, tell the cause; +And Celia's horrid fact relate: +Thy friend would gladly share thy fate. + To force it out, my heart must rend; +Yet when conjured by such a friend-- +Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd! +These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact. +Now bend thine ear, since out it must; +But, when thou seest me laid in dust, +The secret thou shalt ne'er impart, +Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; + (How would her virgin soul bemoan +A crime to all her sex unknown!) +Nor whisper to the tattling reeds +The blackest of all female deeds; +Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, +Where Echo sits, and listening mocks; +Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale +Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; +Nor to the chattering feather'd race +Discover Celia's foul disgrace. +But, if you fail, my spectre dread, +Attending nightly round your bed-- +And yet I dare confide in you; +So take my secret, and adieu: +Nor wonder how I lost my wits: +Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--! + + +[Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: + "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc. + "Avaunt, and quit my sight."] + + + + +A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. + +WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731 + + +Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, +For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; +Never did Covent-Garden boast +So bright a batter'd strolling toast! +No drunken rake to pick her up, +No cellar where on tick to sup; +Returning at the midnight hour, +Four stories climbing to her bower; +Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, +Takes off her artificial hair; +Now picking out a crystal eye, +She wipes it clean, and lays it by. +Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide +Stuck on with art on either side, +Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, +Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em. +Now dext'rously her plumpers draws, +That serve to fill her hollow jaws, +Untwists a wire, and from her gums +A set of teeth completely comes; +Pulls out the rags contrived to prop +Her flabby dugs, and down they drop. +Proceeding on, the lovely goddess +Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, +Which, by the operator's skill, +Press down the lumps, the hollows fill. +Up goes her hand, and off she slips +The bolsters that supply her hips; +With gentlest touch she next explores +Her chancres, issues, running sores; +Effects of many a sad disaster, +And then to each applies a plaster: +But must, before she goes to bed, +Rub off the daubs of white and red, +And smooth the furrows in her front +With greasy paper stuck upon't. +She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; +And then between two blankets creeps. +With pains of love tormented lies; +Or, if she chance to close her eyes, +Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams, +And feels the lash, and faintly screams; +Or, by a faithless bully drawn, +At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; +Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported +Alone, and by no planter courted; +Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks, +Surrounded with a hundred stinks, +Belated, seems on watch to lie, +And snap some cully passing by; +Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs +On watchmen, constables, and duns, +From whom she meets with frequent rubs; +But never from religious clubs; +Whose favour she is sure to find, +Because she pays them all in kind. + Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight! +Behold the ruins of the night! +A wicked rat her plaster stole, +Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole. +The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd; +And puss had on her plumpers p--st, +A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease: +And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas. + The nymph, though in this mangled plight +Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite. +But how shall I describe her arts +To re-collect the scatter'd parts? +Or show the anguish, toil, and pain, +Of gath'ring up herself again? +The bashful Muse will never bear +In such a scene to interfere. +Corinna, in the morning dizen'd, +Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd. + + +[Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the +Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and +pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See +the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily, +been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New +Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished. +For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present," +by Wheatley.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See +"A quiet life and a good name," _ante_, p. 152.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: See _ante_, p. 78, "Descripton of a City +Shower."--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +STREPHON AND CHLOE +1731 + + +Of Chloe all the town has rung, +By ev'ry size of poets sung: +So beautiful a nymph appears +But once in twenty thousand years; +By Nature form'd with nicest care, +And faultless to a single hair. +Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, +Confess'd her of no mortal race: +And then so nice, and so genteel; +Such cleanliness from head to heel; +No humours gross, or frouzy steams, +No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, +Before, behind, above, below, +Could from her taintless body flow: +Would so discreetly things dispose, +None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] +Her dearest comrades never caught her +Squat on her hams to make maid's water: +You'd swear that so divine a creature +Felt no necessities of nature. +In summer had she walk'd the town, +Her armpits would not stain her gown: +At country dances, not a nose +Could in the dog-days smell her toes. +Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs, +Like ivory dry, and soft as wax. +Her hands, the softest ever felt, +[2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. + Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid, +Nor let her loose to spoil your trade. +While she engrosses ev'ry swain, +You but o'er half the world can reign. +Think what a case all men are now in, +What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing! +What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts! +What hampers full of bleeding hearts! +What sword-knots! what poetic strains! +What billets-doux, and clouded canes! + But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong, +He blew a settlement along; +And bravely drove his rivals down, +With coach and six, and house in town. +The bashful nymph no more withstands, +Because her dear papa commands. +The charming couple now unites: +Proceed we to the marriage rites. + _Imprimis_, at the Temple porch +Stood Hymen with a flaming torch: +The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings +Her infant loves with purple wings: +And pigeons billing, sparrows treading, +Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding. +The Muses next in order follow, +Conducted by their squire, Apollo: +Then Mercury with silver tongue; +And Hebe, goddess ever young. +Behold, the bridegroom and his bride +Walk hand in hand, and side by side; +She, by the tender Graces drest, +But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest. +The nymph was cover'd with her _flammeum_[3], +And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4]. +And last, to make the matter sure, +Dame Juno brought a priest demure. +[5]Luna was absent, on pretence +Her time was not till nine months hence. +The rites perform'd, the parson paid, +In state return'd the grand parade; +With loud huzzas from all the boys, +That now the pair must crown their joys. + But still the hardest part remains: +Strephon had long perplex'd his brains, +How with so high a nymph he might +Demean himself the wedding-night: +For, as he view'd his person round, +Mere mortal flesh was all he found: +His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet, +Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet; +With other parts, that shall be nameless, +The ladies else might think me shameless. +The weather and his love were hot; +And, should he struggle, I know what-- +Why, let it go, if I must tell it-- +He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it; +While she, a goddess dyed in grain, +Was unsusceptible of stain, +And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin +Exhaled ambrosia from within. +Can such a deity endure +A mortal human touch impure? +How did the humbled swain detest +His prickly beard, and hairy breast! +His night-cap, border'd round with lace, +Could give no softness to his face. + Yet, if the goddess could be kind, +What endless raptures must he find! +And goddesses have now and then +Come down to visit mortal men; +To visit and to court them too: +A certain goddess, God knows who, +(As in a book he heard it read,) +Took Col'nel Peleus[6] to her bed. +But what if he should lose his life +By vent'ring on his heavenly wife! +(For Strephon could remember well, +That once he heard a school-boy tell, +How Semele,[7] of mortal race, +By thunder died in Jove's embrace.) +And what if daring Strephon dies +By lightning shot from Chloe's eyes! + While these reflections fill'd his head, +The bride was put in form to bed: +He follow'd, stript, and in he crept, +But awfully his distance kept. + Now, "ponder well, ye parents dear;" +Forbid your daughters guzzling beer; +And make them ev'ry afternoon +Forbear their tea, or drink it soon; +That, ere to bed they venture up, +They may discharge it ev'ry sup; +If not, they must in evil plight +Be often forc'd to rise at night. +Keep them to wholesome food confin'd, +Nor let them taste what causes wind: +'Tis this the sage of Samos means, +Forbidding his disciples beans.[8] +O! think what evils must ensue; +Miss Moll, the jade, will burn it blue; +And, when she once has got the art, +She cannot help it for her heart; +But out it flies, even when she meets +Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets. +_Carminative_ and _diuretic_[9] +Will damp all passion sympathetic; +And Love such nicety requires, +One blast will put out all his fires. +Since husbands get behind the scene, +The wife should study to be clean; +Nor give the smallest room to guess +The time when wants of nature press; +But after marriage practise more +Decorum than she did before; +To keep her spouse deluded still, +And make him fancy what she will. + In bed we left the married pair; +'Tis time to show how things went there. +Strephon, who had been often told +That fortune still assists the bold, +Resolved to make the first attack; +But Chloe drove him fiercely back. +How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe, +With constitution cold and snowy, +Permit a brutish man to touch her? +Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher. +Resistance on the wedding-night +Is what our maidens claim by right; +And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed, +Was maid in thought, in word, and deed. +Yet some assign a different reason; +That Strephon chose no proper season. + Say, fair ones, must I make a pause, +Or freely tell the secret cause? + Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak) +Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak. +This point must needs be settled first: +The bride must either void or burst. +Then see the dire effects of pease; +Think what can give the colic ease. +The nymph oppress'd before, behind, +As ships are toss'd by waves and wind, +Steals out her hand, by nature led, +And brings a vessel into bed; +Fair utensil, as smooth and white +As Chloe's skin, almost as bright. + Strephon, who heard the fuming rill +As from a mossy cliff distil, +Cried out, Ye Gods! what sound is this? +Can Chloe, heavenly Chloe,----? +But when he smelt a noisome steam +Which oft attends that lukewarm stream; +(Salerno both together joins,[10] +As sov'reign med'cines for the loins:) +And though contriv'd, we may suppose, +To slip his ears, yet struck his nose; +He found her while the scent increast, +As mortal as himself at least. +But soon, with like occasions prest +He boldly sent his hand in quest +(Inspired with courage from his bride) +To reach the pot on t'other side; +And, as he fill'd the reeking vase; +Let fly a rouser in her face. + The little Cupids hov'ring round, +(As pictures prove) with garlands crown'd, +Abash'd at what they saw and heard, +Flew off, nor ever more appear'd. + Adieu to ravishing delights, +High raptures, and romantic flights; +To goddesses so heav'nly sweet, +Expiring shepherds at their feet; +To silver meads and shady bowers, +Dress'd up with amaranthine flowers. + How great a change! how quickly made! +They learn to call a spade a spade. +They soon from all constraint are freed; +Can see each other do their need. +On box of cedar sits the wife, +And makes it warm for dearest life; +And, by the beastly way of thinking, +Find great society in stinking. +Now Strephon daily entertains +His Chloe in the homeliest strains; +And Chloe, more experienc'd grown, +With int'rest pays him back his own. +No maid at court is less asham'd, +Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd, +Than she to name her parts behind, +Or when a-bed to let out wind. + Fair Decency, celestial maid! +Descend from Heaven to Beauty's aid! +Though Beauty may beget desire, +'Tis thou must fan the Lover's fire; +For Beauty, like supreme dominion, +Is best supported by Opinion: +If Decency bring no supplies, +Opinion falls, and Beauty dies. + To see some radiant nymph appear +In all her glitt'ring birth-day gear, +You think some goddess from the sky +Descended, ready cut and dry: +But ere you sell yourself to laughter, +Consider well what may come after; +For fine ideas vanish fast, +While all the gross and filthy last. + O Strephon, ere that fatal day +When Chloe stole your heart away, +Had you but through a cranny spy'd +On house of ease your future bride, +In all the postures of her face, +Which nature gives in such a case; +Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings, +'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings, +Than from experience find too late +Your goddess grown a filthy mate. +Your fancy then had always dwelt +On what you saw and what you smelt; +Would still the same ideas give ye, +As when you spy'd her on the privy; +And, spite of Chloe's charms divine, +Your heart had been as whole as mine. + Authorities, both old and recent, +Direct that women must be decent; +And from the spouse each blemish hide, +More than from all the world beside. + Unjustly all our nymphs complain +Their empire holds so short a reign; +Is, after marriage, lost so soon, +It hardly lasts the honey-moon: +For, if they keep not what they caught, +It is entirely their own fault. +They take possession of the crown, +And then throw all their weapons down: +Though, by the politician's scheme, +Whoe'er arrives at power supreme, +Those arts, by which at first they gain it, +They still must practise to maintain it. + What various ways our females take +To pass for wits before a rake! +And in the fruitless search pursue +All other methods but the true! + Some try to learn polite behaviour +By reading books against their Saviour; +Some call it witty to reflect +On ev'ry natural defect; +Some shew they never want explaining +To comprehend a double meaning. +But sure a tell-tale out of school +Is of all wits the greatest fool; +Whose rank imagination fills +Her heart, and from her lips distils; +You'd think she utter'd from behind, +Or at her mouth was breaking wind. + Why is a handsome wife ador'd +By every coxcomb but her lord? +From yonder puppet-man inquire, +Who wisely hides his wood and wire; +Shows Sheba's queen completely drest, +And Solomon in royal vest: +But view them litter'd on the floor, +Or strung on pegs behind the door; +Punch is exactly of a piece +With Lorrain's duke, and prince of Greece. + A prudent builder should forecast +How long the stuff is like to last; +And carefully observe the ground, +To build on some foundation sound. +What house, when its materials crumble, +Must not inevitably tumble? +What edifice can long endure +Raised on a basis unsecure? +Rash mortals, ere you take a wife, +Contrive your pile to last for life: +Since beauty scarce endures a day, +And youth so swiftly glides away; +Why will you make yourself a bubble, +To build on sand with hay and stubble? + On sense and wit your passion found, +By decency cemented round; +Let prudence with good-nature strive, +To keep esteem and love alive. +Then come old age whene'er it will, +Your friendship shall continue still: +And thus a mutual gentle fire +Shall never but with life expire. + + +[Footnote 1: A delicate way of speaking of a lady retiring behind a bush +in a garden.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: + "Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull + Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full." +DENHAM, _Cooper's Hill._] + + +[Footnote 3: A veil with which the Roman brides covered themselves when +going to be married.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Marriage song, sung at weddings.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Diana.] + +[Footnote 6: Who married Thetis, the Nereid, by whom he became the father +of Achilles.--Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. xi, 221, _seq.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: See Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. iii.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 8: A precept of Pythagoras. Hence, in French _argot_, beans, as +causing wind, are called _musiciens.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: Provocative of perspiration and urine.] + +[Footnote 1: "Mingere cum bombis res est saluberrima lumbis." A precept +to be found in the "Regimen Sanitatis," or "Schola Salernitana," a work +in rhyming Latin verse composed at Salerno, the earliest school in +Christian Europe where medicine was professed, taught, and practised. The +original text, if anywhere, is in the edition published and commented +upon by Arnaldus de Villa Nova, about 1480. Subsequently above one +hundred and sixty editions of the "Schola Salernitana" were published, +with many additions. A reprint of the first edition, edited by Sir +Alexander Croke, with woodcuts from the editions of 1559, 1568, and +1573, was published at Oxford in 1830.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED +1731 + + +Apollo, god of light and wit, +Could verse inspire, but seldom writ, +Refined all metals with his looks, +As well as chemists by their books; +As handsome as my lady's page; +Sweet five-and-twenty was his age. +His wig was made of sunny rays, +He crown'd his youthful head with bays; +Not all the court of Heaven could show +So nice and so complete a beau. +No heir upon his first appearance, +With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents, +E'er drove, before he sold his land, +So fine a coach along the Strand; +The spokes, we are by Ovid told, +Were silver, and the axle gold: +I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four, +For Jupiter allows no more. + Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts, +Enough to win ten thousand hearts, +No vulgar deity above +Was so unfortunate in love. + Three weighty causes were assign'd, +That moved the nymphs to be unkind. +Nine Muses always waiting round him, +He left them virgins as he found them. +His singing was another fault; +For he could reach to B in _alt_: +And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1] +Such singers are like Nicolini. +At last, the point was fully clear'd; +In short, Apollo had no beard. + + +[Footnote 1: "Bubus tantum feminis vox gravior, in alio omni genere +exilior quam maribus, in homine etiam castratis."--"Hist. Nat.," xi, 51. +"A condicione castrati seminis quae spadonia appellant Belgae," +_ib_. xv.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED +1731 + + +All folks who pretend to religion and grace, +Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: +But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined +The place of the damn'd--I'll tell you my mind. +Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, +Most certainly there is HELL to be found: +Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves, +Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; +Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; +Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; +Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; +Damn'd time-serving priests all over the nation; +And into the bargain I'll readily give you +Damn'd ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy. +Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, +For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: +And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. +How happy for us that it is not at home! + + + + +THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] + +With a whirl of thought oppress'd, +I sunk from reverie to rest. +An horrid vision seized my head; +I saw the graves give up their dead! +Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, +And thunder roars and lightning flies! +Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, +The world stands trembling at his throne! +While each pale sinner hung his head, +Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: +"Offending race of human kind, +By nature, reason, _learning_, blind; +You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; +And you, who never fell--_through pride_: +You who in different sects were shamm'd, +And come to see each other damn'd; +(So some folk told you, but they knew +No more of Jove's designs than you;) +--The world's mad business now is o'er, +And I resent these pranks no more. +--I to such blockheads set my wit! +I damn such fools!--Go, go, you're _bit_." + + +[Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to +Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says: "Je vous envoie +ci-jointe une pièce par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous +déplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais été imprimée, vous en dévinerez bien la +raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, écrit de sa +propre main."--_W. E. B._] + + + + + +JUDAS. 1731 + + +By the just vengeance of incensed skies, +Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. +The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe, +Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe; +Which though his conscience forced him to restore, +(And parsons tell us, no man can do more,) +Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst, +He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst. +Those former ages differ'd much from this; +Judas betray'd his master with a kiss: +But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times, +Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes; +Some who can perjure through a two inch-board, +Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord: +Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn +To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn. + As ancient Judas by transgression fell, +And burst asunder ere he went to hell; +So could we see a set of new Iscariots +Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots; +Each modern Judas perish like the first, +Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst; +Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face, +To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place, +His habitation let all men forsake, +And let his bishopric another take!" + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] +1731 + + +How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, +To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] +Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere, +Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear. +Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, +To lose an inch of favour for a friend? + Say, had the court no better place to choose +For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse? +How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, +To squire a royal girl of two years old: +In leading strings her infant steps to guide, +Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5] + But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame, +Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame. +Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied, +When o'er your patron's treasure you preside: +The world shall own, his choice was wise and just, +For sons of Phoebus never break their trust. + Not love of beauty less the heart inflames +Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames, +Their passions not more impotent and cold, +Than those of poets to the lust of gold. +With Pæan's purest fire his favourites glow, +The dregs will serve to ripen ore below: +His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit +That wealth should be the appanage of wit, +The god of light could ne'er have been so blind +To deal it to the worst of human kind. + But let me now, for I can do it well, +Your conduct in this new employ foretell. + And first: to make my observation right, +I place a statesman full before my sight, +A bloated minister in all his gear, +With shameless visage and perfidious leer: +Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw, +And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw. +My fancy drags this monster to my view, +To shew the world his chief reverse in you. +Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood +Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud; +With these the court and senate-house he plies, +Made up of noise, and impudence, and lies. + Now let me show how Bob and you agree: +You serve a potent prince,[7] as well as he. +The ducal coffers trusted to your charge, +Your honest care may fill, perhaps enlarge: +His vassals easy, and the owner blest; +They pay a trifle, and enjoy the rest. +Not so a nation's revenues are paid; +The servant's faults are on the master laid. +The people with a sigh their taxes bring, +And, cursing Bob, forget to bless the king. + Next hearken, Gay, to what thy charge requires, +With servants, tenants, and the neighbouring squires, +Let all domestics feel your gentle sway; +Nor bribe, insult, nor flatter, nor betray. +Let due reward to merit be allow'd; +Nor with your kindred half the palace crowd; +Nor think yourself secure in doing wrong, +By telling noses [8] with a party strong. + Be rich; but of your wealth make no parade; +At least, before your master's debts are paid; +Nor in a palace, built with charge immense, +Presume to treat him at his own expense.[9] +Each farmer in the neighbourhood can count +To what your lawful perquisites amount. +The tenants poor, the hardness of the times, +Are ill excuses for a servant's crimes. +With interest, and a premium paid beside, +The master's pressing wants must be supplied; +With hasty zeal behold the steward come +By his own credit to advance the sum; +Who, while th'unrighteous Mammon is his friend, +May well conclude his power will never end. +A faithful treasurer! what could he do more? +He lends my lord what was my lord's before. + The law so strictly guards the monarch's health, +That no physician dares prescribe by stealth: +The council sit; approve the doctor's skill; +And give advice before he gives the pill. +But the state empiric acts a safer part; +And, while he poisons, wins the royal heart. + But how can I describe the ravenous breed? +Then let me now by negatives proceed. + Suppose your lord a trusty servant send +On weighty business to some neighbouring friend: +Presume not, Gay, unless you serve a drone, +To countermand his orders by your own. +Should some imperious neighbour sink the boats, +And drain the fish-ponds, while your master dotes; +Shall he upon the ducal rights intrench, +Because he bribed you with a brace of tench? + Nor from your lord his bad condition hide, +To feed his luxury, or soothe his pride. +Nor at an under rate his timber sell, +And with an oath assure him, all is well; +Or swear it rotten, and with humble airs [10] +Request it of him, to complete your stairs; +Nor, when a mortgage lies on half his lands, +Come with a purse of guineas in your hands. + Have Peter Waters [11] always in your mind; +That rogue, of genuine ministerial kind, +Can half the peerage by his arts bewitch, +Starve twenty lords to make one scoundrel rich: +And, when he gravely has undone a score, +Is humbly pray'd to ruin twenty more. + A dext'rous steward, when his tricks are found, +Hush-money sends to all the neighbours round; +His master, unsuspicious of his pranks, +Pays all the cost, and gives the villain thanks. +And, should a friend attempt to set him right, +His lordship would impute it all to spite; +Would love his favourite better than before, +And trust his honesty just so much more. +Thus families, like realms, with equal fate, +Are sunk by premier ministers of state. + Some, when an heir succeeds, go bodily on, +And, as they robb'd the father, rob the son. +A knave, who deep embroils his lord's affairs, +Will soon grow necessary to his heirs. +His policy consists in setting traps, +In finding ways and means, and stopping gaps; +He knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, +Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease. +In either case, an equal chance is run; +For, keep or turn him out, my lord's undone. +You want a hand to clear a filthy sink; +No cleanly workman can endure the stink. +A strong dilemma in a desperate case! +To act with infamy, or quit the place. + A bungler thus, who scarce the nail can hit, +With driving wrong will make the panel split: +Nor dares an abler workman undertake +To drive a second, lest the whole should break. + In every court the parallel will hold; +And kings, like private folks, are bought and sold. +The ruling rogue, who dreads to be cashler'd, +Contrives, as he is hated, to be fear'd; +Confounds accounts, perplexes all affairs: +For vengeance more embroils, than skill repairs. +So robbers, (and their ends are just the same,) +To 'scape inquiries, leave the house in flame. + I knew a brazen minister of state,[12] +Who bore for twice ten years the public hate. +In every mouth the question most in vogue +Was, when will they turn out this odious rogue? +A juncture happen'd in his highest pride: +While he went robbing on, his master died.[13] +We thought there now remain'd no room to doubt; +The work is done, the minister must out. +The court invited more than one or two: +Will you, Sir Spencer?[14] or will you, or you? +But not a soul his office durst accept; +The subtle knave had all the plunder swept: +And, such was then the temper of the times, +He owed his preservation to his crimes. +The candidates observed his dirty paws; +Nor found it difficult to guess the cause: +But, when they smelt such foul corruptions round him, +Away they fled, and left him as they found him. + Thus, when a greedy sloven once has thrown +His snot into the mess, 'tis all his own. + + +[Footnote 1: The Dean having been told by an intimate friend that the +Duke of Queensberry had employed Mr. Gay to inspect the accounts and +management of his grace's receivers and stewards (which, however, proved +to be a mistake), wrote this Epistle to his friend.--_H_. Through the +whole piece, under the pretext of instructing Gay in his duty as the +duke's auditor of accounts, he satirizes the conduct of Sir Robert +Walpole, then Prime Minister.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: See the "Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret," _post_.] + +[Footnote 3: The Countess of Suffolk.--_H._] + +[Footnote 4: Sir Robert Walpole.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 5: The post of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa was +offered to Gay, which he and his friends considered as a great indignity, +her royal highness being a mere infant.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.] + +[Footnote 7: A title given to every duke by the +heralds.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 8: Counting the numbers of a division. A horse dealer's +term.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: Alluding to the magnificence of Houghton, the seat of Sir +Robert Walpole, by which he greatly impaired his fortune. + "What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? + Some Demon whispered, 'Visto! have a Taste.'" +POPE, _Moral Essays_, Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: These lines are thought to allude to some story concerning +a vast quantity of mahogany declared rotten, and then applied by somebody +to wainscots, stairs, door-cases, etc.--_Dublin edition_.] + +[Footnote 11: He hath practised this trade for many years, and still +continues it with success; and after he hath ruined one lord, is +earnestly solicited to take another.--_Dublin edition_. +Properly Walter, a dexterous and unscrupulous attorney. + "Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, + And therefore hopes this nation may be sold." +POPE, _Moral Essays_, Epist. iii. +And see his character fully displayed in Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams' +poem, "Peter and my Lord Quidam," Works, with notes, edit. 1822. Peter +was the original of Peter Pounce in Fielding's "Joseph +Andrews."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 12: Sir Robert Walpole, who was called Sir Robert Brass.] + +[Footnote 13: King George I, who died on the 12th June, +1727.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 14: Sir Spencer Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons, +afterwards created Earl of Wilmington. George II, on his accession to the +throne, intended that Compton should be Prime Minister, but Walpole, +through the influence of the queen, retained his place, Compton having +confessed "his incapacity to undertake so arduous a task." As Lord +Wilmington, he is constantly ridiculed by Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams. +See his Works, with notes by Horace Walpole, edit. 1822.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO A LADY +WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER +IN THE HEROIC STYLE + + +After venting all my spite, +Tell me, what have I to write? +Every error I could find +Through the mazes of your mind, +Have my busy Muse employ'd, +Till the company was cloy'd. +Are you positive and fretful, +Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? +Those, and twenty follies more, +I have often told before. + Hearken what my lady says: +Have I nothing then to praise? +Ill it fits you to be witty, +Where a fault should move your pity. +If you think me too conceited, +Or to passion quickly heated; +If my wandering head be less +Set on reading than on dress; +If I always seem too dull t'ye; +I can solve the diffi--culty. + You would teach me to be wise: +Truth and honour how to prize; +How to shine in conversation, +And with credit fill my station; +How to relish notions high; +How to live, and how to die. + But it was decreed by Fate-- +Mr. Dean, you come too late. +Well I know, you can discern, +I am now too old to learn: +Follies, from my youth instill'd, +Have my soul entirely fill'd; +In my head and heart they centre, +Nor will let your lessons enter. + Bred a fondling and an heiress; +Drest like any lady mayoress: +Cocker'd by the servants round, +Was too good to touch the ground; +Thought the life of every lady +Should be one continued play-day-- +Balls, and masquerades, and shows, +Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux. + Thus you have my case at large, +And may now perform your charge. +Those materials I have furnish'd, +When by you refined and burnish'd, +Must, that all the world may know 'em, +Be reduced into a poem. + But, I beg, suspend a while +That same paltry, burlesque style; +Drop for once your constant rule, +Turning all to ridicule; +Teaching others how to ape you; +Court nor parliament can 'scape you; +Treat the public and your friends +Both alike, while neither mends. + Sing my praise in strain sublime: +Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme. +'Tis but just, you should produce, +With each fault, each fault's excuse; +Not to publish every trifle, +And my few perfections stifle. +With some gifts at least endow me, +Which my very foes allow me. +Am I spiteful, proud, unjust? +Did I ever break my trust? +Which of all our modern dames +Censures less, or less defames? +In good manners am I faulty? +Can you call me rude or haughty? +Did I e'er my mite withhold +From the impotent and old? +When did ever I omit +Due regard for men of wit? +When have I esteem express'd +For a coxcomb gaily dress'd? +Do I, like the female tribe, +Think it wit to fleer and gibe? +Who with less designing ends +Kindlier entertains her friends; +With good words and countenance sprightly, +Strives to treat them more politely? + Think not cards my chief diversion: +'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion: +Never knew I any good in 'em, +But to dose my head like laudanum. +We, by play, as men, by drinking, +Pass our nights to drive out thinking. +From my ailments give me leisure, +I shall read and think with pleasure; +Conversation learn to relish, +And with books my mind embellish. + Now, methinks, I hear you cry, +Mr. Dean, you must reply. + Madam, I allow 'tis true: +All these praises are your due. +You, like some acute philosopher, +Every fault have drawn a gloss over;[1] +Placing in the strongest light +All your virtues to my sight. + Though you lead a blameless life, +Are an humble prudent wife, +Answer all domestic ends: +What is this to us your friends? +Though your children by a nod +Stand in awe without a rod; +Though, by your obliging sway, +Servants love you, and obey; +Though you treat us with a smile; +Clear your looks, and smooth your style; +Load our plates from every dish; +This is not the thing we wish. +Colonel ***** may be your debtor; +We expect employment better. +You must learn, if you would gain us, +With good sense to entertain us. + Scholars, when good sense describing, +Call it tasting and imbibing; +Metaphoric meat and drink +Is to understand and think; +We may carve for others thus; +And let others carve for us; +To discourse, and to attend, +Is, to help yourself and friend. +Conversation is but carving; +Carve for all, yourself is starving: +Give no more to every guest, +Than he's able to digest; +Give him always of the prime; +And but little at a time. +Carve to all but just enough: +Let them neither starve nor stuff: +And, that you may have your due, +Let your neighbours carve for you. +This comparison will hold, +Could it well in rhyme be told, +How conversing, listening, thinking, +Justly may resemble drinking; +For a friend a glass you fill, +What is this but to instil? + To conclude this long essay; +Pardon if I disobey, +Nor against my natural vein, +Treat you in heroic strain. +I, as all the parish knows, +Hardly can be grave in prose: +Still to lash, and lashing smile, +Ill befits a lofty style. +From the planet of my birth +I encounter vice with mirth. +Wicked ministers of state +I can easier scorn than hate; +And I find it answers right: +Scorn torments them more than spight. +All the vices of a court +Do but serve to make me sport. +Were I in some foreign realm, +Which all vices overwhelm; +Should a monkey wear a crown, +Must I tremble at his frown? +Could I not, through all his ermine, +'Spy the strutting chattering vermin; +Safely write a smart lampoon, +To expose the brisk baboon? + When my Muse officious ventures +On the nation's representers: +Teaching by what golden rules +Into knaves they turn their fools; +How the helm is ruled by Walpole, +At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull; +Let the vessel split on shelves; +With the freight enrich themselves: +Safe within my little wherry, +All their madness makes me merry: +Like the waterman of Thames, +I row by, and call them names; +Like the ever-laughing sage,[2] +In a jest I spend my rage: +(Though it must be understood, +I would hang them if I could;) +If I can but fill my niche, +I attempt no higher pitch; +Leave to d'Anvers and his mate +Maxims wise to rule the state. +Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns, +Scourge the villains with a vengeance; +Let me, though the smell be noisome, +Strip their bums; let Caleb[3] hoise 'em; +Then apply Alecto's[4] whip +Till they wriggle, howl, and skip. + Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean: +What can all this passion mean? +Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet +On corruptions running riot. +End as it befits your station; +Come to use and application; +Nor with senates keep a fuss. +I submit; and answer thus: + If the machinations brewing, +To complete the public ruin, +Never once could have the power +To affect me half an hour; +Sooner would I write in buskins, +Mournful elegies on Blueskins.[5] +If I laugh at Whig and Tory; +I conclude _à fortiori_, +All your eloquence will scarce +Drive me from my favourite farce. +This I must insist on; for, as +It is well observed by Horace,[6] +Ridicule has greater power +To reform the world than sour. +Horses thus, let jockeys judge else, +Switches better guide than cudgels. +Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse, +Only dulness can produce; +While a little gentle jerking +Sets the spirits all a-working. + Thus, I find it by experiment, +Scolding moves you less than merriment. +I may storm and rage in vain; +It but stupifies your brain. +But with raillery to nettle, +Sets your thoughts upon their mettle; +Gives imagination scope; +Never lets your mind elope; +Drives out brangling and contention. +Brings in reason and invention. +For your sake as well as mine, +I the lofty style decline. +I should make a figure scurvy, +And your head turn topsy-turvy. + I who love to have a fling +Both at senate-house and king: +That they might some better way tread, +To avoid the public hatred; +Thought no method more commodious, +Than to show their vices odious; +Which I chose to make appear, +Not by anger, but by sneer. +As my method of reforming, +Is by laughing, not by storming, +(For my friends have always thought +Tenderness my greatest fault,) +Would you have me change my style? +On your faults no longer smile; +But, to patch up all our quarrels, +Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals, +Or from Solomon produce +Maxims teaching Wisdom's use? + If I treat you like a crown'd head, +You have cheap enough compounded; +Can you put in higher claims, +Than the owners of St. James? +You are not so great a grievance, +As the hirelings of St. Stephen's. +You are of a lower class +Than my friend Sir Robert Brass. +None of these have mercy found: +I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round. + Have you seen a rocket fly? +You would swear it pierced the sky: +It but reach'd the middle air, +Bursting into pieces there; +Thousand sparkles falling down +Light on many a coxcomb's crown. +See what mirth the sport creates! +Singes hair, but breaks no pates. +Thus, should I attempt to climb, +Treat you in a style sublime, +Such a rocket is my Muse: +Should I lofty numbers choose, +Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top, +I should burst, and bursting drop; +All my fire would fall in scraps, +Give your head some gentle raps; +Only make it smart a while; +Then could I forbear to smile, +When I found the tingling pain +Entering warm your frigid brain; +Make you able upon sight +To decide of wrong and right; +Talk with sense whate'er you please on; +Learn to relish truth and reason! + Thus we both shall gain our prize; +I to laugh, and you grow wise. + + +[Footnote 1: + "Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher, + And had read ev'ry Text and Gloss over." + _Hudibras_.] + +[Footnote 2: Democritus, the Greek philosopher, one of the founders of +the atomic theory.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Caleb d'Anvers was the name assumed by Nicholas Amhurst, the +ostensible editor of the celebrated journal, entitled "The Craftsman," +written by Bolingbroke and Pulteney. See "Prose Works," vii, p. +219.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: One of the three Furies--Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, the +avenging deities.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: The famous thief, who, while on his trial at the Old Bailey, +stabbed Jonathan Wild. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild," Book iv, +ch. i.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: + "Ridiculum acri + Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."--_Sat_. I, x, 14.] + + + +EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732 + + "Sic siti laetantur docti." + + +With honour thus by Carolina placed, +How are these venerable bustoes graced! +O queen, with more than regal title crown'd, +For love of arts and piety renown'd! +How do the friends of virtue joy to see +Her darling sons exalted thus by thee! +Nought to their fame can now be added more, +Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2] + +[Footnote 1: Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Woolaston.] + +[Footnote 2: Queen Caroline's regard for learned men was chiefly directed +to those who had signalized themselves by philosophical research. Horace +Walpole alludes to this her peculiar taste, in his fable called the +"Funeral of the Lioness," where the royal shade is made to say: + "... where Elysian waters glide, + With Clarke and Newton by my side, + Purrs o'er the metaphysic page, + Or ponders the prophetic rage + Of Merlin, who mysterious sings + Of men and lions, beasts and kings." +_Lord Orford's Works_, iv, 379.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANOTHER + +Louis the living learned fed, +And raised the scientific head; +Our frugal queen, to save her meat, +Exalts the heads that cannot eat. + + + + +A CONCLUSION + +DRAWN FROM THE ABOVE EPIGRAMS, AND SENT TO THE DRAPIER + +Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, +Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: +And since our good queen to the wise is so just, +To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust, +I wonder, good man, that you are not envaulted; +Prithee go, and be dead, and be doubly exalted. + + + + +DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER + +Her majesty never shall be my exalter; +And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter! + + +TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT + +WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1732.[1] +BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY + +To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; +Small is the present, but sincere the friend. +Think not so poor a book below thy care; +Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear? +Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face, +The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace; +Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat, +A _rasa tabula_ within denote: +Yet, if a venal and corrupted age, +And modern vices should provoke thy rage; +If, warn'd once more by their impending fate, +A sinking country and an injur'd state, +Thy great assistance should again demand, +And call forth reason to defend the land; +Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise, +Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes; +Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense +True force of eloquence, and nervous sense; +Inform the judgment, animate the heart, +And sacred rules of policy impart. +The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore, +Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more; +But lead us inward to those golden mines, +Where all thy soul in native lustre shines. +So when the eye surveys some lovely fair, +With bloom of beauty graced, with shape and air; +How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find +Her form excell'd by her celestial mind! + + +[Footnote 1: It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued +among his friends, of making him a present on his birth-day. Orrery's +"Remarks," p. 202.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. +BY DR. DELANY + +Hither from Mexico I came, +To serve a proud Iernian dame: +Was long submitted to her will; +At length she lost me at quadrille. +Through various shapes I often pass'd, +Still hoping to have rest at last; +And still ambitious to obtain +Admittance to the patriot Dean; +And sometimes got within his door, +But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1] +Not strolling Idleness to aid, +But honest Industry decay'd. +At length an artist purchased me, +And wrought me to the shape you see. + This done, to Hermes I applied: +"O Hermes! gratify my pride; +Be it my fate to serve a sage, +The greatest genius of his age; +That matchless pen let me supply, +Whose living lines will never die!" + "I grant your suit," the God replied, +And here he left me to reside. + + +[Footnote 1: Alluding to sums lent by the Dean, without interest, to +assist poor tradesmen.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS + +A paper book is sent by Boyle, +Too neatly gilt for me to soil. +Delany sends a silver standish, +When I no more a pen can brandish. +Let both around my tomb be placed: +As trophies of a Muse deceased; +And let the friendly lines they writ, +In praise of long-departed wit, +Be graved on either side in columns, +More to my praise than all my volumes, +To burst with envy, spite, and rage, +The Vandals of the present age. + + + + +VERSES +SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL, +ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR. DELANY. +BY MRS. PILKINGTON +Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, +And boldly rob me of eternal fame? +To every art my gen'rous aid I lend, +To music, painting, poetry, a friend. +'Tis I celestial harmony inspire, +When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire.[1] +I to the faithful canvas have consign'd +Each bright idea of the painter's mind; +Behold from Raphael's sky-dipt pencils rise +Such heavenly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes. +O let me now aspire to higher praise! +Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays: +Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse, +Accept me as the servant of your Muse; +Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare, +And all mankind your matchless pen revere. + + +[Footnote 1: Quills of the harpsichord.] + + + +AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. SWIFT + +Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call, +To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all; +Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care, +For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare. +I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies, +As friend Virgil has it, I've _aliud mercedis_; +For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale; +And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal; +And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood, +I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good: +Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health: +High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5] + + +[Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at +London, in 4to, by subscription.] + +[Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her +friends.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who +died in 1733, at the age of 27.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had +ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and +the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of +National Biography."--. _W. E. B_.] + + + + +THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, +ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732 + +PREFACE + +I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and +greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of +mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their +own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter +of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly +seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a +manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many +pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on +those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is +the same case in every other qualification. By the multitude of those +who deal in rhymes, from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every +minute, there must be at least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs +of London: half as many coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, +forty thousand politicians, and four thousand five hundred profound +scholars; not to mention the wits, the railers, the smart fellows, and +critics; all as illiterate and impudent as a suburb whore. What are we +to think of the fine-dressed sparks, proud of their own personal +deformities, which appear the more hideous by the contrast of wearing +scarlet and gold, with what they call toupees[1] on their heads, and all +the frippery of a modern beau, to make a figure before women; some of +them with hump-backs, others hardly five feet high, and every feature +of their faces distorted: I have seen many of these insipid pretenders +entering into conversation with persons of learning, constantly making +the grossest blunders in every sentence, without conveying one single +idea fit for a rational creature to spend a thought on; perpetually +confounding all chronology, and geography, even of present times. I +compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau and puppy kind, +for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours transplanted +thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown capital exceeds +ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what is more to our +farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool of Irish birth +or education, who makes any noise in that famous metropolis, unless the +London prints be very partial or defective; whereas London is seldom +without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the vogue for half a +winter together, and are never heard of more, but give place to a new +set. This has been the constant progress for at least thirty years past, +only allowing for the change of breed and fashion. + +The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking +their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his +own species, almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, +he is too partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as +low as he well could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the ass, the +swine, and the ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes +them in the article of cunning: so great is the pride of man! + +When beasts could speak, (the learned say +They still can do so every day,) +It seems, they had religion then, +As much as now we find in men. +It happen'd, when a plague broke out, +(Which therefore made them more devout,) +The king of brutes (to make it plain, +Of quadrupeds I only mean) +By proclamation gave command, +That every subject in the land +Should to the priest confess their sins; +And thus the pious Wolf begins: +Good father, I must own with shame, +That often I have been to blame: +I must confess, on Friday last, +Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: +But I defy the basest tongue +To prove I did my neighbour wrong; +Or ever went to seek my food, +By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. + The Ass approaching next, confess'd, +That in his heart he loved a jest: +A wag he was, he needs must own, +And could not let a dunce alone: +Sometimes his friend he would not spare, +And might perhaps be too severe: +But yet the worst that could be said, +He was a wit both born and bred; +And, if it be a sin and shame, +Nature alone must bear the blame: +One fault he has, is sorry for't, +His ears are half a foot too short; +Which could he to the standard bring, +He'd show his face before the king: +Then for his voice, there's none disputes +That he's the nightingale of brutes. + The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, +His shape and beauty made him proud: +In diet was perhaps too nice, +But gluttony was ne'er his vice: +In every turn of life content, +And meekly took what fortune sent: +Inquire through all the parish round, +A better neighbour ne'er was found; +His vigilance might some displease; +'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + The mimic Ape began his chatter, +How evil tongues his life bespatter; +Much of the censuring world complain'd, +Who said, his gravity was feign'd: +Indeed, the strictness of his morals +Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: +He saw, and he was grieved to see't, +His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: +He found his virtues too severe +For our corrupted times to bear; +Yet such a lewd licentious age +Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + The Goat advanced with decent pace, +And first excused his youthful face; +Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd +('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. +'Tis true, he was not much inclined +To fondness for the female kind: +Not, as his enemies object, +From chance, or natural defect; +Not by his frigid constitution; +But through a pious resolution: +For he had made a holy vow +Of Chastity, as monks do now: +Which he resolved to keep for ever hence +And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2] + Apply the tale, and you shall find, +How just it suits with human kind. +Some faults we own; but can you guess? +--Why, virtue's carried to excess, +Wherewith our vanity endows us, +Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) +He never squeezed a needy client; +And this he makes his constant rule, +For which his brethren call him fool; +His conscience always was so nice, +He freely gave the poor advice; +By which he lost, he may affirm, +A hundred fees last Easter term; +While others of the learned robe, +Would break the patience of a Job. +No pleader at the bar could match +His diligence and quick dispatch; +Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, +Above a term or two at most. + The cringing knave, who seeks a place +Without success, thus tells his case: +Why should he longer mince the matter? +He fail'd, because he could not flatter; +He had not learn'd to turn his coat, +Nor for a party give his vote: +His crime he quickly understood; +Too zealous for the nation's good: +He found the ministers resent it, +Yet could not for his heart repent it. + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, +Though it would raise him to the lawn: +He pass'd his hours among his books; +You find it in his meagre looks: +He might, if he were worldly wise, +Preferment get, and spare his eyes; +But owns he had a stubborn spirit. +That made him trust alone to merit; +Would rise by merit to promotion; +Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + The Doctor, if you will believe him, +Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) +Call'd up at midnight, ran to save +A blind old beggar from the grave: +But see how Satan spreads his snares; +He quite forgot to say his prayers. +He cannot help it, for his heart, +Sometimes to act the parson's part: +Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, +That moves his patients to repentance; +And, when his medicines do no good, +Supports their minds with heavenly food: +At which, however well intended, +He hears the clergy are offended; +And grown so bold behind his back, +To call him hypocrite and quack. +In his own church he keeps a seat; +Says grace before and after meat; +And calls, without affecting airs, +His household twice a-day to prayers. +He shuns apothecaries' shops, +And hates to cram the sick with slops: +He scorns to make his art a trade; +Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. +Old nurse-keepers would never hire, +To recommend him to the squire; +Which others, whom he will not name, +Have often practised to their shame. + The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, +His fault is to be too sincere; +And having no sinister ends, +Is apt to disoblige his friends. +The nation's good, his master's glory, +Without regard to Whig or Tory, +Were all the schemes he had in view, +Yet he was seconded by few: +Though some had spread a thousand lies, +'Twas he defeated the excise.[3] +'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, +That standing troops were his aversion: +His practice was, in every station: +To serve the king, and please the nation. +Though hard to find in every case +The fittest man to fill a place: +His promises he ne'er forgot, +But took memorials on the spot; +His enemies, for want of charity, +Said, he affected popularity: +'Tis true, the people understood, +That all he did was for their good; +Their kind affections he has tried; +No love is lost on either side. +He came to court with fortune clear, +Which now he runs out every year; +Must, at the rate that he goes on, +Inevitably be undone: +O! if his majesty would please +To give him but a writ of ease, +Would grant him license to retire, +As it has long been his desire, +By fair accounts it would be found, +He's poorer by ten thousand pound. +He owns, and hopes it is no sin, +He ne'er was partial to his kin; +He thought it base for men in stations, +To crowd the court with their relations: +His country was his dearest mother, +And every virtuous man his brother; +Through modesty or awkward shame, +(For which he owns himself to blame,) +He found the wisest man he could, +Without respect to friends or blood; +Nor ever acts on private views, +When he has liberty to choose. + The Sharper swore he hated play, +Except to pass an hour away: +And well he might; for, to his cost, +By want of skill, he always lost; +He heard there was a club of cheats, +Who had contrived a thousand feats; +Could change the stock, or cog a die, +And thus deceive the sharpest eye: +Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, +His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. + I own the moral not exact, +Besides, the tale is false, in fact; +And so absurd, that could I raise up, +From fields Elysian, fabling Æsop, +I would accuse him to his face, +For libelling the four-foot race. +Creatures of every kind but ours +Well comprehend their natural powers, +While we, whom reason ought to sway, +Mistake our talents every day. +The Ass was never known so stupid, +To act the part of Tray or Cupid; +Nor leaps upon his master's lap, +There to be stroked, and fed with pap, +As Æsop would the world persuade; +He better understands his trade: +Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, +But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. +Our author's meaning, I presume, is +A creature _bipes et implumis;_ +Wherein the moralist design'd +A compliment on human kind; +For here he owns, that now and then +Beasts may degenerate into men.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in +fashion. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same +name.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in +March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent +was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second +reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months, +and thus it was dropped.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the +Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PARSON'S CASE + +That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, +Can wish to die in strains heroic, +No real fortitude implies: +Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise. +Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, +Thy busy, drudging scene of life, +Thy insolent, illiterate vicar, +Thy want of all-consoling liquor, +Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent, +Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, +Thy week made up of fasting-days, +Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, +And to complete thy other curses, +The quarterly demands of nurses, +Are ills you wisely wish to leave, +And fly for refuge to the grave; +And, O, what virtue you express, +In wishing such afflictions less! + But, now, should Fortune shift the scene, +And make thy curateship a dean: +Or some rich benefice provide, +To pamper luxury and pride; +With labour small, and income great; +With chariot less for use than state; +With swelling scarf, and glossy gown, +And license to reside in town: +To shine where all the gay resort, +At concerts, coffee-house, or court: +And weekly persecute his grace +With visits, or to beg a place: +With underlings thy flock to teach, +With no desire to pray or preach; +With haughty spouse in vesture fine, +With plenteous meals and generous wine; +Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, +Thy years as numerous as thy days? + + + + +THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES +1733 + +Poor ladies! though their business be to play, +'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: +Why should they want the privilege of men, +Nor take some small diversions now and then? +Had women been the makers of our laws, +(And why they were not, I can see no cause,) +The men should slave at cards from morn to night +And female pleasures be to read and write. + + + + +A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 + +Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, + Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: +I a slave in thy dominions; + Nature must give way to art. + +Mild Arcadians, ever blooming + Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, +See my weary days consuming + All beneath yon flowery rocks. + +Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping + Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; +Him the boar, in silence creeping, + Gored with unrelenting tooth. + +Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; + Fair Discretion, string the lyre; +Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: + Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. + +Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, + Arm'd in adamantine chains, +Lead me to the crystal mirrors, + Watering soft Elysian plains. + +Mournful cypress, verdant willow, + Gilding my Aurelia's brows, +Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, + Hear me pay my dying vows. + +Melancholy smooth Meander, + Swiftly purling in a round, +On thy margin lovers wander, + With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. + +Thus when Philomela drooping + Softly seeks her silent mate, +See the bird of Juno stooping; + Melody resigns to fate. + + + + +THE STORM + +MINERVA'S PETITION + +Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise +Descending lately from the skies, +To Neptune went, and begg'd in form +He'd give his orders for a storm; +A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1] +And she would kindly thank him for't: +A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her, +Had lately honour'd with a mitre. + The god, who favour'd her request, +Assured her he would do his best: +But Venus had been there before, +Pleaded the bishop loved a whore, +And had enlarged her empire wide; +He own'd no deity beside. +At sea or land, if e'er you found him +Without a mistress, hang or drown him. +Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench, +Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench; +If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it, +She'll not have left one single prelate: +For, to say truth, she did intend him, +Elect of Cyprus _in commendam._ +And, since her birth the ocean gave her, +She could not doubt her uncle's favour. + Then Proteus urged the same request, +But half in earnest, half in jest; +Said he--"Great sovereign of the main, +To drown him all attempts are vain. +Hort can assume more forms than I, +A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy; +Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim; +All motions are alike to him: +Turn him adrift, and you shall find +He knows to sail with every wind; +Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride +As well against as with the tide. +But, Pallas, you've applied too late; +For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate, +That Ireland must be soon destroy'd, +And who but Hort can be employ'd? +You need not then have been so pert, +In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert. +I found you did it, by your grinning; +Your business is to mind your spinning. +But how you came to interpose +In making bishops, no one knows; +Or who regarded your report; +For never were you seen at court. +And if you must have your petition, +There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition; +Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just, +If one must drown, the other must; +But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas, +We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4] +Now, if 'twill gratify your spight, +To put him in a plaguy fright, +Although 'tis hardly worth the cost, +You soon shall see him soundly tost. +You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn +(And every moment take a dram) +His ghastly visage with an air +Of reprobation and despair; +Or else some hiding-hole he seeks, +For fear the rest should say he squeaks; +Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before, +Resolve to perish with his whore; +Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, +And, but for shame, would say his prayers. +Or, would you see his spirits sink? +Relaxing downwards in a stink? +If such a sight as this can please ye, +Good madam Pallas, pray be easy. +To Neptune speak, and he'll consent; +But he'll come back the knave he went." +The goddess, who conceived a hope +That Hort was destined to a rope, +Believed it best to condescend +To spare a foe, to save a friend; +But, fearing Berkeley might be scared, +She left him virtue for a guard. + + +[Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a +Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, +and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as +chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in +1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He +died in 1751.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of +Cashell.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, +Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.] + +[Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the +propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, _ut supra.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats +in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.--_F_.] + + + + +ODE ON SCIENCE + +O, heavenly born! in deepest dells +If fairest science ever dwells + Beneath the mossy cave; +Indulge the verdure of the woods, +With azure beauty gild the floods, + And flowery carpets lave. + +For, Melancholy ever reigns +Delighted in the sylvan scenes + With scientific light; +While Dian, huntress of the vales, +Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales, + Though wrapt from mortal sight. + +Yet, goddess, yet the way explore +With magic rites and heathen lore + Obstructed and depress'd; +Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, +Untaught, not uninspired, to shine, + By Reason's power redress'd. + +When Solon and Lycurgus taught +To moralize the human thought + Of mad opinion's maze, +To erring zeal they gave new laws, +Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause + That blends congenial rays. + +Bid bright Astræa gild the morn, +Or bid a hundred suns be born, + To hecatomb the year; +Without thy aid, in vain the poles, +In vain the zodiac system rolls, + In vain the lunar sphere. + +Come, fairest princess of the throng, +Bring sweet philosophy along, + In metaphysic dreams; +While raptured bards no more behold +A vernal age of purer gold, + In Heliconian streams. + +Drive Thraldom with malignant hand, +To curse some other destined land, + By Folly led astray: +Iërne bear on azure wing; +Energic let her soar, and sing + Thy universal sway. + +So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre +To more majestic sound aspire, + Behold the madding throng, +In wonder and oblivion drown'd, +To sculpture turn'd by magic sound + And petrifying song. + + +[Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical +power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building +of the city.--Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] +FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND + +Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; +Gently fill the swelling sails. +Neptune, with thy trident long, +Trident three-fork'd, trident strong: +And ye Nereids fair and gay, +Fairer than the rose in May, +Nereids living in deep caves, +Gently wash'd with gentle waves; +Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep +Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep; +All around, in pompous state, +On this richer Argo wait: +Argo, bring my golden fleece, +Argo, bring him to his Greece. +Will Cadenus longer stay? +Come, Cadenus, come away; +Come with all the haste of love, +Come unto thy turtle-dove. +The ripen'd cherry on the tree +Hangs, and only hangs for thee, +Luscious peaches, mellow pears, +Ceres, with her yellow ears, +And the grape, both red and white, +Grape inspiring just delight; +All are ripe, and courting sue, +To be pluck'd and press'd by you. +Pinks have lost their blooming red, +Mourning hang their drooping head, +Every flower languid seems, +Wants the colour of thy beams, +Beams of wondrous force and power, +Beams reviving every flower. +Come, Cadenus, bless once more, +Bless again thy native shore, +Bless again this drooping isle, +Make its weeping beauties smile, +Beauties that thine absence mourn, +Beauties wishing thy return: +Come, Cadenus, come with haste, +Come before the winter's blast; +Swifter than the lightning fly, +Or I, like Vanessa, die. + + +[Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and +the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of +poetry.--_W. E. B._] + + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1] + +Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans +l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, +qui ne nous déplait pas." + +This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those +suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published +by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it +commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, +1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by +Swift.--_W. E. B._ + + +AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew +From nature, I believe 'em true: +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +"In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us." + If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. +We all behold with envious eyes +Our _equal_ raised above our _size._ +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +[2]But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post: +[3]Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in battle you should find +One whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion kill'd, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be overtopt, +Would you not wish his laurels cropt? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies rackt with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + What poet would not grieve to see +His breth'ren write as well as he? +But rather than they should excel, +He'd wish his rivals all in hell. + Her end when Emulation misses, +She turns to Envy, stings and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But with a sigh I wish it mine; +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six; +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" +[4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own hum'rous biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use. +St. John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortify'd my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + Thus much may serve by way of proem: +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + The time is not remote, when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +Tho' it is hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: +"See, how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind: +Forgets the place where last he din'd; +Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + "For poetry he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decay'd, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!" + And then their tenderness appears, +By adding largely to my years; +"He's older than he would be reckon'd, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!" +Then hug themselves, and reason thus: +"It is not yet so bad with us!" + In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes: +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, "_Worse and worse!_") +Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, +That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." +Then he, who prophecy'd the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +"You know I always fear'd the worst, +And often told you so at first." +He'd rather chuse that I should die, +Than his prediction prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept? +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. + My good companions, never fear; +For though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verify'd at last. + Behold the fatal day arrive! +"How is the Dean?"--"He's just alive." +Now the departing prayer is read; +"He hardly breathes."--"The Dean is dead." + Before the Passing-bell begun, +The news thro' half the town has run. +"O! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?"-- +"I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."-- +"To public use! a perfect whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" + Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; +With elegies the town is cloy'd: +Some paragraph in ev'ry paper +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5] + The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame: +"We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years; +For, when we open'd him, we found, +That all his vital parts were sound." + From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead." +Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. +He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: +I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was a princess then; +But now, as consort of a king, +You know, 'tis quite a different thing." +Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +"Why, is he dead without his shoes," +Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: +O, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will![11] +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!" +Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14] +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15] +Revive the libels born to die; +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + St. John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +"I'm sorry--but we all must die!" + Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When _we_ are lash'd, _they_ kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approach'd, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learn'd to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +"The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16] +Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend. +No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, +If he shou'd fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart,) +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come: he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place." + Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean; +Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, +Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." +Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; +He died a year ago."--"The same." +He searches all the shop in vain. +"Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18] +I sent them with a load of books, +Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past; +The town has got a better taste; +I keep no antiquated stuff, +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; +Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20] +And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21] +The hawkers have not got them yet: +Your honour please to buy a set? + "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down; +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour (who can read), +Are taught to use them for their creed.[23] +The rev'rend author's good intention +Has been rewarded with a pension. +He does an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he has not got a mitre!" + Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without, +One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill receiv'd at court. +As for his works in verse and prose +I own myself no judge of those; +Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: +But this I know, all people bought 'em. +As with a moral view design'd +To cure the vices of mankind: +And, if he often miss'd his aim, +The world must own it, to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +"Sir, I have heard another story: +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died." + Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!-- + "He should have left them for his betters, +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp--all one to him.-- + "But why should he, except he slobber't, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power +To save the nation every hour? +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels! +Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!" +His vein, ironically grave, +Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave. +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.[24] + "He never thought an honour done him, +Because a duke was proud to own him, +Would rather slip aside and chuse +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +Despised the fools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres.[25] +He never courted men in station, +_Nor persons held in admiration;_ +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succour'd virtue in distress, +And seldom fail'd of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + "With princes kept a due decorum, +But never stood in awe before 'em. +He follow'd David's lesson just; +_In princes never put thy trust:_ +And would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaim'd! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + "Had he but spared his tongue and pen +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant the wound: +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human kind: +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He labour'd many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair.[27] + "And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St. John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroy'd by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended.[28] +When up a dangerous faction starts,[29] +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +_By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,_ +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded Virtue stand! +With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the tower, +Himself[30] within the frown of power, +Pursued by base envenom'd pens, +Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31] +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. +"By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merits were, to be his foes; +When _ev'n his own familiar friends_, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +_Against him lifting up their heels._ + "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat;[32] +Taught fools their int'rest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy has own'd it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. + "To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state, +A wicked monster on the bench,[33] +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34] +Who long all justice had discarded, +_Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;_ +Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + "In exile,[35] with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. +Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into gen'ral odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown. +For party he would scarce have bled: +I say no more--because he's dead. +What writings has he left behind? +I hear, they're of a different kind; +A few in verse; but most in prose-- +Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never fav'ring the Pretender; +Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, +Against the court to show his spite; +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear: +But not one sermon, you may swear." +His friendships there, to few confined +Were always of the middling kind;[36] +No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power,[37] +And peerage is a wither'd flower; +He would have held it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain; +[Biennial[38]] squires to market brought; +Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought; +The [nation stripped,] go joyful back, +To *** the church, their tenants rack, +Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39] +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or barrack to repair; +And turn the tax for public roads, +Commodious to their own abodes.[40] + "Perhaps I may allow the Dean, +Had too much satire in his vein; +And seem'd determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lash'd the vice, but spared the name; +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant; +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump, or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offer'd to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confest, +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. + "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, +Must be or ridiculed or lash'd. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knew you nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a duke? + "He knew an hundred pleasant stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying day; +And friends would let him have his way. + "He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +And show'd by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better." +And, since you dread no farther lashes +Methinks you may forgive his ashes. + + + +[Footnote 1: This poem was first written about 1731 but was not then +intended to be published; and having been shown by Swift to all his +"common acquaintance indifferently," some "friend," probably +Pilkington, remembered enough of it to concoct the poem called "The Life +and Character of Dr. Swift, written by himself," which was published in +London in 1733, and reprinted in Dublin. In a letter to Pope, dated 1 +May, that year, the Dean complained seriously about the imposture, +saying, "it shall not provoke me to print the true one, which indeed is +not proper to be seen till I can be seen no more." See Swift to Pope, +in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 307. The poem was +subsequently published by Faulkner with the Dean's permission. It is now +printed from a copy of the original edition, with corrections in Swift's +hand, which I found in the Forster collection.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: _Var_. "But would not have him stop my view."] + +[Footnote 3: _Var_. "I ask but for an inch at most."] + +[Footnote 4: _Var_. "Why must I be outdone by Gay."] + +[Footnote 5: The author supposes that the scribblers of the prevailing +party, which he always opposed, will libel him after his death; but that +others will remember the service he had done to Ireland, under the name +of M. B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project of Wood's +halfpence, in five letters to the people of Ireland, at that time read +universally, and convincing every reader.] + +[Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.] + +[Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the +bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen, +then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her +commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his +friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very +graciously. He taxed her with a present worth £10, which she promised +before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals +were not ready. + +A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out +this note.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but +she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent +Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing +took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as +would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of +it; he did the former, it cost £35, but he said he would have nothing +except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as +usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in +England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her +intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her +Majesty's displeasure.] + +[Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a +footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland. +He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every +change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy +for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He +is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was +writ in.--_Dublin Edition,_ and see _ante_, p. 191.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the +Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, +with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with +him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great +friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would +see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert, +on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited +him again.] + +[Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate +friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined +with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the +Craftsman, which is still continued.] + +[Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to +Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius +in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously +working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said +lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.] + +[Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or +country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He +published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three +pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile +a manner.] + +[Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the +shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was +made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore, +whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of +Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."] + +[Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, +letters, and last wills and testaments of the nobility and ministers of +state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath +been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the +letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their +journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published, +without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.] + +[Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the +tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 17: See _post_, p. 267.] + +[Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.] + +[Footnote 19: See _ante_ "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet," +p. 192.] + +[Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but +write in his defence.] + +[Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to +get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, +formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set +times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his +associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling +each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported +crazy.] + +[Footnote 22: See _ante_, p. 188.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 23: See _ante_, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt +Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated," +was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Bethell in +Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix, +p. 149.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley: + "To him no author was unknown, + Yet what he wrote was all his own."] + +[Footnote 25: See _ante_, pp. 192 and 252.] + +[Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an +address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation, +promising £300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet +called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year +1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was +prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward +of £300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet, +called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive +project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the +Dean discovered.] + +[Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year +after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord +Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford, +for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher +every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that +endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired +to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned +to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new +people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.] + +[Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the +queen died.] + +[Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to +power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached +and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all +their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was +never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments +in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men. +Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved, +only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and +are likely to remain so.] + +[Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin +at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in +England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was +forced to be attended by his servants armed.] + +[Footnote 31: Ireland.] + +[Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for +coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of £108,000, which, in +the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The +Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before +prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the +people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury +down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to +bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer +of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or +swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part, +except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was +celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most +streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several +country towns. This note was written in 1734.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His +judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from +Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years +ago.] + +[Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile; +to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, +who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the Duchess of +Somerset.] + +[Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single +lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of +the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.] + +[Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single +act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the +least resentment or remonstrance.] + +[Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once +in two years, and after having given five times more than they can +afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and +oppressions of which some few are mentioned.] + +[Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there, +usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers +who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.] + +[Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building +and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to +that unhappy kingdom.] + + + + +ON POETRY +A RHAPSODY. 1733 + + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's universal passion, pride,[1] +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assign'd +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A founder'd horse will oft debate, +Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. +But man we find the only creature +Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates, +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedler Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews; +Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Has blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life, or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision: +Of state affairs you cannot smatter; +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; +For ever fix'd by right divine +(A monarch's right) on Grub Street line. + Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportion'd to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner, +Instructing thus a young beginner. + Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologue sent from hand unknown. +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + Your poem finish'd, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in _Italic_ type. +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: +But, when in capitals express'd, +The dullest reader smokes the jest: +Or else perhaps he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer more than Homer knew. + Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4] +But let no friend alive look into't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from the mint: +The product of your toil and sweating; +A bastard of your own begetting. + Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And, if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down. +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side: +For, poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse: +And since you ne'er provoke their spite, +Depend upon't their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; +Take courage and attempt a third. +But first with care employ your thoughts +Where critics mark'd your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder whom you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; +A prelate, who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pickpurse at the bar or bench, +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link, +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorlands of a different parish. +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds. +So geographers, in Afric maps, +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants for want of towns. + But, though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party merit seek support; +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck;[6] +And, though you never learn'd to scan verse +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concern'd about the sale, +He pays his workmen on the nail.[7] +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration. +Extol the bench of bishops round, +Who at them rail, bid ---- confound; +To bishop-haters answer thus: +(The only logic used by us) +What though they don't believe in ---- +Deny them Protestants--thou lyest. + A prince, the moment he is crown'd, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes, +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom; +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise, +Ascending, make one funeral blaze: +His panegyrics then are ceased, +He grows a tyrant, dunce, or beast. +As soon as you can hear his knell, +This god on earth turns devil in hell: +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; +Where in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple barking mouth to stop; +Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8] +Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes; +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your muse on kings alive; +With prudence gathering up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, form'd into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet: +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile, and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine: +I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath. +Your garland, in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's, the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed no further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon: +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time and place: +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer[10] oft review, +Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12] +Read all the prefaces of Dryden, +For these our critics much confide in; +Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling. + A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _peri hupsous_: +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation,[13] +And quote quotation on quotation. + At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus[14] from the table head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribe of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word be understood. +Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets (you can never want 'em) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15] +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls: +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learn'd to spell. + Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this, for epics claims the bays, +And that, for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius[16] in Wapping gains renown, +And Mævius[16] reigns o'er Kentish town: +Tigellius[17] placed in Phooebus' car +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;[18] +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves or lose his pension.[19] + But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art, +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature.[20] +The greater for the smaller watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs; +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit: +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + The vermin only teaze and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch. +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Has smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet, in his kind, +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can teaze, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors outsung us: +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country, like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place: +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allow'd them food. + Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard's[22] time, +How few have reach'd the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied: +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet[24] of the "Hollow Tree." +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown: +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a common weal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to descend. + In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though, in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite: +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance: when you rashly think, +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The Laureate leaves him far behind. +Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard, +Soars downward deeper by a yard. +Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops: +With heads to point the gulf they enter, +Link'd perpendicular to the centre; +And as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + O, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muses' name! +By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + Perhaps you say, Augustus shines, +Immortal made in Virgil's lines, +And Horace brought the tuneful quire, +To sing his virtues on the lyre; +Without reproach for flattery, true, +Because their praises were his due. +For in those ages kings, we find, +Were animals of human kind. +But now, go search all _Europe_ round +Among the _savage monsters_ ---- +With vice polluting every _throne_, +(I mean all thrones except our own;) +In vain you make the strictest view +To find a ---- in all the crew, +With whom a footman out of place +Would not conceive a high disgrace, +A burning shame, a crying sin, +To take his morning's cup of gin. + Thus all are destined to obey +Some beast of burthen or of prey. + 'Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man, +Through all the brutal species ran, +Each proper quality to find +Adapted to a human mind; +A mingled mass of good and bad, +The best and worst that could be had; +Then from a clay of mixture base +He shaped a ---- to rule the race, +Endow'd with gifts from every brute +That best the * * nature suit. +Thus think on ----s: the name denotes +Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats. +To represent in figure just, +Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust; +Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers, +What herds of ----s would turn to grazers! + Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive binds his hands, +Confess'd the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes,[28] Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes. +From him the Tartar and Chinese, +Short by the knees,[29] entreat for peace. +The consort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred, +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence, and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,[30] +(Late, very late, O may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown, +Then think, what wonders will be done +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood. +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive. +Now sing the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court: +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius,[31] by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director; +Of wit and learning chief protector, +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of the peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage. +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St. George beheld thee with delight, +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breast and sides Herculean, +He fix'd the star and string cerulean. + Say, poet, in what other nation +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Lewis all his bards bestow'd +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Lewis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in Heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share.[32] +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter-weight. +And reason good; for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. +_Caetera desiderantur_. + + +[Footnote 1: See Young's "Satires," and "Life" by +Johnson.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The prison or house of correction to which harlots were +often consigned. See Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress," and "A beautiful +young Nymph," _ante_, p. 201.--_W. R. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Colley Cibber, born in 1671, died in 1757; famous as a +comedian and dramatist, and immortalized by Pope as the hero of the +"Dunciad"; appointed Laureate in December, 1730, in succession to Eusden, +who died in September that year. See Cibber's "Apology for his Life"; +Disraeli's "Quarrels of Authors," edit. 1859.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Barnaby Bernard Lintot, publisher and bookseller, noted for +adorning his shop with titles in red letters. In the Prologue to the +"Satires" Pope says: "What though my name stood rubric on the walls"; and +in the "Dunciad," book i, "Lintot's rubric post." He made a handsome +fortune, and died High Sheriff of Sussex in 1736, aged +sixty-one.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: The coffee-house most frequented by the wits and poets of +that time.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See _ante_, p. 192, "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher +Poet."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: Allusion to the large sums paid by Walpole to scribblers in +support of his party.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: + "Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur + Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus Vmbris: + Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto; + Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes." + VIRG., _Aen._, vi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: See the "South Sea Project," _ante_, p. 120.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: Thomas Rymer, archaeologist and critic. The allusion is to +his "Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age," on which see Johnson's +"Life of Dryden" and Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 173. Rymer is best known by +his work entitled "Foedera," consisting of leagues, treaties, etc., made +between England and other kingdoms.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 11: John Dennis, born 1657, died 1734. He is best remembered as +"The Critic." See Swift's "Thoughts on various subjects," "Prose Works," +i, 284; Disraeli, "Calamities of Authors: Influence of a bad Temper in +Criticism"; Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, +_passim._--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 12: Highly esteemed as a French critic by Dryden and +Pope.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 13: By Leonard Welsted, who, in 1712, published the work of +"Longinus on the Sublime," stated to be "translated from the Greek." He +is better known through his quarrel with Pope. See the "Prologue to the +Satires."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 14: Dryden, whose armed chair at Will's was in the winter +placed by the fire, and in the summer in the balcony. Malone's "Life of +Dryden," p. 485. Why Battus? Battus was a herdsman who, because he +Betrayed Mercury's theft of some cattle, was changed by the god into a +Stone Index. Ovid, "Metam.," ii, 685.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 15: The ancient name of London, also called Troynovant. See +Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 249; and Cunningham's "Handbook of +London," introduction.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 16: The two bad Roman poets, hateful and inimical to Virgil and +Horace: Virg., "Ecl." iii, 90; Horat., "Epod." x. The names have been +well applied in our time by Gifford in his satire entitled "The Baviad +and Maeviad."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 17: A musician, also a censurer of Horace. See "Satirae," lib. +1. iii, 4.--_--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 18: In consequence of "Polly," the supplement to the "Beggar's +Opera," but which obtained him the friendship of the Duke and Duchess of +Queensberry.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 19: The grant of two hundred a year, which he obtained from the +Crown, and retained till his death in 1765.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 20: See "Leviathan," Part I, chap, xiii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 21: Richard Flecknoe, poet and dramatist, died 1678, of whom it +has been written that "whatever may become of his own pieces, his name +will continue, whilst Dryden's satire, called 'Mac Flecknoe,' shall +remain in vogue." Dryden's Poetical Works, edit. Warton, ii, +169.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 22: Hon. Edward Howard, author of some indifferent plays and +poems. See "Dict. Nat. Biog."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 23: Richard Blackmore, physician and very voluminous writer in +prose and verse. In 1697 he was appointed physician to William III, when +he was knighted. See Pope, "Imitations of Horace," book ii, epist. 1, +387.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by +his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow +Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's +malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works, +edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of +miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299, +304, _ut supra.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate +assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto, +Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 27: + "Fertur Prometheus, addere principi + Limo coactus particulam undique + Desectam, et insani leonis + Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro." + HORAT., _Carm._ I, xvi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 28: + "---- super et Garamantas et Indos, + Proferet imperium; ---- + ---- jam nunc et Caspia regna + Responsis horrent divom." + Virg., _Aen._, vi.] + +[Footnote 29: + "---- genibus minor."] + +[Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of +Wales, father of George III.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 31: + "Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem." + Virg., _Aen._, vi, 847.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."] + + + + +VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND. +BY DR. J. SICAN[1] + + +(Horace speaking.) + +You've read, sir, in poetic strain, +How Varus and the Mantuan swain +Have on my birth-day been invited, +(But I was forced in verse to write it,) +Upon a plain repast to dine, +And taste my old Campanian wine; +But I, who all punctilios hate, +Though long familiar with the great, +Nor glory in my reputation, +Am come without an invitation; +And, though I'm used to right Falernian, +I'll deign for once to taste Iërnian; +But fearing that you might dispute +(Had I put on my common suit) +My breeding and my politesse, +I visit in my birth-day dress: +My coat of purest Turkey red, +With gold embroidery richly spread; +To which I've sure as good pretensions, +As Irish lords who starve on pensions. +What though proud ministers of state +Did at your antichamber wait; +What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns, +Have at your levee paid attendance, +And Peterborough and great Ormond, +With many chiefs who now are dormant, +Have laid aside the general's staff, +And public cares, with you to laugh; +Yet I some friends as good can name, +Nor less the darling sons of fame; +For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas +Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as +Either your Bolingbroke or Harley, +Though they made Lewis beg a parley; +And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero, +I'll match him with my Drusus Nero. +You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope; +But Virgil is as good, I hope. +I own indeed I can't get any +To equal Helsham and Delany; +Since Athens brought forth Socrates, +A Grecian isle, Hippocrates; +Since Tully lived before my time, +And Galen bless'd another clime. + You'll plead, perhaps, at my request, +To be admitted as a guest, +"Your hearing's bad!"--But why such fears? +I speak to eyes, and not to ears; +And for that reason wisely took +The form you see me in, a book. +Attack'd by slow devouring moths, +By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths; +By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, +By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose; +I found my boasted wit and fire +In their rude hands almost expire: +Yet still they but in vain assail'd; +For, had their violence prevail'd, +And in a blast destroy'd my frame, +They would have partly miss'd their aim; +Since all my spirit in thy page +Defies the Vandals of this age. +'Tis yours to save these small remains +From future pedant's muddy brains, +And fix my long uncertain fate, +You best know how--"which way?"--TRANSLATE. + + +[Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in +Italy.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, _ante_, +p. 48.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and +Horace.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace, +done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with +the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by +the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote: + "O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain, + And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain." +_Dict. Nat. Biog.--W. E. B._] + + + + +EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER +INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733 + +"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, +How vice and folly have debased mankind; +Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; +Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: +While bold and free the glowing colours strike; +Blame not the picture, if the picture's like." + + + + +ON PSYCHE[1] + +At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, +Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: +So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; +Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? +Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, +Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. +She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; +But ever with prudence takes care of the main. +To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; +For her taste is almost as refined as her wit. +To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, +It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. +Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, +She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears. + + +[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of +the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and +Stella.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE DEAN AND DUKE +1734 + + +James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; +James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: +But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke, +For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke. +Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks, +Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2] +His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain +With bands of fiddlers to extend his train. +Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel, +The duke and dean seem near upon a level. +O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, +From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free. +A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown: +Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown. +Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king: +O! would his majesty but add a string! + + +[Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and +built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in +his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the +building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers' +edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second +Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house +he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance +hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his _Canonical_ +pillars.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure +of his speculative investments.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.--_N_.] + + + + +WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734 + + +Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; +Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, +Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, +Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures. + + +THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED + +DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. +ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. +DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. +ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. + Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, + You may have company enough. +DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, + Than if it rang out for my knell. +ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. +DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, + Than at the rumbling of a cart. +ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f--t. +DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! + No more I hear a woman's clack. +ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, + Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; + But louder than a bell, or thunder: + That does, I own, increase my wonder. + + + + +THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING + +On rainy days alone I dine +Upon a chick and pint of wine. +On rainy days I dine alone, +And pick my chicken to the bone; +But this my servants much enrages, +No scraps remain to save board-wages. +In weather fine I nothing spend, +But often spunge upon a friend; +Yet, where he's not so rich as I, +I pay my club, and so good b'ye. + + + + +EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + +"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" + + +Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, + Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. +Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: + Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. +Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; + Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem. + + + + +VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN + +APPLES + +Come buy my fine wares, +Plums, apples, and pears. +A hundred a penny, +In conscience too many: +Come, will you have any? +My children are seven, +I wish them in Heaven; +My husband a sot, +With his pipe and his pot, +Not a farthing will gain them, +And I must maintain them. + + + +ASPARAGUS + + Ripe 'sparagrass + Fit for lad or lass, +To make their water pass: + O, 'tis pretty picking + With a tender chicken! + + + +ONIONS + + + Come, follow me by the smell, + Here are delicate onions to sell; + I promise to use you well. + They make the blood warmer, + You'll feed like a farmer; +For this is every cook's opinion, +No savoury dish without an onion; +But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, +Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: + Or else you may spare + Your mistress a share, +The secret will never be known: + She cannot discover + The breath of her lover, +But think it as sweet as her own. + + + +OYSTERS + + Charming oysters I cry: + My masters, come buy, + So plump and so fresh, + So sweet is their flesh, + No Colchester oyster + Is sweeter and moister: + Your stomach they settle, + And rouse up your mettle: + They'll make you a dad + Of a lass or a lad; + And madam your wife + They'll please to the life; + Be she barren, be she old, + Be she slut, or be she scold, +Eat my oysters, and lie near her, +She'll be fruitful, never fear her. + + + +HERRINGS + + Be not sparing, + Leave off swearing. + Buy my herring +Fresh from Malahide,[1] +Better never was tried. +Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, +Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. +Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, +Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. + +[Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for +oysters.--_F_.] + + + +ORANGES + +Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, +And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; +Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup, +They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. + + + + +ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL + +INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1] + +Happiest of the spaniel race, +Painter, with thy colours grace: +Draw his forehead large and high, +Draw his blue and humid eye; +Draw his neck so smooth and round, +Little neck with ribbons bound! +And the muscly swelling breast, +Where the Loves and Graces rest; +And the spreading even back, +Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; +And the tail that gently twines, +Like the tendrils of the vines; +And the silky twisted hair, +Shadowing thick the velvet ear; +Velvet ears, which, hanging low, +O'er the veiny temples flow. + With a proper light and shade, +Let the winding hoop be laid; +And within that arching bower, +(Secret circle, mystic power,) +In a downy slumber place +Happiest of the spaniel race; +While the soft respiring dame, +Glowing with the softest flame, +On the ravish'd favourite pours +Balmy dews, ambrosial showers. + With thy utmost skill express +Nature in her richest dress, +Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, +Orchards by those rivers blowing; +Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, +And the gay enamell'd mead; +Where the linnets sit and sing, +Little sportlings of the spring; +Where the breathing field and grove +Soothe the heart and kindle love. +Here for me, and for the Muse, +Colours of resemblance choose, +Make of lineaments divine, +Daply female spaniels shine, +Pretty fondlings of the fair, +Gentle damsels' gentle care; +But to one alone impart +All the flattery of thy art. +Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, +Which complete the desperate face; +Let the spotted wanton dame +Feel a new resistless flame! +Let the happiest of his race +Win the fair to his embrace. +But in shade the rest conceal, +Nor to sight their joys reveal, +Lest the pencil and the Muse +Loose desires and thoughts infuse. + + +[Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret, +daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop +Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one +Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of +Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS + +SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726 + + +I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN + +We fly from luxury and wealth, +To hardships, in pursuit of health; +From generous wines, and costly fare, +And dozing in an easy-chair; +Pursue the goddess Health in vain, +To find her in a country scene, +And every where her footsteps trace, +And see her marks in every face; +And still her favourites we meet, +Crowding the roads with naked feet. +But, oh! so faintly we pursue, +We ne'er can have her full in view. + + +II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND + +The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, + Dims and obscures our sight; +So, when our passions Love has stirr'd, + It darkens Reason's light. + + +III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES +IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, WARWICKSHIRE + +Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, +Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four. + + +IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + +The church and clergy here, no doubt, + Are very near a-kin; +Both weather-beaten are without, + And empty both within. + + +V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + +My landlord is civil, +But dear as the d--l: +Your pockets grow empty +With nothing to tempt ye; +The wine is so sour, +'Twill give you a scour, +The beer and the ale +Are mingled with stale. +The veal is such carrion, +A dog would be weary on. +All this I have felt, +For I live on a smelt. + + +VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + + The walls of this town + Are full of renown, +And strangers delight to walk round 'em: + But as for the dwellers, + Both buyers and sellers, +For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em. + + +VII. ANOTHER +WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE + +Thanks to my stars, I once can see +A window here from scribbling free! +Here no conceited coxcombs pass, +To scratch their paltry drabs on glass; +Nor party fool is calling names, +Or dealing crowns to George and James. + + +VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS + +The sage, who said he should be proud + Of windows in his breast,[1] +Because he ne'er a thought allow'd + That might not be confest; +His window scrawl'd by every rake, + His breast again would cover, +And fairly bid the devil take + The diamond and the lover. + +[Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii, +497.--_W. E. B._] + + +IX. ANOTHER + +By Satan taught, all conjurors know +Your mistress in a glass to show, +And you can do as much: +In this the devil and you agree; +None e'er made verses worse than he, + And thine, I swear, are such. + + +X. ANOTHER + +That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; + Those rhymers abundantly show it: +They swear that they all by love are inspired, + And the devil's a damnable poet. + + +XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1] + +O Neptune! Neptune! must I still +Be here detain'd against my will? +Is this your justice, when I'm come +Above two hundred miles from home; +O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains, +Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains, +Only your godship to implore, +To let me kiss your other shore? +A boon so small! but I may weep, +While you're like Baal, fast asleep. + +[Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's +enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's +Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works," +vol. xi.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 + +Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! +Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; +To oblige your crony Swift, +Bring our dame a new year's gift; +She has got but half a face; +Janus, since thou hast a brace, +To my lady once be kind; +Give her half thy face behind. + God of Time, if you be wise, +Look not with your future eyes; +What imports thy forward sight? +Well, if you could lose it quite. +Can you take delight in viewing +This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin, +When thy retrospection vast +Sees the glorious ages past? +Happy nation, were we blind, +Or had only eyes behind! + Drown your morals, madam cries, +I'll have none but forward eyes; +Prudes decay'd about may tack, +Strain their necks with looking back. +Give me time when coming on; +Who regards him when he's gone? +By the Dean though gravely told, +New-years help to make me old; +Yet I find a new-year's lace +Burnishes an old-year's face. +Give me velvet and quadrille, +I'll have youth and beauty still. + +[Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis +Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores +Instituunt."--HOR., _Sat_., ii, vi, 20.] + +[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_H_.] + + + + +A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD + +WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE + +Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, +From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece; +We comb the wool, refine the stuff, +For modern Jasons, that's enough. +Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1] +Old Jason would have less to brag on. + +[Footnote 1: England.--_H_.] + + +TO A FRIEND +WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS + +The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night +And fortune help the murderer in his flight; +The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, +Yet safe from injured innocence escape; +And calumny, by working under ground, +Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. + What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose +To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? +By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road, +Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd? +Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, +And buy distinction at the dearest rate. + +[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 160, the poem entitled "On +Censure."--_W. E. B._.] + + + + +CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] + +Lesbia for ever on me rails, +To talk of me she never fails. +Now, hang me, but for all her art, +I find that I have gain'd her heart. +My proof is this: I plainly see, +The case is just the same with me; +I curse her every hour sincerely, +Yet, hang me but I love her dearly. + + +[Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam +De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. +Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam +Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo." + _Catulli Carmina, xcii.--W. E. B._] + + + + +ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY + +I marched three miles through scorching sand, +With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; +I rode four more to Great St. Mary, +Using four legs, when two were weary: +To three fair virgins I did tie men, +In the close bands of pleasing Hymen; +I dipp'd two babes in holy water, +And purified their mother after. +Within an hour and eke a half, +I preach'd three congregations deaf; +Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded, +I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded. +My emblem, the laborious sun, +Saw all these mighty labours done +Before one race of his was run. +All this perform'd by Robert Hewit: +What mortal else could e'er go through it! + + + + +TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE + +Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, +Never may the Muse forget ye, +How thy face charms every shepherd, +Spotted over like a leopard! +And thy freckled neck, display'd, +Envy breeds in every maid; +Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, +Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; +Or a tawny speckled pippin, +Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping. + And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, +Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd. + Sets of phrases, cut and dry, +Evermore thy tongue supply; +And thy memory is loaded +With old scraps from plays exploded; +Stock'd with repartees and jokes, +Suited to all Christian folks: +Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, +Blunder'd out a thousand times; +Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, +Which can ne'er be worse for wearing. +Picking wit among collegians, +In the playhouse upper regions; +Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, +Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery. +But thy merit is thy failing, +And thy raillery is railing. + Thus with talents well endued +To be scurrilous and rude; +When you pertly raise your snout, +Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; +This among Hibernian asses +For sheer wit and humour passes. +Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, +Swears you have a world of wit. + + + +EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] + +Who can believe with common sense, +A bacon slice gives God offence; +Or, how a herring has a charm +Almighty vengeance to disarm? +Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, +Does he regard on what we dine? + + +[Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, +called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved +him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which +are translated above: + "Peut-on croire avec bon sens + Qu'un lardon le mil en colère, + Ou, que manger un hareng, + C'est un secret pour lui plaire? + En sa gloire envelopé, + Songe-t-il bien de nos soupés?"--_H_.] + + + +EPIGRAM[1] + +As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, +He took to the street, and fled for his life: +Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, +And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; +Then ventured to give him some sober advice-- +But Tom is a person of honour so nice, +Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, +That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. +Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; +Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. + +[Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by +Stella.--_Forster_.] + + + +EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] + +When Margery chastises Ned, +She calls it combing of his head; +A kinder wife was never born: +She combs his head, and finds him horn. + +[Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's +volume.--_Forster._] + + + +JOAN CUDGELS NED + +Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; +Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. +Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, +She dares not say her life's her own. +Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, +And every day she combs his head. + + + +VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS + +Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise +With lofty branches to the skies, +Have large proportion'd roots that grow +With equal longitude below: +Two bards that now in fashion reign, +Most aptly this device explain: +If this to clouds and stars will venture, +That creeps as far to reach the centre; +Or, more to show the thing I mean, +Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen +A skill'd mechanic, that has stood +High on a length of prostrate wood, +Who hired a subterraneous friend +To take his iron by the end; +But which excell'd was never found, +The man above or under ground. + The moral is so plain to hit, +That, had I been the god of wit, +Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, +Should Young and Philips drudge together. + + + +EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + +Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. +Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; +For Dick without Doll thought living a folly. + +Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: +But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; +A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear. + +Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; +Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; +The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most. + +Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried: +To live without both full three days he tried; +But liked neither loss, and so quietly died. + +Dick left a pattern few will copy after: +Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; +For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter. +Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; +The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; +And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate. + +Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, +Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, +And here rest----_sic transit gloria mundi_! + + +[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.--_F._] + +[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married +to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived +her but two days.--_F_. + The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in +his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy +Stopford's Chair." See _ante_, p.85.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest +daughter.--_F._] + + + + +VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT + +My latest tribute here I send, +With this let your collection end. +Thus I consign you down to fame +A character to praise or blame: +And if the whole may pass for true, +Contented rest, you have your due. +Give future time the satisfaction, +To leave one handle for detraction. + + + + +DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY + +Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, +That you, who know music no more than an ass, +That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, +Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? +To act such an opera once in a year, +So offensive to every true Protestant ear, +With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, +Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, +No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, +Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: +How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, +To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets! + +[The rest is wanting.] + + + + +AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION + +The furniture that best doth please +St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: +The knife and fork with which I eat; +And next the pot that boils the meat; +The next to be preferr'd, I think, +Is the glass in which I drink; +The shelves on which my books I keep +And the bed on which I sleep; +An antique elbow-chair between, +Big enough to hold the Dean; +And the stove that gives delight +In the cold bleak wintry night: +To these we add a thing below, +More for use reserved than show: +These are what the Dean do please; +All superfluous are but these. + + + + +EPITAPH +INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + +H. S. E. + +[*text centered] +CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, +Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE, +Et BRUCE, è nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques, +Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis +Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus; +Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus. +Siquidem a GULIELMO III° ad ordines foederati Belgii +Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius +Rebus, non Britanniae tantùm, sed totius fere Europae +(Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit, +Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata, +Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre, +In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit. +Fuit à sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae +E proregibus Hiberniae secundus, +Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens, +Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus +Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus +Forestae de Dean. +Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem +Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset, +Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias +Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo. +Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera, +Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius +Quòd veritatem evangelicam seriò amplexus; +Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus, +Adversùs omnes aequus et benevolus, +In Christo jam placidè obdormit +Cum eodem olim regnaturus unà . +Natus VIII° April. MDCXLIX. denatus +XXIV° Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII. + + + + +EPITAPH + +ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1] + +[*text centered] +Hic infra situm est corpus +FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. +ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690. +DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam +atque etiam petierunt, +UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum +In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent: +Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos, +diu ac saepè orando nil profecêre; +Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt, +Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes, +Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres +delitescunt +"Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos, +Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos." +A.D. 1731. + +[Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne, +July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and +chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own +expense.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph +were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellulâ tanti +ductoris cineres delitescunt."--_N._] + + + + +VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND + + +As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals +against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from +his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to +himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier +Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the +Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High +Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The +task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of +Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was +equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux +esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of +a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. +These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here +thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.--_Scott._ + + + +AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET + + +A lady, wise as well as fair, +Whose conscience always was her care, +Thoughtful upon a point of moment, +Would have the text as well as comment: +So hearing of a grave divine, +She sent to bid him come to dine. +But, you must know he was not quite +So grave as to be unpolite: +Thought human learning would not lessen +The dignity of his profession: +And if you'd heard the man discourse, +Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. +He long had bid the court farewell, +Retreating silent to his cell; +Suspected for the love he bore +To one who sway'd some time before; +Which made it more surprising how +He should be sent for thither now. + The message told, he gapes, and stares, +And scarce believes his eyes or ears: +Could not conceive what it should mean, +And fain would hear it told again. +But then the squire so trim and nice, +'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; +So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; +And would not fail to wait upon her. +His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, +Away he trudges into town; +Passes the lower castle yard, +And now advancing to the guard, +He trembles at the thoughts of state; +For, conscious of his sheepish gait, +His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; +He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. + What was the message I received? +Why certainly the captain raved? +To dine with her! and come at three! +Impossible! it can't be me. +Or maybe I mistook the word; +My lady--it must be my lord. + My lord 's abroad; my lady too: +What must the unhappy doctor do? +"Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"--"No." +"Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." +Am I awake, or do I dream? +I'm sure he call'd me by my name; +Named me as plain as he could speak; +And yet there must be some mistake. +Why, what a jest should I have been, +Had now my lady been within! +What could I've said? I'm mighty glad +She went abroad--she'd thought me mad. +The hour of dining now is past: +Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: +And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff, +I think I'm very fairly off. +My lady now returning home, +Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" +He had not heard of him--"Pray see, +'Tis now a quarter after three." +The captain walks about, and searches +Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; +Examines all the servants round, +In vain--no doctor's to be found. +My lady could not choose but wonder; +"Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; +But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; +I'll try his manners once again; +If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, +My son shall never see a college." + The captain was a man of reading, +And much good sense, as well as breeding; +Who, loath to blame, or to incense, +Said little in his own defence. +Next day another message brought; +The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, +Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, +Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, +Panting--and faltering--humm'd and ha'd, +"Her ladyship was gone abroad: +The captain too--he did not know +Whether he ought to stay or go;" +Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, +My lady, pitying his confusion, +Call'd her good nature to relieve him; +Told him, she thought she might believe him; +And would not only grant his suit, +But visit him, and eat some fruit, +Provided, at a proper time, +He told the real truth in rhyme; +'Twas to no purpose to oppose, +She'd hear of no excuse in prose. +The Doctor stood not to debate, +Glad to compound at any rate; +So, bowing, seemingly complied; +Though, if he durst, he had denied. +But first, resolved to show his taste, +Was too refined to give a feast; +He'd treat with nothing that was rare, +But winding walks and purer air; +Would entertain without expense, +Or pride or vain magnificence: +For well he knew, to such a guest +The plainest meals must be the best. +To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare +Simplicity alone is rare; +While high, and nice, and curious meats +Are really but vulgar treats. +Instead of spoils of Persian looms, +The costly boast of regal rooms, +Thought it more courtly and discreet +To scatter roses at her feet; +Roses of richest dye, that shone +With native lustre, like her own; +Beauty that needs no aid of art +Through every sense to reach the heart. +The gracious dame, though well she knew +All this was much beneath her due, +Liked everything--at least thought fit +To praise it _par manière d'acquit_. +Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear +The scorching sun, or chilling air; +Disturb'd alike at both extremes, +Whether he shows or hides his beams: +Though seeming pleased at all she sees, +Starts at the ruffling of the trees, +And scarce can speak for want of breath, +In half a walk fatigued to death. +The Doctor takes his hint from hence, +T' apologize his late offence: +"Madam, the mighty power of use +Now strangely pleads in my excuse; +If you unused have scarcely strength +To gain this walk's untoward length; +If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, +Through long disuse of solitude; +If, long confined to fires and screens, +You dread the waving of these greens; +If you, who long have breathed the fumes +Of city fogs and crowded rooms, +Do now solicitously shun +The cooler air and dazzling sun; +If his majestic eye you flee, +Learn hence t' excuse and pity me. +Consider what it is to bear +The powder'd courtier's witty sneer; +To see th' important man of dress +Scoffing my college awkwardness; +To be the strutting cornet's sport, +To run the gauntlet of the court, +Winning my way by slow approaches, +Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches, +From the first fierce cockaded sentry, +Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry; +To pass so many crowded stages, +And stand the staring of your pages: +And after all, to crown my spleen, +Be told--'You are not to be seen:' +Or, if you are, be forced to bear +The awe of your majestic air. +And can I then be faulty found, +In dreading this vexatious round? +Can it be strange, if I eschew +A scene so glorious and so new? +Or is he criminal that flies +The living lustre of your eyes?" + + +[Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.--_Scott._] + + + + +THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE + +INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1] +1724 + +Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.--VIRG., _Aen._, v, 344. + +Once on a time, a righteous sage, +Grieved with the vices of the age, +Applied to Jove with fervent prayer-- +"O Jove, if Virtue be so fair +As it was deem'd in former days, +By Plato and by Socrates, +Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, +Only for want of outward shape; +Make then its real excellence, +For once the theme of human sense; +So shall the eye, by form confined, +Direct and fix the wandering mind, +And long-deluded mortals see, +With rapture, what they used to flee!" + Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, +And bids him bless and mend the earth. +Behold him blooming fresh and fair, +Now made--ye gods--a son and heir; +An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, +An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2] +But prodigies are wrought to prove +Nothing impossible to Jove. + Virtue was for this sex design'd, +In mild reproof to womankind; +In manly form to let them see +The loveliness of modesty, +The thousand decencies that shone +With lessen'd lustre in their own; +Which few had learn'd enough to prize, +And some thought modish to despise. + To make his merit more discern'd, +He goes to school--he reads--is learn'd; +Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, +He shines distinguish'd in a college; +Resolved nor honour, nor estate, +Himself alone should make him great. +Here soon for every art renown'd, +His influence is diffused around; +The inferior youth to learning led, +Less to be famed than to be fed, +Behold the glory he has won, +And blush to see themselves outdone; +And now, inflamed with rival rage, +In scientific strife engage, +Engage; and, in the glorious strife +The arts new kindle into life. + Here would our hero ever dwell, +Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: +Contented to be truly great, +In Virtue's best beloved retreat; +Contented he--but Fate ordains, +He now shall shine in nobler scenes, +Raised high, like some celestial fire, +To shine the more, still rising higher; +Completely form'd in every part, +To win the soul, and glad the heart. +The powerful voice, the graceful mien, +Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; +The outward form and inward vie, +His soul bright beaming from his eye, +Ennobling every act and air, +With just, and generous, and sincere. + Accomplish'd thus, his next resort +Is to the council and the court, +Where Virtue is in least repute, +And interest the one pursuit; +Where right and wrong are bought and sold, +Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; +Here Manly Virtue, even here, +Pleased in the person of a peer, +A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, +Who talk'd of justice and of truth, +Of innocence the surest guard, +Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; +That he alone deserved esteem, +Who was the man he wish'd to seem; +Call'd it unmanly and unwise, +To lurk behind a mean disguise; +(Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, +'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) +Call'd want of shame a want of sense, +And found, in blushes, eloquence. + Thus acting what he taught so well, +He drew dumb merit from her cell, +Led with amazing art along +The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; +And, while he made her value known, +Yet more display'd and raised his own. + Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, +He rises to the highest stations; +For where high honour is the prize, +True Virtue has a right to rise: +Let courtly slaves low bend the knee +To Wealth and Vice in high degree: +Exalted Worth disdains to owe +Its grandeur to its greatest foe. + Now raised on high, see Virtue shows +The godlike ends for which he rose; +For him, let proud Ambition know +The height of glory here below, +Grandeur, by goodness made complete! +To bless, is truly to be great! +He taught how men to honour rise, +Like gilded vapours to the skies, +Which, howsoever they display +Their glory from the god of day, +Their noblest use is to abate +His dangerous excess of heat, +To shield the infant fruits and flowers, +And bless the earth with genial showers. + Now change the scene; a nobler care +Demands him in a higher sphere:[3] +Distress of nations calls him hence, +Permitted so by Providence; +For models, made to mend our kind, +To no one clime should be confined; +And Manly Virtue, like the sun, +His course of glorious toils should run: +Alike diffusing in his flight +Congenial joy, and life, and light. +Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, +And Discord in his presence dies; +Oppression hides with guilty dread, +And Merit rears her drooping head; +The arts revive, the valleys sing, +And winter softens into spring: +The wondering world, where'er he moves, +With new delight looks up, and loves; +One sex consenting to admire, +Nor less the other to desire; +While he, though seated on a throne, +Confines his love to one alone; +The rest condemn'd with rival voice +Repining, do applaud his choice. + Fame now reports, the Western isle +Is made his mansion for a while, +Whose anxious natives, night and day, +(Happy beneath his righteous sway,) +Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer, +To bless him, and to keep him there; +And claim it as a debt from Fate, +Too lately found, to lose him late. + + +[Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works," +vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of +Lord Chesterfield."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord +Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of +age.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, +with Denmark, and with the Czar.--_H._] + + + + +ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729 + +As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, +Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, +Above the door, at country fair, +Betokens entertainment there; +So bays on poets' brows have been +Set, for a sign of wit within. +And as ill neighbours in the night +Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; +The laurel so, by poets worn, +Is by the teeth of Envy torn; +Envy, a canker-worm, which tears +Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. + And now, t'exemplify this moral: +Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, +(Which, measured on his head, was found +Not long enough to reach half round, +But, like a girl's cockade, was tied, +A trophy, on his temple-side,) +Paddy repined to see him wear +This badge of honour in his hair; +And, thinking this cockade of wit +Would his own temples better fit, +Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, +Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, +Pelts him by turns with verse and prose +Hums like a hornet at his nose. +At length presumes to vent his satire on +The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron. +The eagle in the tale, ye know, +Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, +Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest +Securely in the thunderer's breast: +In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, +The spiteful insect stung the god. + + +[Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, +Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems +To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even +from Delany. Hence this poem.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET +BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1] + + Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, + Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat. +MART., _Epig._, lib. ix, 22. + +Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, +Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; +When next your generous soul shall condescend +T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; +Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, +On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; +Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, +How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: +Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, +Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; +When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, +Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine: +Nor with less praise the conversation guide, +Than in the public councils you decide: +Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, +Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; +You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) +With soft concessions shortening the dispute; +Then close with kind inquiries of my state, +"How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? +Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, +There are not many better in the nation! +This, with your other things, must yield you clear +Some six--at least five hundred pounds a-year." + Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom +To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; +You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, +And, if you please, my lady shall decide. + "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, +And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; +But you'll forgive me, if I own the event +Is short, is very short, of your intent: +At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, +My income less, and my expenses more." + "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector! +A dignitary! with a city lecture! +What glebes--what dues--what tithes--what fines--what rent! +Why, doctor!--will you never be content?" +"Would my good Lord but cast up the account, +And see to what my revenues amount;[2] +My titles ample; but my gain so small, +That one good vicarage is worth them all: +And very wretched, sure, is he that's double +In nothing but his titles and his trouble. +And to this crying grievance, if you please, +My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; +Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, +Where every step endangers every bone; +And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, +Two churches--twelve Hibernian miles asunder: +With complicated cures, I labour hard in, +Beside whole summers absent from--my garden! +But that the world would think I play'd the fool, +I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3] +What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, +Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake! +There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, +Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4] +There's not a better steerer in the realm; +I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."-- + "Doctor--a glorious scheme to ease your grief! +When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief. +You cannot fail of being happy there, +The lake will be the Lethe of your care: +The scheme is for your honour and your ease: +And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please. +Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, +Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; +Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, +And you've enough to gratify them all: +You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: +And what would a philosopher have more? +You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks--" + "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books-- +Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, +Are there no wants I should regard beside? +Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, +Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? +Who can be happy--who should wish to live, +And want the godlike happiness to give? +That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: +I had it once--and I'm debarr'd it now. +Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, +Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!" + "'Tis true--but, doctor, let us wave all that-- +Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?" + "Excuse me, good my lord--I won't be sounded, +Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. +My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, +Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. +Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, +(Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)-- +My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe-- +I'd wish besides--to build and to bestow." + + +[Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through +the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of +Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship +of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of +which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the +Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge +was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory +divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation +in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following +verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who +thought he was too amply provided for.--_Scott._ See the "Vindication," +"Prose Works," vii, p. 244.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication +of Lord Carteret," amounted only to £300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, +p. 245.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, +Esq.--_Scott._] + +[Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of +Erin.--_F._] + +[Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man +should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the +incumbent.--_H._] + + + + +AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE + +FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. +BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY + + +As Jove will not attend on less, +When things of more importance press: +You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, +That you, a low Hibernian bard, +Should cool your heels a while, and wait +Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; +And would my lord vouchsafe to grant +This one poor humble boon I want, +Free leave to play his secretary, +As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] +I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, +Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." +And, after several readings over, +It shines most in the marble cover. + How could so fine a taste dispense +With mean degrees of wit and sense? +Nor will my lord so far beguile +The wise and learned of our isle; +To make it pass upon the nation, +By dint of his sole approbation. +The task is arduous, patrons find, +To warp the sense of all mankind: +Who think your Muse must first aspire, +Ere he advance the doctor higher. + You've cause to say he meant you well: +That you are thankful, who can tell? +For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) +Of his intent: you mean your merit. + Ah! _quanto rectius, tu adepte, +Qui nil moliris tarn inepte_?[2] +Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, +"When thou thy humble lay dost offer +To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, +Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: +Content with what his bounty gave, +No larger income dost thou crave." + But you must have cascades, and all +Iërne's lake, for your canal, +Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on +All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] +It's pity that he can't bestow you +Twelve commoners in caps to row you. +Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] +Held monarchs labouring at the oar; +And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, +Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. + How different is this from Smedley! +(His name is up, he may in bed lie) +"Who only asks some pretty cure, +In wholesome soil and ether pure: +The garden stored with artless flowers, +In either angle shady bowers: +No gay parterre with costly green +Must in the ambient hedge be seen; +But Nature freely takes her course, +Nor fears from him ungrateful force: +No shears to check her sprouting vigour, +Or shape the yews to antic figure." + But you, forsooth, your all must squander +On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; +And when you've been at vast expenses +In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, +Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; +Nor farther buildings, farther planting: +No wonder, when you raise and level, +Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. +Here a convenient box you found, +Which you demolish'd to the ground: +Then built, then took up with your arbour, +And set the house to Rupert Barber. +You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy +Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. +You change a circle to a square, +Then to a circle as you were: +Who can imagine whence the fund is, +That you _quadrata_ change _rotundis_? + To Fame a temple you erect, +A Flora does the dome protect; +Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow +You place the Muses and Apollo; +There shining 'midst his train, to grace +Your whimsical poetic place. + These stories were of old design'd +As fables: but you have refined +The poets mythologic dreams, +To real Muses, gods, and streams. +Who would not swear, when you contrive thus, +That you're Don Quixote redivivus? +Beneath, a dry canal there lies, +Which only Winter's rain supplies. +O! couldst thou, by some magic spell, +Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6] +Here may it reassume its stream, +And take a greater Patrick's name! + If your expenses rise so high; +What income can your wants supply? +Yet still you fancy you inherit +A fund of such superior merit, +That you can't fail of more provision, +All by my lady's kind decision. +For, the more livings you can fish up, +You think you'll sooner be a bishop: +That could not be my lord's intent, +Nor can it answer the event. +Most think what has been heap'd on you +To other sort of folk was due: +Rewards too great for your flim-flams, +Epistles, riddles, epigrams. + Though now your depth must not be sounded, +The time was, when you'd have compounded +For less than Charley Grattan's school! +Five hundred pound a-year's no fool! +Take this advice then from your friend, +To your ambition put an end, +Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe, +Before you build and you bestow. +Be modest, nor address your betters +With begging, vain, familiar letters. + A passage may be found,[7] I've heard, +In some old Greek or Latian bard, +Which says, "Would crows in silence eat +Their offals, or their better meat, +Their generous feeders not provoking +By loud and inharmonious croaking, +They might, unhurt by Envy's claws, +Live on, and stuff to boot their maws." + + +[Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth," Part I, Act ii, +Scene 4.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Adapted from Hor., "Epist. ad Pisones," 140.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: See the "Petition to the Duke of Grafton," _post_, +p. 345.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Alluding to Dr. Delany's ambitious choice of fixing in the +island of the Lake of Erin, where Sir Ralph Gore had a villa.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 5: When residing at Chester, he obliged eight of his tributary +princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. Hume's "History of England," +vol. i, p. 106.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 6: Which had suddenly dried up. See _post_, vol. ii, "Verses on +the sudden drying up of St. Patrick's Well, near Trinity College, +Dublin."--_W.E.B._] + +[Footnote 7: Hor., "Epist.," lib. I, xvii, 50. + "Sed tacitus pasci si corvus posset, haberet + Plus dapis, et rixae multo minus invidiaeque." +I append the original, for the sake of Swift's very free +rendering.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A LIBEL +ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET +1729 + + +Deluded mortals, whom the great +Choose for companions _tête-à -tête_; +Who at their dinners, _en famille_, +Get leave to sit whene'er you will; +Then boasting tell us where you dined, +And how his lordship was so kind; +How many pleasant things he spoke; +And how you laugh'd at every joke: +Swear he's a most facetious man; +That you and he are cup and can; +You travel with a heavy load, +And quite mistake preferment's road. + Suppose my lord and you alone; +Hint the least interest of your own, +His visage drops, he knits his brow, +He cannot talk of business now: +Or, mention but a vacant post, +He'll turn it off with "Name your toast:" +Nor could the nicest artist paint +A countenance with more constraint. + For, as their appetites to quench, +Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench; +So men of wit are but a kind +Of panders to a vicious mind +Who proper objects must provide +To gratify their lust of pride, +When, wearied with intrigues of state, +They find an idle hour to prate. +Then, shall you dare to ask a place, +You forfeit all your patron's grace, +And disappoint the sole design, +For which he summon'd you to dine. + Thus Congreve spent in writing plays, +And one poor office, half his days: +While Montague,[1] who claim'd the station +To be Mæcenas of the nation, +For poets open table kept, +But ne'er consider'd where they slept: +Himself as rich as fifty Jews, +Was easy, though they wanted shoes; +And crazy Congreve scarce could spare +A shilling to discharge his chair: +Till prudence taught him to appeal +From Pæan's fire to party zeal; +Not owing to his happy vein +The fortunes of his later scene, +Took proper principles to thrive: +And so might every dunce alive.[2] + Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ, +And flourish'd by imputed wit, +From perils of a hundred jails, +Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales. + Thus Gay, the hare with many friends, +Twice seven long years the court attends: +Who, under tales conveying truth, +To virtue form'd a princely youth:[3] +Who paid his courtship with the crowd, +As far as modest pride allow'd; +Rejects a servile usher's place, +And leaves St. James's in disgrace.[4] + Thus Addison, by lords carest, +Was left in foreign lands distrest; +Forgot at home, became for hire +A travelling tutor to a squire: +But wisely left the Muses' hill, +To business shaped the poet's quill, +Let all his barren laurels fade, +Took up himself the courtier's trade, +And, grown a minister of state, +Saw poets at his levee wait.[5] + Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind +Detesting all the statesman kind, +Contemning courts, at courts unseen, +Refused the visits of a queen. +A soul with every virtue fraught, +By sages, priests, or poets taught; +Whose filial piety excels +Whatever Grecian story tells;[6] +A genius for all stations fit, +Whose meanest talent is his wit: +His heart too great, though fortune little, +To lick a rascal statesman's spittle: +Appealing to the nation's taste, +Above the reach of want is placed: +By Homer dead was taught to thrive, +Which Homer never could alive; +And sits aloft on Pindus' head, +Despising slaves that cringe for bread. + True politicians only pay +For solid work, but not for play: +Nor ever choose to work with tools +Forged up in colleges and schools, +Consider how much more is due +To all their journeymen than you: +At table you can Horace quote; +They at a pinch can bribe a vote: +You show your skill in Grecian story; +But they can manage Whig and Tory; +You, as a critic, are so curious +To find a verse in Virgil spurious; +But they can smoke the deep designs, +When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines. + Besides, your patron may upbraid ye, +That you have got a place already; +An office for your talents fit, +To flatter, carve, and show your wit; +To snuff the lights and stir the fire, +And get a dinner for your hire. +What claim have you to place or pension? +He overpays in condescension. + But, reverend doctor, you we know +Could never condescend so low; +The viceroy, whom you now attend, +Would, if he durst, be more your friend; +Nor will in you those gifts despise, +By which himself was taught to rise: +When he has virtue to retire, +He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, +And place you in a better station, +Although it might have pleased the nation. + This may be true--submitting still +To Walpole's more than royal will; +And what condition can be worse? +He comes to drain a beggar's purse; +He comes to tie our chains on faster, +And show us England is our master: +Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing, +To make them work their own undoing. +What has he else to bait his traps, +Or bring his vermin in, but scraps? +The offals of a church distrest; +A hungry vicarage at best; +Or some remote inferior post, +With forty pounds a-year at most? + But here again you interpose-- +Your favourite lord is none of those +Who owe their virtues to their stations, +And characters to dedications: +For, keep him in, or turn him out, +His learning none will call in doubt; +His learning, though a poet said it +Before a play, would lose no credit; +Nor Pope would dare deny him wit, +Although to praise it Philips writ. +I own he hates an action base, +His virtues battling with his place: +Nor wants a nice discerning spirit +Betwixt a true and spurious merit; +Can sometimes drop a voter's claim, +And give up party to his fame. +I do the most that friendship can; +I hate the viceroy, love the man. + But you, who, till your fortune's made, +Must be a sweetener by your trade, +Should swear he never meant us ill; +We suffer sore against his will; +That, if we could but see his heart, +He would have chose a milder part: +We rather should lament his case, +Who must obey, or lose his place. + Since this reflection slipt your pen, +Insert it when you write again; +And, to illustrate it, produce +This simile for his excuse: + "So, to destroy a guilty land +An [7]angel sent by Heaven's command, +While he obeys Almighty will, +Perhaps may feel compassion still; +And wish the task had been assign'd +To spirits of less gentle kind." + But I, in politics grown old, +Whose thoughts are of a different mould, +Who from my soul sincerely hate +Both kings and ministers of state; +Who look on courts with stricter eyes +To see the seeds of vice arise; +Can lend you an allusion fitter, +Though flattering knaves may call it bitter; +Which, if you durst but give it place, +Would show you many a statesman's face: +Fresh from the tripod of Apollo, +I had it in the words that follow: +Take notice to avoid offence, +I here except his excellence: + "So, to effect his monarch's ends, +From hell a viceroy devil ascends; +His budget with corruptions cramm'd, +The contributions of the damn'd; +Which with unsparing hand he strews +Through courts and senates as he goes; +And then at Beelzebub's black hall, +Complains his budget was too small." + Your simile may better shine +In verse, but there is truth in mine. +For no imaginable things +Can differ more than gods and kings: +And statesmen, by ten thousand odds, +Are angels just as kings are gods. + + +[Footnote 1: Earl of Halifax; see Johnson's "Life of +Montague."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The whole of this paragraph is unjust both to Halifax and +Congreve; for immediately after the production of Congreve's first play, +"The Old Bachelor," Halifax gave him a place in the Pipe Office, and +another in the Customs, of £600 a year. Ultimately he had at least four +sinecure appointments which together afforded him some £1,200 a year. See +Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: William, Duke of Cumberland, son to George II, "The +Butcher."] + +[Footnote 4: See _ante_, p. 215, note.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc. +ADDISON'S _Campaign_.] + + + + +TO DR. DELANY +ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM. 1729 + + --Tanti tibi non sit opaci +Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.--_Juv._ iii, 54. + +As some raw youth in country bred, +To arms by thirst of honour led, +When at a skirmish first he hears +The bullets whistling round his ears, +Will duck his head aside, will start, +And feel a trembling at his heart, +Till 'scaping oft without a wound +Lessens the terror of the sound; +Fly bullets now as thick as hops, +He runs into a cannon's chops. +An author thus, who pants for fame, +Begins the world with fear and shame; +When first in print you see him dread +Each pop-gun levell'd at his head: +The lead yon critic's quill contains, +Is destined to beat out his brains: +As if he heard loud thunders roll, +Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul! +Concluding that another shot +Will strike him dead upon the spot. +But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping, +He cannot see one creature dropping; +That, missing fire, or missing aim, +His life is safe, I mean his fame; +The danger past, takes heart of grace, +And looks a critic in the face. + Though splendour gives the fairest mark +To poison'd arrows in the dark, +Yet, in yourself when smooth and round, +They glance aside without a wound. + 'Tis said, the gods tried all their art, +How pain they might from pleasure part: +But little could their strength avail; +Both still are fasten'd by the tail; +Thus fame and censure with a tether +By fate are always link'd together. + Why will you aim to be preferr'd +In wit before the common herd; +And yet grow mortified and vex'd, +To pay the penalty annex'd? + 'Tis eminence makes envy rise; +As fairest fruits attract the flies. +Should stupid libels grieve your mind, +You soon a remedy may find; +Lie down obscure like other folks +Below the lash of snarlers' jokes. +Their faction is five hundred odds, +For every coxcomb lends them rods, +And sneers as learnedly as they, +Like females o'er their morning tea. + You say the Muse will not contain +And write you must, or break a vein. +Then, if you find the terms too hard, +No longer my advice regard: +But raise your fancy on the wing; +The Irish senate's praises sing; +How jealous of the nation's freedom, +And for corruptions how they weed 'em; +How each the public good pursues, +How far their hearts from private views; +Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys, +Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1] +Thus grown a member of the club, +No longer dread the rage of Grub. + How oft am I for rhyme to seek! +To dress a thought I toil a week: +And then how thankful to the town, +If all my pains will earn a crown! +While every critic can devour +My work and me in half an hour. +Would men of genius cease to write, +The rogues must die for want and spite; +Must die for want of food and raiment, +If scandal did not find them payment. +How cheerfully the hawkers cry +A satire, and the gentry buy! +While my hard-labour'd poem pines +Unsold upon the printer's lines. + A genius in the reverend gown +Must ever keep its owner down; +'Tis an unnatural conjunction, +And spoils the credit of the function. +Round all your brethren cast your eyes, +Point out the surest men to rise; +That club of candidates in black, +The least deserving of the pack, +Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud, +With grace and learning unendow'd, +Can turn their hands to every job, +The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2] +Will sooner coin a thousand lies, +Than suffer men of parts to rise; +They crowd about preferment's gate, +And press you down with all their weight; +For as of old mathematicians +Were by the vulgar thought magicians; +So academic dull ale-drinkers +Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers. + Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, +Disdains to serve ignoble ends. +Observe what loads of stupid rhymes +Oppress us in corrupted times; +What pamphlets in a court's defence +Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense? +For though the Muse delights in fiction, +She ne'er inspires against conviction. +Then keep your virtue still unmixt, +And let not faction come betwixt: +By party-steps no grandeur climb at, +Though it would make you England's primate; +First learn the science to be dull, +You then may soon your conscience lull; +If not, however seated high, +Your genius in your face will fly. + When Jove was from his teeming head +Of Wit's fair goddess[3] brought to bed, +There follow'd at his lying-in +For after-birth a sooterkin; +Which, as the nurse pursued to kill, +Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill, +There in the soil began to root, +And litter'd at Parnassus' foot. +From hence the critic vermin sprung, +With harpy claws and poisonous tongue: +Who fatten on poetic scraps, +Too cunning to be caught in traps. +Dame Nature, as the learned show, +Provides each animal its foe: +Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox +Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks +Thus Envy pleads a natural claim +To persecute the Muse's fame; +On poets in all times abusive, +From Homer down to Pope inclusive. + Yet what avails it to complain? +You try to take revenge in vain. +A rat your utmost rage defies, +That safe behind the wainscot lies. +Say, did you ever know by sight +In cheese an individual mite! +Show me the same numeric flea, +That bit your neck but yesterday: +You then may boldly go in quest +To find the Grub Street poet's nest; +What spunging-house, in dread of jail, +Receives them, while they wait for bail; +What alley are they nestled in, +To flourish o'er a cup of gin; +Find the last garret where they lay, +Or cellar where they starve to-day. +Suppose you have them all trepann'd, +With each a libel in his hand, +What punishment would you inflict? +Or call them rogues, or get them kickt? +These they have often tried before; +You but oblige them so much more: +Themselves would be the first to tell, +To make their trash the better sell. + You have been libell'd--Let us know, +What fool officious told you so? +Will you regard the hawker's cries, +Who in his titles always lies? +Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, +It might be something in your praise; +And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, +Would vex one more a thousand times. +Till critics blame, and judges praise, +The poet cannot claim his bays. +On me when dunces are satiric, +I take it for a panegyric. +Hated by fools, and fools to hate, +Be that my motto, and my fate. + + +[Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while +the new Parliament-house was building.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.] + +[Footnote 3: Pallas.] + + + + +DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + +To form a just and finish'd piece, +Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, +Whose godships are in chief request, +And fit your present subject best; +And, should it be your hero's case, +To have both male and female race, +Your business must be to provide +A score of goddesses beside. + Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, +For which they bring a modern pattern; +Because they might have heard of one,[1] +Who often long'd to eat his son; +But this I think will not go down, +For here the father kept his crown. + Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, +Who met his mother in a grove; +To this we freely shall consent, +Well knowing what the poets meant; +And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, +It may be literally true.[2] + Next, as the laws of verse require, +He must be greater than his sire; +For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, +Was able Saturn to depose; +And sure no Christian poet breathing +Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; +Or, if to blasphemy it tends. +That's but a trifle among friends. + Your hero now another Mars is, +Makes mighty armies turn their a--s: +Behold his glittering falchion mow +Whole squadrons at a single blow; +While Victory, with wings outspread, +Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; +His milk-white steed upon its haunches, +Or pawing into dead men's paunches; +As Overton has drawn his sire, +Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire. +Then from his arm hoarse thunder rolls, +As loud as fifty mustard bowls; +For thunder still his arm supplies, +And lightning always in his eyes. +They both are cheap enough in conscience, +And serve to echo rattling nonsense. +The rumbling words march fierce along, +Made trebly dreadful in your song. + Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, +To sing of wars, choose peaceful times. +What though, for fifteen years and more, +Janus has lock'd his temple-door; +Though not a coffeehouse we read in +Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; +Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, +Though fond of warlike lies as most men; +Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: +For, must thy hero not be dreadful? +Dismissing Mars, it next must follow +Your conqueror is become Apollo: +That he's Apollo is as plain as +That Robin Walpole is Mæcenas; +But that he struts, and that he squints, +You'd know him by Apollo's prints. +Old Phoebus is but half as bright, +For yours can shine both day and night. +The first, perhaps, may once an age +Inspire you with poetic rage; +Your Phoebus Royal, every day, +Not only can inspire, but pay. + Then make this new Apollo sit +Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. +"How from his altitude he stoops +To raise up Virtue when she droops; +On Learning how his bounty flows, +And with what justice he bestows; +Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam! +Be witness if I tell a flam, +What prodigies in arts we drain, +From both your streams, in George's reign. +As from the flowery bed of Nile"-- +But here's enough to show your style. +Broad innuendoes, such as this, +If well applied, can hardly miss: +For, when you bring your song in print, +He'll get it read, and take the hint; +(It must be read before 'tis warbled, +The paper gilt and cover marbled.) +And will be so much more your debtor, +Because he never knew a letter. +And, as he hears his wit and sense +(To which he never made pretence) +Set out in hyperbolic strains, +A guinea shall reward your pains; +For patrons never pay so well, +As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. +Next call him Neptune: with his trident +He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; +And, if provoked, he soundly firks his +Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes. +He would have seized the Spanish plate, +Had not the fleet gone out too late; +And in their very ports besiege them, +But that he would not disoblige them; +And make the rascals pay him dearly +For those affronts they give him yearly. + 'Tis not denied, that, when we write, +Our ink is black, our paper white: +And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, +We blacken what was white before: +I think this practice only fit +For dealers in satiric wit. +But you some white-lead ink must get +And write on paper black as jet; +Your interest lies to learn the knack +Of whitening what before was black. + Thus your encomium, to be strong, +Must be applied directly wrong. +A tyrant for his mercy praise, +And crown a royal dunce with bays: +A squinting monkey load with charms, +And paint a coward fierce in arms. +Is he to avarice inclined? +Extol him for his generous mind: +And, when we starve for want of corn, +Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3] +For all experience this evinces +The only art of pleasing princes: +For princes' love you should descant +On virtues which they know they want. +One compliment I had forgot, +But songsters must omit it not; +I freely grant the thought is old: +Why, then, your hero must be told, +In him such virtues lie inherent, +To qualify him God's vicegerent; +That with no title to inherit, +He must have been a king by merit. +Yet, be the fancy old or new, +Tis partly false, and partly true: +And, take it right, it means no more +Than George and William claim'd before. + Should some obscure inferior fellow, +Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4] +When all your list of Gods is out, +Presume to show his mortal snout, +And as a Deity intrude, +Because he had the world subdued; +O, let him not debase your thoughts, +Or name him but to tell his faults.-- + Of Gods I only quote the best, +But you may hook in all the rest. + Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed +To praise your empress and her breed; +First of the first, to vouch your lies, +Bring all the females of the skies; +The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, +Must venture down to entertain us: +With bended knees when they adore her, +What dowdies they appear before her! +Nor shall we think you talk at random, +For Venus might be her great-grandam: +Six thousand years has lived the Goddess, +Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; +Besides, your songsters oft have shown +That she has Graces of her own: +Three Graces by Lucina brought her, +Just three, and every Grace a daughter; +Here many a king his heart and crown +Shall at their snowy feet lay down: +In royal robes, they come by dozens +To court their English German cousins: +Beside a pair of princely babies, +That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. + Now see her seated in her throne +With genuine lustre, all her own: +Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, +Her splendour is but borrow'd light; +And only with her brother linkt +Can shine, without him is extinct. +But Carolina shines the clearer +With neither spouse nor brother near her: +And darts her beams o'er both our isles, +Though George is gone a thousand miles. +Thus Berecynthia takes her place, +Attended by her heavenly race; +And sees a son in every God, +Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod. + Now sing his little highness Freddy +Who struts like any king already: +With so much beauty, show me any maid +That could resist this charming Ganymede! +Where majesty with sweetness vies, +And, like his father, early wise. +Then cut him out a world of work, +To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: +Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, +And golden times, and halcyon days; +And swear his line shall rule the nation +For ever--till the conflagration. + But, now it comes into my mind, +We left a little duke behind; +A Cupid in his face and size, +And only wants, to want his eyes. +Make some provision for the younker, +Find him a kingdom out to conquer; +Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, +Make Gulliver his commodore; +Into whose pocket valiant Willy put, +Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. + A skilful critic justly blames +Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names +The sense can ne'er be too jejune, +But smooth your words to fit the tune. +Hanover may do well enough, +But George and Brunswick are too rough; +Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, +And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. +In vain are all attempts from Germany +To find out proper words for harmony: +And yet I must except the Rhine, +Because it clinks to Caroline. +Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes! +Be sung ten hundred thousand times; +Too happy were the poets' crew, +If their own happiness they knew: +Three syllables did never meet +So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: +Nine other tuneful words like that +Would prove even Homer's numbers flat. +Behold three beauteous vowels stand, +With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; +In concord here for ever fix'd, +No jarring consonant betwixt. + May Caroline continue long, +For ever fair and young!--in song. +What though the royal carcass must, +Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust? +Those elements her name compose, +Like atoms, are exempt from blows. + Though Caroline may fill your gaps, +Yet still you must consult your maps; +Find rivers with harmonious names, +Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, +Britannia long will wear like steel, +But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; +And Patience can endure no more +To hear the Belgic lion roar. +Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, +But proud Iberia soundly maul: +Restore the ships by Philip taken, +And make him crouch to save his bacon. +Nassau, who got the name of Glorious, +Because he never was victorious, +A hanger-on has always been; +For old acquaintance bring him in. + To Walpole you might lend a line, +But much I fear he's in decline; +And if you chance to come too late, +When he goes out, you share his fate, +And bear the new successor's frown; +Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. +Reject with scorn that stupid notion, +To praise your hero for devotion; +Nor entertain a thought so odd, +That princes should believe in God; +But follow the securest rule, +And turn it all to ridicule: +'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, +And gives the maids of honour sport; +For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5] +They now can venture in the dark: +That sound divine the truth has spoke all, +And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local. +This will not give them half the trouble +Of bargains sold, or meanings double. + Supposing now your song is done, +To Mynheer Handel next you run, +Who artfully will pare and prune +Your words to some Italian tune: +Then print it in the largest letter, +With capitals, the more the better. +Present it boldly on your knee, +And take a guinea for your fee. + + +[Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, +while the latter was Prince of Wales.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to +have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and +one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or +Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander +the Great.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, +distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St. +James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not +considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, +"Moral Essays," Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK +A FABLE BY DR. DELANY +1730 + +--quis iniquae +Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?--_-Juv._ i, 30. + +In ancient times, as bards indite, +(If clerks have conn'd the records right.) +A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway +His subjects with delight obey: +His tail was beauteous to behold, +Replete with goodly eyes and gold; +Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, +Whose train at once is rich and wise; +And princely ruled he many regions, +And statesmen wise, and valiant legions. + A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, +With every grace and talent blest, +Was sent to sway, with all his skill, +The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2] +No science was to him unknown, +For all the arts were all his own: +In all the living learned read, +Though more delighted with the dead: +For birds, if ancient tales say true, +Had then their Popes and Homers too; +Could read and write in prose and verse, +And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3] +He knew their voices, and their wings, +Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; +Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, +And who attain'd the true sublime. +Their merits he could well descry, +He had so exquisite an eye; +And when that fail'd to show them clear, +He had as exquisite an ear; +It chanced as on a day he stray'd +Beneath an academic shade, +He liked, amidst a thousand throats, +The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, +And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, +And took him home, and made him tame; +Found him on trial true and able, +So cheer'd and fed him at his table. + Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, +And cries out, "Better fed than taught"--Then +jests on game and tame, and reads, +And jests, and so my tale proceeds. + Long had he studied in the wood, +Conversing with the wise and good: +His soul with harmony inspired, +With love of truth and virtue fired: +His brethren's good and Maker's praise +Were all the study of his lays; +Were all his study in retreat, +And now employ'd him with the great. +His friendship was the sure resort +Of all the wretched at the court; +But chiefly merit in distress +His greatest blessing was to bless.-- + This fix'd him in his patron's breast, +But fired with envy all the rest: +I mean that noisy, craving crew, +Who round the court incessant flew, +And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, +To fill the maws of sons and cousins: +"Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood +To every thought of common good, +Confining every hope and care, +To their own low, contracted sphere." +These ran him down with ceaseless cry, +But found it hard to tell you why, +Till his own worth and wit supplied +Sufficient matter to deride: +"'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, +To hide her rage in ridicule: +The vulgar eye she best beguiles, +When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: +Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised! +Tormented most when seeming pleased!" +Their spite had more than half expired, +Had he not wrote what all admired; +What morsels had their malice wanted, +But that he built, and plann'd, and planted! +How had his sense and learning grieved them, +But that his charity relieved them! + "At highest worth dull malice reaches, +As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: +Envy defames, as harpies vile +Devour the food they first defile." + Now ask the fruit of all his favour-- +"He was not hitherto a saver."-- +What then could make their rage run mad? +"Why, what he hoped, not what he had." + "What tyrant e'er invented ropes, +Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes? +Th' inheritance of hope and fame +Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; +Or, if it were, is not so small, +But there is room enough for all." + If he but chance to breathe a song, +(He seldom sang, and never long,) +The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, +Where it was high, pronounced it loud: +Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, +Easy and Friendly was Familiar. + Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, +With solemn air to Virtue's praise, +Alike abusive and erroneous, +They call'd it hoarse and inharmonious. +Yet so it was to souls like theirs, +Tuneless as Abel to the bears! + A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw +Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6] +(Though some, who would be thought to know, +Are positive it was a crow:) +Jack Daw was seconded by Tit, +Tom Tit[7] could write, and so he writ; +A tribe of tuneless praters follow, +The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; +And twenty more their throats let loose, +Down to the witless, waddling Goose. + Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, +Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: +The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, +The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: +The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, +Swore all his singing was but croaking. +Some thought they meant to show their wit, +Might think so still--"but that they writ"-- +Could it be spite or envy?--"No-- +Who did no ill could have no foe."-- +So wise Simplicity esteem'd; +Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; +This question rightly understood, +"What more provokes than doing good? +A soul ennobled and refined +Reproaches every baser mind: +As strains exalted and melodious +Make every meaner music odious."-- +At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, +For voice and wisdom long revered, +Esteem'd of all the wise and good, +The Guardian Genius of the wood: +He long in discontent retired, +Yet not obscured, but more admired: +His brethren's servile souls disdaining, +He lived indignant and complaining: +They now afresh provoke his choler, +(It seems the Lark had been his scholar, +A favourite scholar always near him, +And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) +Enraged he canvasses the matter, +Exposes all their senseless chatter, +Shows him and them in such a light, +As more inflames, yet quells their spite. +They hear his voice, and frighted fly, +For rage had raised it very high: +Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, +They hide their heads, and hush their throats. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_F_] + +[Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in +Dublin.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 5: Dr. T----r.--_F._] + +[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.--_F._] + +[Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.--_F._] + +[Footnote 8: Dean Swift.--_F._] + + +ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK. +1730 + + +In ancient times, the wise were able +In proper terms to write a fable: +Their tales would always justly suit +The characters of every brute. +The ass was dull, the lion brave, +The stag was swift, the fox a knave; +The daw a thief, the ape a droll, +The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: +A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop, +Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up. +Far otherwise a great divine +Has learnt his fables to refine; +He jumbles men and birds together, +As if they all were of a feather: +You see him first the Peacock bring, +Against all rules, to be a king; +That in his tail he wore his eyes, +By which he grew both rich and wise. +Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, +A Peacock chose for flight and voice; +Did ever mortal see a peacock +Attempt a flight above a haycock? +And for his singing, doctor, you know +Himself complain'd of it to Juno. +He squalls in such a hellish noise, +He frightens all the village boys. +This Peacock kept a standing force, +In regiments of foot and horse: +Had statesmen too of every kind, +Who waited on his eyes behind; +And this was thought the highest post; +For, rule the rump, you rule the roast. +The doctor names but one at present, +And he of all birds was a Pheasant. +This Pheasant was a man of wit, +Could read all books were ever writ; +And, when among companions privy, +Could quote you Cicero and Livy. +Birds, as he says, and I allow, +Were scholars then, as we are now; +Could read all volumes up to folios, +And feed on fricassees and olios: +This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will, +Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; +And, as he wander'd in his park, +He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; +Was taken with his person outward, +So prettily he pick'd a cow-t--d: +Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, +And in his palace fed and taught him. +The moral of the tale is pleasant, +Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: +A lark he is, and such a lark +As never came from Noah's ark: +And though he had no other notion, +But building, planning, and devotion; +Though 'tis a maxim you must know, +"Who does no ill can have no foe;" +Yet how can I express in words +The strange stupidity of birds? +This Lark was hated in the wood, +Because he did his brethren good. +At last the Nightingale comes in, +To hold the doctor by the chin: +We all can find out what he means, +The worst of disaffected deans: +Whose wit at best was next to none, +And now that little next is gone; +Against the court is always blabbing, +And calls the senate-house a cabin; +So dull, that but for spleen and spite, +We ne'er should know that he could write +Who thinks the nation always err'd, +Because himself is not preferr'd; +His heart is through his libel seen, +Nor could his malice spare the queen; +Who, had she known his vile behaviour, +Would ne'er have shown him so much favour. +A noble lord[1] has told his pranks, +And well deserves the nation's thanks. +O! would the senate deign to show +Resentment on this public foe, +Our Nightingale might fit a cage; +There let him starve, and vent his rage: +Or would they but in fetters bind +This enemy of human kind! +Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, +Thou champion for the commonweal: +Nor on a theme like this repine, +For once to wet thy pen divine: +Bestow that libeller a lash, +Who daily vends seditious trash: +Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, +But in the praise of virtue is dumb: +That scribbler lash, who neither knows +The turn of verse, nor style of prose; +Whose malice, for the worst of ends, +Would have us lose our English friends:[3] +Who never had one public thought, +Nor ever gave the poor a groat. +One clincher more, and I have done, +I end my labours with a pun. +Jove send this Nightingale may fall, +Who spends his day and night in gall! +So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; +I see the greatest owls in you +That ever screech'd, or ever flew. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.--_F._] + +[Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.--_F._] + +[Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.--_F._] + + + +DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1] + +Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.--HOR. + _Epist._, I, ii, 47. + +It was, my lord, the dexterous shift +Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, +But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, +With silver verge, and surplice clean, +Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, +In looser rhyme to beg a place. +A place he got, yclept a stall, +And eke a thousand pounds withal; +And were he less a witty writer, +He might as well have got a mitre. + Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, +In humble lays my thanks to offer, +Approach your grace with grateful heart, +My thanks and verse both void of art, +Content with what your bounty gave, +No larger income do I crave: +Rejoicing that, in better times, +Grafton requires my loyal lines. +Proud! while my patron is polite, +I likewise to the patriot write! +Proud! that at once I can commend +King George's and the Muses' friend! +Endear'd to Britain; and to thee +(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) +Endear'd by twice three anxious years, +Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; +By love, by wisdom, and by skill; +For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will. + But where shall Smedley make his nest, +And lay his wandering head to rest? +Where shall he find a decent house, +To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? +O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, +In wholesome soil, and ether pure; +The garden stored with artless flowers, +In either angle shady bowers. +No gay parterre, with costly green, +Within the ambient hedge be seen: +Let Nature freely take her course, +Nor fear from me ungrateful force; +No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, +Nor shape the yews to antic figure: +A limpid brook shall trout supply, +In May, to take the mimic fly; +Round a small orchard may it run, +Whose apples redden to the sun. +Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; +For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, +A little Euston[2] may it be, +Euston I'll carve on every tree. +But then, to keep it in repair, +My lord--twice fifty pounds a-year +Will barely do; but if your grace +Could make them hundreds--charming place! +Thou then wouldst show another face. + Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, +'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: +One shivers with the arctic wind, +One hears the polar axis grind. +Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, +Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. +He has a purse to keep a table, +And eke a soul as hospitable. +My heart is good; but assets fail, +To fight with storms of snow and hail. +Besides, the country's thin of people, +Who seldom meet but at the steeple: +The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, +Ne'er named the thing without a frown, +When, much fatigued with sermon study, +He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; +No fit companion could be found, +To push the lazy bottle round: +Sure then, for want of better folks +To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. + Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, +Where beaux and belles in parties meet; +Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, +And jostle as they troll along; +Where tea and coffee hourly flow, +And gape-seed does in plenty grow; +And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, +Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!" +There Lady Luna in her sphere +Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; +But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, +Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. +There--but 'tis endless to write down +All the amusements of the town; +And spouse will think herself quite undone, +To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; +And care we must our wives to please, +Or else--we shall be ill at ease. + You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, +'Tis only some convenient tack, +Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, +To be my late, my last retreat; +A decent church, close by its side, +There, preaching, praying, to reside; +And as my time securely rolls, +To save my own and other souls. + + +[Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to +in the preceding poems.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.--_N._] + +[Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.--_H._] + +[Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there +are two deans.--_Scott_.] + + + + +THE DUKE'S ANSWER +BY DR. SWIFT + + +Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, +Where wit in all its glory shines; +Where compliments, with all their pride, +Are by their numbers dignified: +I hope to make you yet as clean +As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. +I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, +And may be something else withal; +And, were you not so good a writer, +I should present you with a mitre. +Write worse, then, if you can--be wise- +Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. +Talk not of making of thy nest: +Ah! never lay thy head to rest! +That head so well with wisdom fraught, +That writes without the toil of thought! +While others rack their busy brains, +You are not in the least at pains. +Down to your dean'ry now repair, +And build a castle in the air. +I'm sure a man of your fine sense +Can do it with a small expense. +There your dear spouse and you together +May breathe your bellies full of ether, +When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, +She'll help your wife when she's in labour, +Well skill'd in midwife artifices, +For she herself oft falls in pieces. +There you shall see a raree show +Will make you scorn this world below, +When you behold the milky-way, +As white as snow, as bright as day; +The glittering constellations roll +About the grinding arctic pole; +The lovely tingling in your ears, +Wrought by the music of the spheres-- +Your spouse shall then no longer hector, +You need not fear a curtain-lecture; +Nor shall she think that she is undone +For quitting her beloved London. +When she's exalted in the skies, +She'll never think of mutton-pies; +When you're advanced above Dean Viz, +You'll never think of Goody Griz; +But ever, ever live at ease, +And strive, and strive your wife to please; +In her you'll centre all your joys, +And get ten thousand girls and boys; +Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, +And they like stars shall rise and set. +While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon +Be a new sun and a new moon: +Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, +For then your horns shall be your pride. + + +[Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the +text.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, +WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1] + + +The very reverend Dean Smedley, +Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, +Was equally allow'd to shine +As poet, scholar, and divine; +With godliness could well dispense, +Would be a rake, but wanted sense; +Would strictly after Truth inquire, +Because he dreaded to come nigh her. +For Liberty no champion bolder, +He hated bailiffs at his shoulder. +To half the world a standing jest, +A perfect nuisance to the rest; +From many (and we may believe him) +Had the best wishes they could give him. +To all mankind a constant friend, +Provided they had cash to lend. +One thing he did before he went hence, +He left us a laconic sentence, +By cutting of his phrase, and trimming +To prove that bishops were old women. +Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, +She was so terrified at his. +He waded, without any shame, +Through thick and thin to get a name, +Tried every sharping trick for bread, +And after all he seldom sped. +When Fortune favour'd, he was nice; +He never once would cog the dice; +But, if she turn'd against his play, +He knew to stop _à quatre trois_. +Now sound in mind, and sound in _corpus_, +(Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise, +He hies from hence at forty-four +(But by his leave he sinks a score) +To the East Indies, there to cheat, +Till he can purchase an estate; +Where, after he has fill'd his chest, +He'll mount his tub, and preach his best, +And plainly prove, by dint of text, +This world is his, and theirs the next. +Lest that the reader should not know +The bank where last he set his toe, +'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship, +And gave his creditors the slip. +But lest chronology should vary, +Upon the ides of February, +In seventeen hundred eight-and-twenty, +To Fort St. George, a pedler went he. +Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent, +RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT! + + +[Footnote 1: INSCRIPTION, +BY DEAN SMEDLEY, 1729. + +[*text centered] +Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY, +Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus, +Politioribus excultus literis; +Parce pius, impius minime; +Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor; +Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam, +Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus, +Auctor hujus sententiae, PATRES SUNT VETULAE. +Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam; +Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus, +Mente Sana, sano corpore, volens, laetusque, +Lustris plus quam XI numeratis, +Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque, +Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales praedicandum, +_Grevae_, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, +Arcemque _Sancti_ petens _Georgii_, vernale per aequinoxium, +Anno Aerae Christianae MDCCXXVIII, +Transfretavit. +Fata vocant--revocentque precamur.] + + +END OF VOL. I + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14353 *** diff --git a/14353-h/14353-h.htm b/14353-h/14353-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7aa628 --- /dev/null +++ b/14353-h/14353-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17406 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + The Poems of Jonathan Swift, Volume I + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;] +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14353 ***</div> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., VOLUME I + </h1> + <h2> + Edited By William Ernst Browning + </h2> + <h4> + London: G. Bell and Sons, Ltd. + </h4> + <h3> + 1910 + </h3> + <hr /> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ODE TO KING WILLIAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> TO MR. CONGREVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS + AND RECOVERY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE DISCOVERY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE PROBLEM, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> ON THE UNION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> THE REVERSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> APOLLO OUTWITTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> A GRUB-STREET ELEGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF + CASTLENOCK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> A CONFERENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> TO MR. DELANY,[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> AN ELEGY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> EPITAPH ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> VERSES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> NEWS FROM PARNASSUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> APOLLO'S EDICT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> THE PROGRESS OF POETRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> A PROLOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL2"> EPILOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> THE COUNTRY LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART"> PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> CARBERIAE RUPES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> CARBERY ROCKS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> ON DREAMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> THE ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> A PASTORAL DIALOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE + "DUNCIAD" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE + ATTORNEYS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> THE PUPPET-SHOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> THE LOGICIANS REFUTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> A DIALOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> ON BURNING A DULL POEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> ON STEPHEN DUCK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> CASSINUS AND PETER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> STREPHON AND CHLOE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> JUDAS. 1731 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> TO A LADY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. + 1732 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> ANOTHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> A CONCLUSION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN + OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. + SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF2"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> THE PARSON'S CASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> THE STORM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> ODE ON SCIENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> ON POETRY, A RHAPSODY. 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> ON PSYCHE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> THE DEAN AND DUKE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN + SEPTEMBER, 1734 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> ASPARAGUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> ONIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> OYSTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> HERRINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> ORANGES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> EPIGRAM[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> JOAN CUDGELS NED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S + ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] + 1729 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> A LIBEL ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS + EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> TO DR. DELANY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK, A FABLE BY DR. DELANY + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND + LARK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF + GRAFTON[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> THE DUKE'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + The works of Jonathan Swift in prose and verse so mutually illustrate each + other, that it was deemed indispensable, as a complement to the standard + edition of the Prose Works, to issue a revised edition of the Poems, freed + from the errors which had been allowed to creep into the text, and + illustrated with fuller explanatory notes. My first care, therefore, in + preparing the Poems for publication, was to collate them with the earliest + and best editions available, and this I have done. + </p> + <p> + But, thanks to the diligence of the late John Forster, to whom every lover + of Swift must confess the very greatest obligation, I have been able to do + much more. I have been able to enrich this edition with some pieces not + hitherto brought to light—notably, the original version of "Baucis + and Philemon," in addition to the version hitherto printed; the original + version of the poem on "Vanbrugh's House"; the verses entitled "May Fair"; + and numerous variations and corrections of the texts of nearly all the + principal poems, due to Forster's collation of them with the transcripts + made by Stella, which were found by him at Narford formerly the seat of + Swift's friend, Sir Andrew Fountaine—see Forster's "Life of Swift," + of which, unfortunately, he lived to publish only the first volume. From + Swift's own copy of the "Miscellanies in Prose and Verse," 1727-32, with + notes in his own handwriting, sold at auction last year, I was able to + make several corrections of the poems contained in those four volumes, + which serve to show how Swift laboured his works, and revised and improved + them whenever he had an opportunity of doing so. It is a mistake to + suppose that he was indifferent to literary fame: on the contrary, he kept + some of his works in manuscript for years in order to perfect them for + publication, of which "The Tale of a Tub," "Gulliver's Travels," and the + "Verses on his own Death" are examples. + </p> + <p> + I am indebted to Miss Wilmot-Chetwode, of Wordbrooke, for the loan of a + manuscript volume, from which I obtained some various readings. By the + advice of Mr. Elrington Ball, I applied to the librarians of Trinity + College and of the National Library, and from the latter I received a + number of pieces; but I found that the harvest had already been reaped so + fully, that there was nothing left to glean which could with certainty be + ascribed to Swift. On the whole, I believe that this edition of the Poems + will be found as complete as it is now possible to make it. + </p> + <p> + In the arrangement of the poems, I have adopted nearly the same order as + in the Aldine edition, for the pieces seem to fall naturally into those + divisions; but with this difference, that I have placed the pieces in + their chronological order in each division. With regard to the notes in + illustration of the text, many of them in the Dublin editions were + evidently written by Swift, especially the notes to the "Verses on his own + Death." And as to the notes of previous editors, I have retained them so + far as they were useful and correct: but to many of them I have made + additions or alterations wherever, on reference to the authorities cited, + or to other works, correction became necessary. For my own notes, I can + only say that I have sought to make them concise, appropriate to the text, + and, above all, accurate. + </p> + <p> + Swift and the educated men of his time thought in the classics, and his + poems, as well as those of his friends, abound with allusions to the Greek + and Roman authors, especially to the latter. I have given all the + references, and except in the imitations and paraphrases of so familiar a + writer as Horace, I have appended the Latin text. Moreover, Swift was, + like Sterne, very fond of curious and recondite reading, in which it is + not always easy to track him without some research; but I believe that I + have not failed to illustrate any matter that required elucidation. + </p> + <h3> + W. E. B. + </h3> + <p> + May 1910. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + Dr. Johnson, in his "Life of Swift," after citing with approval Delany's + character of him, as he describes him to Lord Orrery, proceeds to say: "In + the poetical works there is not much upon which the critic can exercise + his powers. They are often humorous, almost always light, and have the + qualities which recommend such compositions, easiness and gaiety. They + are, for the most part, what their author intended. The diction is + correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There seldom occurs + a hard laboured expression or a redundant epithet; all his verses + exemplify his own definition of a good style—they consist of 'proper + words in proper places.'" + </p> + <p> + Of his earliest poems it is needless to say more than that if nothing + better had been written by him than those Pindaric Pieces, after the + manner of Cowley—then so much in vogue—the remark of Dryden, + "Cousin Swift, you will never be a Poet," would have been fully justified. + But conventional praise and compliments were foreign to his nature, for + his strongest characteristic was his intense sincerity. He says of himself + that about that time he had writ and burnt and writ again upon all manner + of subjects more than perhaps any man in England; and it is certainly + remarkable that in so doing his true genius was not sooner developed, for + it was not till he became chaplain in Lord Berkeley's household that his + satirical humour was first displayed—at least in verse—in + "Mrs. Frances Harris' Petition."—His great prose satires, "The Tale + of a Tub," and "Gulliver's Travels," though planned, were reserved to a + later time.—In other forms of poetry he soon afterwards greatly + excelled, and the title of poet cannot be refused to the author of "Baucis + and Philemon"; the verses on "The Death of Dr. Swift"; the "Rhapsody on + Poetry"; "Cadenus and Vanessa"; "The Legion Club"; and most of the poems + addressed to Stella, all of which pieces exhibit harmony, invention, and + imagination. + </p> + <p> + Swift has been unduly censured for the coarseness of his language upon + Certain topics; but very little of this appears in his earlier poems, and + what there is, was in accordance with the taste of the period, which never + hesitated to call a spade a spade, due in part to the reaction from the + Puritanism of the preceding age, and in part to the outspeaking frankness + which disdained hypocrisy. It is shown in Dryden, Pope, Prior, of the last + of whom Johnson said that no lady objected to have his poems in her + library; still more in the dramatists of that time, whom Charles Lamb has + so humorously defended, and in the plays of Mrs. Aphra Behn, who, as Pope + says, "fairly puts all characters to bed." But whatever coarseness there + may be in some of Swift's poems, such as "The Lady's Dressing Room," and a + few other pieces, there is nothing licentious, nothing which excites to + lewdness; on the contrary, such pieces create simply a feeling of + repulsion. No one, after reading the "Beautiful young Nymph going to bed," + or "Strephon and Chloe," would desire any personal acquaintance with the + ladies, but there is a moral in these pieces, and the latter poem + concludes with excellent matrimonial advice. The coarseness of some of his + later writings must be ascribed to his misanthropical hatred of the + "animal called man," as expressed in his famous letter to Pope of + September 1725, aggravated as it was by his exile from the friends he + loved to a land he hated, and by the reception he met with there, about + which he speaks very freely in his notes to the "Verses on his own Death." + </p> + <p> + On the morning of Swift's installation as Dean, the following scurrilous + lines by Smedley, Dean of Clogher, were affixed to the doors of St. + Patrick's Cathedral: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To-day this Temple gets a Dean + Of parts and fame uncommon, + Us'd both to pray and to prophane, + To serve both God and mammon. + When Wharton reign'd a Whig he was; + When Pembroke—that's dispute, Sir; + In Oxford's time, what Oxford pleased, + Non-con, or Jack, or Neuter. + This place he got by wit and rhime, + And many ways most odd, + And might a Bishop be in time, + Did he believe in God. + Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray, + On thine own church and steeple; + Convert thy Dean on this great day, + Or else God help the people. + And now, whene'er his Deanship dies, + Upon his stone be graven, + A man of God here buried lies, + Who never thought of heaven. +</pre> + <p> + It was by these lines that Smedley earned for himself a niche in "The + Dunciad." For Swift's retaliation, see the poems relating to Smedley at + the end of the first volume, and in volume ii, at p. 124, note. + </p> + <p> + This bitterness of spirit reached its height in "Gulliver's Travels," + surely the severest of all satires upon humanity, and writ, as he tells + us, not to divert, but to vex the world; and ultimately, in the fierce + attack upon the Irish Parliament in the poem entitled "The Legion Club," + dictated by his hatred of tyranny and oppression, and his consequent + passion for exhibiting human nature in its most degraded aspect. + </p> + <p> + But, notwithstanding his misanthropical feelings towards mankind in + general, and his "scorn of fools by fools mistook for pride," there never + existed a warmer or sincerer friend to those whom he loved—witness + the regard in which he was held by Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, Gay, + Arbuthnot, and Congreve, and his readiness to assist those who needed his + help, without thought of party or politics. Although, in some of his + poems, Swift rather severely exposed the follies and frailties of the fair + sex, as in "The Furniture of a Woman's Mind," and "The Journal of a Modern + Lady," he loved the companionship of beautiful and accomplished women, + amongst whom he could count some of his dearest and truest friends; but + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He loved to be bitter at + A lady illiterate; +</pre> + <p> + and therefore delighted in giving them literary instruction, most notably + in the cases of Stella and Vanessa, whose relations with him arose + entirely from the tuition in letters which they received from him. Again, + when on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, he insisted upon making Lady + Acheson read such books as he thought fit to advise, and in the doggerel + verses entitled "My Lady's Lamentation," she is supposed to resent his + "very imperious" manner of instruction: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No book for delight + Must come in my sight; + But instead of new plays, + Dull Bacon's Essays, + And pore every day on + That nasty Pantheon. +</pre> + <p> + As a contrast to his imperiousness, there is an affectionate simplicity in + the fancy names he used to bestow upon his female friends. Sir William + Temple's wife, Dorothea, became Dorinda; Esther Johnson, Stella; Hester + Vanhomrigh, Vanessa; Lady Winchelsea, Ardelia; while to Lady Acheson he + gave the nicknames of Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean. But all was taken by + them in good part; for his rather dictatorial ways were softened by the + fascinating geniality and humour which he knew so well how to employ when + he used to "deafen them with puns and rhyme." + </p> + <p> + Into the vexed question of the relations between Swift and Stella I do not + purpose to enter further than to record my conviction that she was never + more to him than "the dearest friend that ever man had." The suggestion of + a concealed marriage is so inconsistent with their whole conduct to each + other from first to last, that if there had been such a marriage, instead + of Swift having been, as he was, a man of <i>intense sincerity</i>, he + must be held to have been a most consummate hypocrite. In my opinion, + Churton Collins settled this question in his essays on Swift, first + published in the "Quarterly Review," 1881 and 1882. Swift's relation with + Vanessa is the saddest episode in his life. The story is amply told in his + poem, "Cadenus and Vanessa," and in the letters which passed between them: + how the pupil became infatuated with her tutor; how the tutor endeavoured + to dispel her passion, but in vain, by reason; and how, at last, she died + from love for the man who was unable to give love in return. That Swift + ought, as soon as Hester disclosed her passion for him, at once to have + broken off the intimacy, must be conceded; but how many men possessed of + his kindness of heart would have had the courage to have acted otherwise + than he did? Swift seems, in fact, to have been constitutionally incapable + of the <i>passion</i> of love, for he says, himself, that he had never met + the woman he wished to marry. His annual tributes to Stella on her + birthdays express the strongest regard and esteem, but he "ne'er admitted + love a guest," and he had been so long used to this Platonic affection, + that he had come to regard women as friends, but never as lovers. Stella, + on her part, had the same feeling, for she never expressed the least + discontent at her position, or ever regarded Swift otherwise than as her + tutor, her counsellor, her friend. In her verses to him on his birthday, + 1721, she says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Long be the day that gave you birth + Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth; + Late dying may you cast a shred + Of your rich mantle o'er my head; + To bear with dignity my sorrow + One day alone, then die tomorrow. +</pre> + <p> + Stella naturally expected to survive Swift, but it was not to be. She died + in the evening of the 28th January 1727-8; and on the same night he began + the affecting piece, "On the Death of Mrs. Johnson." (See "Prose Works," + vol. xi.) + </p> + <p> + With the death of Stella, Swift's real happiness ended, and he became more + and more possessed by the melancholy which too often accompanies the + broadest humour, and which, in his case, was constitutional. It was, no + doubt, to relieve it, that he resorted to the composition of the doggerel + verses, epigrams, riddles, and trifles exchanged betwixt himself and + Sheridan, which induced Orrery's remark that "Swift composing Riddles is + Titian painting draught-boards;" on which Delany observes that "a Riddle + may be as fine painting as any other in the world. It requires as strong + an imagination, as fine colouring, and as exact a proportion and keeping + as any other historical painting"; and he instances "Pethox the Great," + and should also have alluded to the more learned example—"Louisa to + Strephon." + </p> + <p> + On Orrery's seventh Letter, Delany says that if some of the "coin is + base," it is the fine impression and polish which adds value to it, and + cites the saying of another nobleman, that "there is indeed some stuff in + it, but it is Swift's stuff." It has been said that Swift has never taken + a thought from any writer ancient or modern. This is not literally true, + but the instances are not many, and in my notes I have pointed out the + lines snatched from Milton, Denham, Butler—the last evidently a + great favourite. + </p> + <p> + It seems necessary to state shortly the causes of Swift not having + obtained higher preferment. Besides that Queen Anne would never be + reconciled to the author of the "Tale of a Tub"—the true purport of + which was so ill-understood by her—he made an irreconcilable enemy + of her friend, the Duchess of Somerset, by his lampoon entitled "The + Windsor Prophecy." But Swift seldom allowed prudence to restrain his wit + and humour, and admits of himself that he "had too much satire in his + vein"; and that "a genius in the reverend gown must ever keep its owner + down"; and says further: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; + He reconciled divinity and wit. +</pre> + <p> + But that was what his enemies could not do. + </p> + <p> + Whatever the excellences and defects of the poems, Swift has erected, not + only by his works, but by his benevolence and his charities, a <i>monumentum + aere perennius,</i> and his writings in prose and verse will continue to + afford instruction and delight when the malevolence of Jeffrey, the + misrepresentations of Macaulay, and the sneers and false statements of + Thackeray shall have been forgotten. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] + </h2> + <h3> + LATE LORD BISHOP OF CANTERBURY + </h3> + <p> + WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven, + Bright effluence of th'immortal ray, + Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven, + Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day; + First of God's darling attributes, + Thou daily seest him face to face, + Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance + Of time or place, + Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance; + How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes? + How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd, + Or a weak argument by force maintain'd? + In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words, + (For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,) + Contrived to tire all patience out, + And not to satisfy the doubt? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + But where is even thy Image on our earth? + For of the person much I fear, + Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth, + And God himself has said, He shall not find it here. + For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade, + By dark reverted rays from its reflection made; + Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass, + Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass; + Which all the mimic forms express, + Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress; + So when Cartesian artists try + To solve appearances of sight + In its reception to the eye, + And catch the living landscape through a scanty light, + The figures all inverted show, + And colours of a faded hue; + Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads, + And men seem walking on their heads; + There whole herds suspended lie, + Ready to tumble down into the sky; + Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go + To judge of things above by things below. + Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams, + Or images that sink in streams; + No wonder, then, we talk amiss + Of truth, and what, or where it is; + Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st, + Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be + (High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee, + If a mind fix'd to combat fate + With those two powerful swords, submission and humility, + Sounds truly good, or truly great; + Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest, + In the divinity of retreat, + Be not the brightest pattern earth can show + Of heaven-born Truth below; + But foolish man still judges what is best + In his own balance, false and light, + Following opinion, dark and blind, + That vagrant leader of the mind, + Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + And some, to be large ciphers in a state, + Pleased with an empty swelling to be counted great, + Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space, + Rapt through the wide expanse of thought, + And oft in contradiction's vortex caught, + To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place; + Errors like this did old astronomers misguide, + Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride, + Who, like hard masters, taught the sun + Through many a heedless sphere to run, + Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make, + And thousand incoherent journeys take, + Whilst all th'advantage by it got, + Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. + The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state + Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, + Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still; + But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate, + By gazing upward giddy grow, + And think the church itself does so; + Thus fools, for being strong and num'rous known, + Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own; + And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears, + Because 'tis opposite to theirs. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise, + Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies + In gath'ring follies from the wise; + Rather put on thy anger and thy spite, + And some kind power for once dispense + Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense, + To make them understand, and feel me when I write; + The muse and I no more revenge desire, + Each line shall stab, shall blast, like daggers and like fire; + Ah, Britain, land of angels! which of all thy sins, + (Say, hapless isle, although + It is a bloody list we know,) + Has given thee up a dwelling-place to fiends? + Sin and the plague ever abound + In governments too easy, and too fruitful ground; + Evils which a too gentle king, + Too flourishing a spring, + And too warm summers bring: + Our British soil is over rank, and breeds + Among the noblest flowers a thousand pois'nous weeds, + And every stinking weed so lofty grows, + As if 'twould overshade the Royal Rose; + The Royal Rose, the glory of our morn, + But, ah! too much without a thorn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + Forgive (original mildness) this ill-govern'd zeal, + 'Tis all the angry slighted Muse can do + In the pollution of these days; + No province now is left her but to rail, + And poetry has lost the art to praise, + Alas, the occasions are so few: + None e'er but you, + And your Almighty Master, knew + With heavenly peace of mind to bear + (Free from our tyrant passions, anger, scorn, or fear) + The giddy turns of popular rage, + And all the contradictions of a poison'd age; + The Son of God pronounced by the same breath + Which straight pronounced his death; + And though I should but ill be understood, + In wholly equalling our sin and theirs, + And measuring by the scanty thread of wit + What we call holy, and great, and just, and good, + (Methods in talk whereof our pride and ignorance make use,) + And which our wild ambition foolishly compares + With endless and with infinite; + Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say, + Among thy stubborn sons there haunts that spirit of the Jews, + That those forsaken wretches who to-day + Revile his great ambassador, + Seem to discover what they would have done + (Were his humanity on earth once more) + To his undoubted Master, Heaven's Almighty Son. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wondrous proud, + Though very turbulent and very loud; + The crazy composition shows, + Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes, + Made up of iron mixt with clay, + This crumbles into dust, + That moulders into rust, + Or melts by the first shower away. + Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know, + Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so; + And those, alas, do show, + Like all transcendent excellence below; + In both, false mediums cheat our sight, + And far exalted objects lessen by their height: + Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high + To be observed by vulgar eye, + And rolls the silent year + On his own secret regular sphere, + And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + Kind star, still may'st thou shed thy sacred influence here, + Or from thy private peaceful orb appear; + For, sure, we want some guide from Heaven, to show + The way which every wand'ring fool below + Pretends so perfectly to know; + And which, for aught I see, and much I fear, + The world has wholly miss'd; + I mean the way which leads to Christ: + Mistaken idiots! see how giddily they run, + Led blindly on by avarice and pride, + What mighty numbers follow them; + Each fond of erring with his guide: + Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son + In Caesar's court, or in Jerusalem: + Others, ignorantly wise, + Among proud doctors and disputing Pharisees: + What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn; + Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said + That Heaven's high Son was in a village born; + That the world's Saviour had been + In a vile manger laid, + And foster'd in a wretched inn? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, + Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state; + Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste, + To mend dilapidations in the last? + And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince, + Thinks Heaven has cancell'd all our sins, + And that his subjects share his happy influence; + Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should, + But wicked kings draw more examples than the good: + And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight + Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress'd, + Finding the mitre almost grown + A load as heavy as the crown, + Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state, + Nor hurricano from the crown, + Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late, + Which, in its dusky march along the plain, + Swept up whole churches as it list, + Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist; + Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, + And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. + Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne; + The mitre, which his sacred head has worn, + Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn. + Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last, + The bitter cup is from him past: + Fortune in both extremes + Though blasts from contrariety of winds, + Yet to firm heavenly minds, + Is but one thing under two different names; + And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seen, + Confesses ignorance to judge between; + And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, + To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, + Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat; + Short glimm'rings of the prelate glorified; + Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide. + Why should the Sun, alas! be proud + To lodge behind a golden cloud? + Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay, + 'Tis but a low-born vapour kindled by a ray: + At length 'tis overblown and past, + Puff'd by the people's spiteful blast, + The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, + No deflower'd eye can face the naked light: + Yet does this high perfection well proceed + From strength of its own native seed, + This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, + Bears one, and but one branch of gold, + Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove, + And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve, + To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; + For, whate'er theologic levellers dream, + There are degrees above, I know, + As well as here below, + (The goddess Muse herself has told me so), + Where high patrician souls, dress'd heavenly gay, + Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day. + There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given, + In the metropolis of Heaven; + Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, + Translated to archangel there. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + Since, happy saint, since it has been of late + Either our blindness or our fate, + To lose the providence of thy cares + Pity a miserable church's tears, + That begs the powerful blessing of thy prayers. + Some angel, say, what were the nation's crimes, + That sent these wild reformers to our times: + Say what their senseless malice meant, + To tear religion's lovely face: + Strip her of every ornament and grace; + In striving to wash off th'imaginary paint? + Religion now does on her death-bed lie, + Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy; + How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill, + And by their college arts methodically kill: + Reformers and physicians differ but in name, + One end in both, and the design the same; + Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean + Is but the patient's death, and gain— + Check in thy satire, angry Muse, + Or a more worthy subject choose: + Let not the outcasts of an outcast age + Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage, + Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, + Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd— + + [The rest of the poem is lost.] + + [Footnote 1: Born Jan., 1616-17; died 1693. For his life, see "Dictionary + of National Biography."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies! + Till its first emperor, rebellious man, + Deposed from off his seat, + It fell, and broke with its own weight + Into small states and principalities, + By many a petty lord possess'd, + But ne'er since seated in one single breast. + 'Tis you who must this land subdue, + The mighty conquest's left for you, + The conquest and discovery too: + Search out this Utopian ground, + Virtue's Terra Incognita, + Where none ever led the way, + Nor ever since but in descriptions found; + Like the philosopher's stone, + With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + We have too long been led astray; + Too long have our misguided souls been taught + With rules from musty morals brought, + 'Tis you must put us in the way; + Let us (for shame!) no more be fed + With antique relics of the dead, + The gleanings of philosophy; + Philosophy, the lumber of the schools, + The roguery of alchymy; + And we, the bubbled fools, + Spend all our present life, in hopes of golden rules. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? + We oddly Plato's paradox make good, + Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all; + Remembrance is our treasure and our food; + Nature's fair table-book, our tender souls, + We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, + Stale memorandums of the schools: + For learning's mighty treasures look + Into that deep grave, a book; + Think that she there does all her treasures hide, + And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since she died; + Confine her walks to colleges and schools; + Her priests, her train, and followers, show + As if they all were spectres too! + They purchase knowledge at th'expense + Of common breeding, common sense, + And grow at once scholars and fools; + Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, + Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility, + And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, + Which greedily they swallow down, + Still cast it up, and nauseate company. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! + (If it may lawful be + To curse our greatest enemy,) + Who learn'd himself that heresy first, + (Which since has seized on all the rest,) + That knowledge forfeits all humanity; + Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor, + And fling our scraps before our door! + Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest; + Those mighty epithets, learned, good, and great, + Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, + We find in you at last united grown. + You cannot be compared to one: + I must, like him that painted Venus' face, + Borrow from every one a grace; + Virgil and Epicurus will not do, + Their courting a retreat like you, + Unless I put in Caesar's learning too: + Your happy frame at once controls + This great triumvirate of souls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate; + He sav'd his country by delays, + But you by peace.[1] + You bought it at a cheaper rate; + Nor has it left the usual bloody scar, + To show it cost its price in war; + War, that mad game the world so loves to play, + And for it does so dearly pay; + For, though with loss, or victory, a while + Fortune the gamesters does beguile, + Yet at the last the box sweeps all away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + Only the laurel got by peace + No thunder e'er can blast: + Th'artillery of the skies + Shoots to the earth and dies: + And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, + Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. + About the head crown'd with these bays, + Like lambent fire, the lightning plays; + Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, + Makes up its solemn train with death; + It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks, + Which we call deep designs and politics, + (As in a theatre the ignorant fry, + Because the cords escape their eye, + Wonder to see the motions fly,) + Methinks, when you expose the scene, + Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; + Off fly the vizards, and discover all: + How plain I see through the deceit! + How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! + Look where the pulley's tied above! + Great God! (said I) what have I seen! + On what poor engines move + The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states! + What petty motives rule their fates! + How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake! + The mighty mountain labours with its birth, + Away the frighten'd peasants fly, + Scared at the unheard-of prodigy, + Expect some great gigantic son of earth; + Lo! it appears! + See how they tremble! how they quake! + Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + Then tell, dear favourite Muse! + What serpent's that which still resorts, + Still lurks in palaces and courts? + Take thy unwonted flight, + And on the terrace light. + See where she lies! + See how she rears her head, + And rolls about her dreadful eyes, + To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! + 'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence, + And though as some ('tis said) for their defence + Have worn a casement o'er their skin, + So wore he his within, + Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; + And though he oft renew'd the fight, + And almost got priority of sight, + He ne'er could overcome her quite, + In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite; + Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease, + Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat, + And in some untouch'd virgin strain, + Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; + Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields; + Go, publish o'er the plain + How mighty a proselyte you gain! + How noble a reprisal on the great! + How is the Muse luxuriant grown! + Whene'er she takes this flight, + She soars clear out of sight. + These are the paradises of her own: + Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse, + Though ne'er so gently led, + To the loved pastures where he used to feed, + Runs violent o'er his usual course. + Wake from thy wanton dreams, + Come from thy dear-loved streams, + The crooked paths of wandering Thames. + Fain the fair nymph would stay, + Oft she looks back in vain, + Oft 'gainst her fountain does complain, + And softly steals in many windings down, + As loth to see the hated court and town; + And murmurs as she glides away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + In this new happy scene + Are nobler subjects for your learned pen; + Here we expect from you + More than your predecessor Adam knew; + Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport, + Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court; + How that which we a kernel see, + (Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, + Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,) + Shall ere long grow into a tree; + Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, + Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth, + Where all the fruitful atoms lie; + How some go downward to the root, + Some more ambitious upwards fly, + And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. + You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain, + Your garden's better worth your nobler pain, + Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + Shall I believe a spirit so divine + Was cast in the same mould with mine? + Why then does Nature so unjustly share + Among her elder sons the whole estate, + And all her jewels and her plate? + Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, + Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: + Some she binds 'prentice to the spade, + Some to the drudgery of a trade: + Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, + Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw: + Some she condemns for life to try + To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy: + Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied: + In vain I strive to cross the spacious main, + In vain I tug and pull the oar; + And when I almost reach the shore, + Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again: + And yet, to feed my pride, + Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath, + With promise of a mad reversion after death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, + The tribute of an humble Muse, + 'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; + Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, + And kindled first with indolence and ease; + And since too oft debauch'd by praise, + 'Tis now grown an incurable disease: + In vain to quench this foolish fire I try + In wisdom and philosophy: + In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, + Where nought but weeds will grow + Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) + By an equivocal birth, + Seeds, and runs up to poetry. + + [Footnote 1: Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Holland, + and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty + of Nimeguen, 1679.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO KING WILLIAM + </h2> + <h3> + ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown, + Are arts peculiar to dissembling France; + You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown, + And solid virtue does your name advance. + + Your matchless courage with your prudence joins, + The glorious structure of your fame to raise; + With its own light your dazzling glory shines, + And into adoration turns our praise. + + Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown, + (Cowards are monarchs by that title made,) + Part of your merit Chance would call her own, + And half your virtues had been lost in shade. + + But now your worth its just reward shall have: + What trophies and what triumphs are your due! + Who could so well a dying nation save, + At once deserve a crown, and gain it too. + + You saw how near we were to ruin brought, + You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on; + And timely on the coming danger thought, + Which we could neither obviate nor shun. + + Britannia stripp'd of her sole guard, the laws, + Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice; + You straight stepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws + Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize. + + Nor this is all; as glorious is the care + To preserve conquests, as at first to gain: + In this your virtue claims a double share, + Which, what it bravely won, does well maintain. + + Your arm has now your rightful title show'd, + An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, + To which they look as to some guardian God, + That must their doubtful liberty defend. + + Amazed, thy action at the Boyne we see! + When Schomberg started at the vast design: + The boundless glory all redounds to thee, + The impulse, the fight, th'event, were wholly thine. + + The brave attempt does all our foes disarm; + You need but now give orders and command, + Your name shall the remaining work perform, + And spare the labour of your conquering hand. + + France does in vain her feeble arts apply, + To interrupt the fortune of your course: + Your influence does the vain attacks defy + Of secret malice, or of open force. + + Boldly we hence the brave commencement date + Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ; + William's the pledge and earnest given by fate, + Of England's glory, and her lasting joy. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Moor Park, Feb.</i> 14, 1691. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + As when the deluge first began to fall, + That mighty ebb never to flow again, + When this huge body's moisture was so great, + It quite o'ercame the vital heat; + That mountain which was highest, first of all + Appear'd above the universal main, + To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight; + And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height + It be as great as 'tis in fame, + And nigh to Heaven as is its name; + So, after the inundation of a war, + When learning's little household did embark, + With her world's fruitful system, in her sacred ark, + At the first ebb of noise and fears, + Philosophy's exalted head appears; + And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay, + But plumes her silver wings, and flies away; + And now a laurel wreath she brings from far, + To crown the happy conqueror, + To show the flood begins to cease, + And brings the dear reward of victory and peace. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline, + When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew, + When the bright sun of peace began to shine, + And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat, + On the high top of peaceful Ararat; + And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew, + The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,) + And thence, with joyful, nimble wing, + Flew dutifully back again, + And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2] + And the Dove-Muse is fled once more, + (Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war,) + And now discovers from afar + A peaceful and a flourishing shore: + No sooner did she land + On the delightful strand, + Than straight she sees the country all around, + Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile, + Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd, + And many a pleasant wood; + As if the universal Nile + Had rather water'd it than drown'd: + It seems some floating piece of Paradise, + Preserved by wonder from the flood, + Long wandering through the deep, as we are told + Famed Delos[3] did of old; + And the transported Muse imagined it + To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit, + Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove; + When, with amazing joy, she hears + An unknown music all around, + Charming her greedy ears + With many a heavenly song + Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love; + While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue. + In vain she catches at the empty sound, + In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, + And courts the wanton echoes as they fly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, + The wild excursions of a youthful pen; + Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse, + Whom blind and eager curiosity + (Yet curiosity, they say, + Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse) + Has forced to grope her uncouth way, + After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye: + No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense + For a dear ramble through impertinence; + Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind. + And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, + Though we be of two different factions still, + Both the good-natured and the ill, + Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find + We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit. + In me, who am of the first sect of these, + All merit, that transcends the humble rules + Of my own dazzled scanty sense, + Begets a kinder folly and impertinence + Of admiration and of praise. + And our good brethren of the surly sect, + Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: + For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made + Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; + Yet the same want of brains produces each effect. + And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud + From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd, + Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud, + Who both our follies and impertinences see, + Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + But censure's to be understood + Th'authentic mark of the elect, + The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good, + Our shallow search and judgment to direct. + The war, methinks, has made + Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; + Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy + A stock of wisdom and philosophy, + We fondly stay at home, in fear + Of every censuring privateer; + Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale, + And selling basely by retail. + The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, + Who fain would rule the pulpit, as they do the stage, + Wondrous refiners of philosophy, + Of morals and divinity, + By the new modish system of reducing all to sense, + Against all logic, and concluding laws, + Do own th'effects of Providence, + And yet deny the cause. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + This hopeful sect, now it begins to see + How little, very little, do prevail + Their first and chiefest force + To censure, to cry down, and rail, + Not knowing what, or where, or who you be, + Will quickly take another course: + And, by their never-failing ways + Of solving all appearances they please, + We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall, + And straight deny you to be men, or anything at all. + I laugh at the grave answer they will make, + Which they have always ready, general, and cheap: + 'Tis but to say, that what we daily meet, + And by a fond mistake + Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit, + And think, alas! to be by mortals writ, + Is but a crowd of atoms justling in a heap: + Which, from eternal seeds begun, + Justling some thousand years, till ripen'd by the sun: + They're now, just now, as naturally born, + As from the womb of earth a field of corn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + But as for poor contented me, + Who must my weakness and my ignorance confess, + That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to see; + Methinks I'm satisfied to guess, + That this new, noble, and delightful scene, + Is wonderfully moved by some exalted men, + Who have well studied in the world's disease, + (That epidemic error and depravity, + Or in our judgment or our eye,) + That what surprises us can only please. + We often search contentedly the whole world round, + To make some great discovery, + And scorn it when 'tis found. + Just so the mighty Nile has suffer'd in its fame, + Because 'tis said (and perhaps only said) + We've found a little inconsiderable head, + That feeds the huge unequal stream. + Consider human folly, and you'll quickly own, + That all the praises it can give, + By which some fondly boast they shall for ever live, + Won't pay th'impertinence of being known: + Else why should the famed Lydian king,[4] + (Whom all the charms of an usurped wife and state, + With all that power unfelt, courts mankind to be great, + Did with new unexperienced glories wait,) + Still wear, still dote on his invisible ring? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + Were I to form a regular thought of Fame, + Which is, perhaps, as hard t'imagine right, + As to paint Echo to the sight, + I would not draw the idea from an empty name; + Because, alas! when we all die, + Careless and ignorant posterity, + Although they praise the learning and the wit, + And though the title seems to show + The name and man by whom the book was writ, + Yet how shall they be brought to know, + Whether that very name was he, or you, or I? + Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise, + And water-colours of these days: + These days! where e'en th'extravagance of poetry + Is at a loss for figures to express + Men's folly, whimseys, and inconstancy, + And by a faint description makes them less. + Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it? + Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit, + Enthroned with heavenly Wit! + Look where you see + The greatest scorn of learned vanity! + (And then how much a nothing is mankind! + Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air, + Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; + And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, + Which yet whoe'er examines right will find + To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) + And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there, + Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: + And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + The juggling sea-god,[5] when by chance trepann'd + By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, + Impatient of all answers, straight became + A stealing brook, and strove to creep away + Into his native sea, + Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; + But disappointed of his fond desire, + Would vanish in a pyramid of fire. + This surly, slippery God, when he design'd + To furnish his escapes, + Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes + Than you, to please and satisfy mankind, + And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, + So well you answer all phenomena there: + Though madmen and the wits, philosophers and fools, + With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream, + And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; + Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame, + Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; + Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night, + The God of learning and of light + Would want a God himself to help him out. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Philosophy, as it before us lies, + Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste + Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, + From every age through which it pass'd, + But always with a stronger relish of the last. + This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd + To be the great original + For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, + In what mock habits have they put her since the fall! + More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages', + She seems a medley of all ages, + With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, + A new commode, a topknot, and a ruff, + Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry, + With a long sweeping train + Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, + All of old cut with a new dye: + How soon have you restored her charms, + And rid her of her lumber and her books, + Drest her again genteel and neat, + And rather tight than great! + How fond we are to court her to our arms! + How much of heaven is in her naked looks! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, + And ev'n my very thoughts transfers + And changes all to beauty and the praise + Of that proud tyrant sex of hers. + The rebel Muse, alas! takes part, + But with my own rebellious heart, + And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire + To fan th'unhappy fire. + Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? + Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! + Rather forgive what my first transport said: + May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, + Lie upon you and on your children's head! + For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see + The fatal time when that could be!) + Have even increased their pride and cruelty. + Woman seems now above all vanity grown, + Still boasting of her great unknown + Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, + Or the vast charges of a smile; + Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late + You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, + And which they've now the consciences to weigh + In the same balance with our tears, + And with such scanty wages pay + The bondage and the slavery of years. + Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; + And had they common generosity, + They would not use us thus. + Well—though you've raised her to this high degree, + Ourselves are raised as well as she; + And, spite of all that they or you can do, + 'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, + Still to be of the same exalted sex with you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + Alas, how fleeting and how vain + Is even the nobler man, our learning and our wit! + I sigh whene'er I think of it: + As at the closing an unhappy scene + Of some great king and conqueror's death, + When the sad melancholy Muse + Stays but to catch his utmost breath. + I grieve, this nobler work, most happily begun, + So quickly and so wonderfully carried on, + May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse. + There is a noontide in our lives, + Which still the sooner it arrives, + Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, + And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, + Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. + No conquest ever yet begun, + And by one mighty hero carried to its height, + E'er flourished under a successor or a son; + It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pass'd, + And vanish'd to an empty title in the last. + For, when the animating mind is fled, + (Which nature never can retain, + Nor e'er call back again,) + The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare + With what unhappy men shall dare + To be successors to these great unknown, + On learning's high-establish'd throne. + Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, + Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, + Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth + From Ignorance's universal North, + And with blind rage break all this peaceful government: + Yet shall the traces of your wit remain, + Like a just map, to tell the vast extent + Of conquest in your short and happy reign: + And to all future mankind shew + How strange a paradox is true, + That men who lived and died without a name + Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses, + said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this + denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to + Dryden."—Johnson in his "Life of Swift."—<i>W. E. B.</i> + + In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton, + the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and + Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was + prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became + fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana. + See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which + made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and + mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii, + 9.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR. CONGREVE + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, + The Muse was called in a poetic hour, + And insolently thrice the slighted maid + Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; + Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, + Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine. + Once highly honoured! false is the pretence + You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! + Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down + The most ungenerous vices of the town; + Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before + I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, + Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, + So much in mode, so very city-born; + 'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, + Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; + But find some new address, some fresh deceit, + Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; + These are the beaten methods of the stews, + Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, + Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, + By prostituting her they first debauch. + Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame + This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; + First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, + Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; + Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, + The greatest compliment she ever made, + And wisely judge, no power beneath divine + Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; + For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd + A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt. + Nor tax the goddess of a mean design + To praise your parts by publishing of mine; + That be my thought when some large bulky writ + Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; + There to surmount what bears me up, and sing + Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing. + This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, + Were my desires but heighten'd to my power. + Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, + Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; + Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride + That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; + A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, + Gets between them and my resentment's weight, + Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, + T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen. + Thus I look down with mercy on the age, + By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: + For never did poetic mind before + Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; + The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind + Serves by retail to furnish half mankind. + With indignation I behold your wit + Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, + By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain + From broken scraps and filings of your brain. + Through native dross your share is hardly known, + And by short views mistook for all their own; + So small the gains those from your wit do reap, + Who blend it into folly's larger heap, + Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass, + When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass. + Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, + Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal. + These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain + With those they rob, by what their trade does gain. + Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds + O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds, + Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam, + As ancient nature's modern masters dream; + This bids some curious praters here below + Call Titan sick, because their sight is so; + And well, methinks, does this allusion fit + To scribblers, and the god of light and wit; + Those who by wild delusions entertain + A lust of rhyming for a poet's vein, + Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night, + But can no more obscure my Congreve's light, + Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray + Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day. + What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit? + Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit? + How would you blush the shameful birth to hear + Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear; + For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since, + Round all the circles of impertinence, + Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie + Before it grew a city butterfly; + I'm sure I found them other kind of things + Than those with backs of silk and golden wings; + A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise + As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies: + For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread, + And court in prologues, all are country bred; + Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins + Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns; + Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux + Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows: + These are the lords of the poetic schools, + Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules; + Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds + O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods; + Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes, + Which worshipp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes; + And can you think the wise forbear to laugh + At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf? + Haply you judge these lines severely writ + Against the proud usurpers of the pit; + Stay while I tell my story, short, and true; + To draw conclusions shall be left to you; + Nor need I ramble far to force a rule, + But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school. + Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent + With other cattle to the city went; + Where having cast his coat, and well pursued + The methods most in fashion to be lewd, + Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down, + Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town; + A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit, + Confounded in that Babel of the pit; + Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild, + Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child; + Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts, + Before the play, or else between the acts; + Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds + Should spring such short and transitory kinds, + Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote, + Last just as long as every cuckoo's note: + What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate! + 'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate, + My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed + Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: + When man's ill genius to my presence sent + This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant; + Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace, + Squander'd his noisy talents to my face; + Named every player on his fingers' ends, + Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends; + Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease + Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2] + Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd, + Who heard you meant to write heroics next; + For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite, + And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night. + Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, + Rendering shades things, and substances of names; + Such high companions may delusion keep, + Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep. + As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, + Render'd the topping beauty of the town, + Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, + To boast of favours that he never got; + Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, + Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; + And not the meanest coxcomb you can find, + But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; + Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown + To every lewd pretender of the town. + Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, + You find, to be the fashionable wit; + These are the slaves whom reputation chains, + Whose maintenance requires no help from brains. + For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, + Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; + Whose name must not within my lines be shown, + Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4] + Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, + And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; + I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass, + Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass; + Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, + Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. + Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent + In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; + In how ill season her resentments rule, + What's that to her if mankind be a fool? + Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, + In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5] + Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, + She still is welcome with her innocent song; + Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, + What poor regards would merit all below! + How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, + And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet! + Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave + Gives murmuring passage to a lasting wave: + 'Tis the world's watery hour-glass streaming fast, + Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; + Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, + And the young Muse's early favour felt; + Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, + Confessing Albion once her darling seat; + Far in this primitive cell might we pursue + Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; + Here would we sing—But, ah! you think I dream, + And the bad world may well believe the same; + Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, + While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I. + Since thus I wander from my first intent, + Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, + Take this short lesson from the god of bays, + And let my friend apply it as he please: + Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, + But give the vigorous fancy room. + For when, like stupid alchymists, you try + To fix this nimble god, + This volatile mercury, + The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; + Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find + More than <i>fade</i> insipid mixture left behind.[6] + While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, + And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom; + The Muse like some bright country virgin shows + Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; + They, in their lewd and fashionable prate, + Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; + Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, + Current like copper, and as often paid: + She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep + Near better animals, her father's sheep, + Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, + To think what cattle she is got among; + But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, + In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid. + 'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, + The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; + Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, + Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies. + In this descending sheet you'll haply find + Some short refreshment for your weary mind, + Nought it contains is common or unclean, + And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an + estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor + Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and <i>post</i>, p. 43.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where + the wits of that time used to assemble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and + notes, edit. 1786.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite + multitude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name + mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together + with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.—<i>S.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently + gives the name of Apollo.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it + is lost.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of + "Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike + At distant hours the mind with forms so like! + Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain + Meets, and salutes her sister link again; + Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, + Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; + Or whether dead Imagination's ghost + Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; + Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, + Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; + Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride + O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: + Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, + Where her own Temple was her darling theme; + There first the visionary sound was heard, + When to poetic view the Muse appear'd. + Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray + Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; + Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, + Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; + Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show + Approaching joy at strife with parting woe. + As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, + Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, + Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, + Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; + When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, + A sign God's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: + Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine + Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine. + What mortal change does in thy face appear, + Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here! + With how undecent clouds are overcast + Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past! + Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, + Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: + As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, + Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, + And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear + Late I beheld on every face appear; + Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, + Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; + Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long + Not dared to injure with our lowly song; + Sprung from a better world, and chosen then + The best companion for the best of men: + As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, + Lives pious witness of a better age; + So men may see what once was womankind, + In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind. + You that would grief describe, come here and trace + Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: + Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart + Farther than its own palace in her heart: + Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, + At least confine the tyrant to his cell. + And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen + Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? + Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, + And grief flung sables on each menial look; + The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, + That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; + So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, + Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; + So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread + That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.— + Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ + The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; + And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, + Who dare revile the integrity of verse: + Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!— + But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; + Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect + Thy just submission for this bold neglect. + Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use + At the divine appearance of the Muse, + Which to divulge might shake profane belief, + And tell the irreligion of my grief; + Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, + And shaped my passion in such words as these! + Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, + Thou universal cause of all my woes; + Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late + A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; + The malice thou inspirest I never fail + On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; + Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, + Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: + Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, + Deals out to man the planet of his birth: + But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine, + And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: + Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, + That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, + But a wild form dependent on the brain, + Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; + Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, + Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; + Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, + Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: + In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, + A walking vapour, like thy sister fame. + But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, + A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; + Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, + So highly courted by the brisk and gay? + Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look + On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; + Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, + Assign'd for life to unremitting grief; + For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, + If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. + Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, + And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, + That we the wretched, creeping far behind, + Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; + Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born + With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3] + Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, + Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; + But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace + Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face. + Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows + Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: + See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, + These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; + Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, + Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; + March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, + Still scattering desolation where they go. + To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, + Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; + To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, + That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; + From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, + Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; + Such were thy rules to be poetically great: + "Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; + Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; + Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; + Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, + Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4] + And since unhappy distance thus denies + T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; + Since thy few ill-presented graces seem + To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem—" + Madness like this no fancy ever seized, + Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; + Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds + Is all the poor content delusion finds.— + There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour + I here renounce thy visionary power; + And since thy essence on my breath depends + Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter + Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to + Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at + Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died + in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and + amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his + wife.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "—when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main." + POPE, <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, 372-3.] + + [Footnote 4: "Hic murus aheneus esto, + Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa." + HOR., <i>Epist. 1</i>, I, 60.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, + And think thou seest my owner's heart, + Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite + As hard, as senseless, and as light; + Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes, + But hid with caution from the wise. + Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;" + Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:" + Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;" + There, in her own, "For an el breth:" + Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" + There, "A safe way to use perfume:" + Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; + On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"— + "Madam, I die without your grace"— + "Item, for half a yard of lace." + Who that had wit would place it here, + For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer? + To think that your brains' issue is + Exposed to th'excrement of his, + In pow'r of spittle and a clout, + Whene'er he please, to blot it out; + And then, to heighten the disgrace, + Clap his own nonsense in the place. + Whoe'er expects to hold his part + In such a book, and such a heart, + If he be wealthy, and a fool, + Is in all points the fittest tool; + Of whom it may be justly said, + He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This, the most humorous example of <i>vers de société</i> in the English + language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of + distinction at that period.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1] + The humble petition of Frances Harris, + Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; + Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber, + because I was cold; + And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, + (besides farthings) in money and gold; + So because I had been buying things for my lady last night, + I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right. + Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, + Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock, + I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock. + So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was + unript, + And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; + Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; + And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead. + So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light; + But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have + sunk outright. + "Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"—"Indeed," says I, "never worse: + But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?" + "Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!" + "Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case." + So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: + However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. + So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, + But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. + So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round, + And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was + found. + So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing: + Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing. + "Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have + had?" + "Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad: + For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail." + "Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." + Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years + come spring, + And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." + "Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord + Shrewsbury's, + Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of <i>gooseberries</i>." + So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief: + (Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:) + However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: + "Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out: + 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10] + But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. + 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole + in my wages: + Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. + Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands, + That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands." + "The <i>devil</i> take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!" + So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught. + So, you know, what could I say to her any more? + I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. + Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: + "No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon." + So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, + Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. + So, as the <i>devil</i> would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, + "<i>Parson</i>" said I, "can you cast a <i>nativity</i>, when a body's plunder'd?" + (Now you must know, he hates to be called <i>Parson</i>, like the <i>devil!</i>) + "Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; + If your money be gone, as a learned <i>Divine</i> says,[12] d'ye see, + You are no <i>text</i> for my handling; so take that from me: + I was never taken for a <i>Conjurer</i> before, I'd have you to know." + "Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; + You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife; + I never took one in <i>your coat</i> for a conjurer in all my life." + With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, + "Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. + Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do? + I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" + Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry; + I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will + I." + Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to? + For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. + The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' + protection, + And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; + And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, + With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: + And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, + Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his <i>trade</i>,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever + <i>pray</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.] + + [Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.] + + [Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.] + + [Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.] + + [Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.] + + [Footnote 6: Galway.] + + [Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed + the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.] + + [Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.] + + [Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st + Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p. + 79—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 11: Swift.] + + [Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.] + + [Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a <i>trade</i>. See his + letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver, + "Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, + Delivers cards about, + But the first knave does seldom fail + To find the doctor out. + + But then his honour cried, Gadzooks! + And seem'd to knit his brow: + For on a knave he never looks + But he thinks upon Jack How.[2] + + My lady, though she is no player, + Some bungling partner takes, + And, wedged in corner of a chair, + Takes snuff, and holds the stakes. + + Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense + For pair royals and sequents; + But, wisely cautious of her pence, + The castle seldom frequents. + + Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases, + I'd won it, on my word, + If I had but a pair of aces, + And could pick up a third. + + But Weston has a new-cast gown + On Sundays to be fine in, + And, if she can but win a crown, + 'Twill just new dye the lining. + + "With these is Parson Swift,[5] + Not knowing how to spend his time, + Does make a wretched shift, + To deafen them with puns and rhyme." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.] + + [Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.] + + [Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her, + <i>post</i>, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially + with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works," + ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.] + + [Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John + Germaine.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Once on a time, as old stories rehearse, + A friar would need show his talent in Latin; + But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse, + Because he could find no word to come pat in; + Then all in the place + He left a void space, + And so went to bed in a desperate case: + When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! + He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle. + CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; + Who would not write verses with such an assistant? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + This put me the friar into an amazement; + For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; + That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; + And it needs must be one that could both read and write; + Yet he did not know, + If it were friend or foe, + Or whether it came from above or below; + Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf, + For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains + In making a ballad, but was at a stand; + He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, + When he found a new help from invisible hand. + Then, good Doctor Swift + Pay thanks for the gift, + For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; + And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, + You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the + author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which + gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit + hand, as if a third person had done it.—<i>Swift</i>. + + The <i>Cut-Purse</i> is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in + Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the + ballad is: + "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse + Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DISCOVERY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] + Statesmen and mob expected wonders, + Nor thought to find so great a peer + Ere a week past committing blunders. + Till on a day cut out by fate, + When folks came thick to make their court, + Out slipt a mystery of state + To give the town and country sport. + Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, + His lordship's premier minister; + And who in all profound affairs, + Is held as needful as his clyster.[2] + With head reclining on his shoulder, + He deals and hears mysterious chat, + While every ignorant beholder + Asks of his neighbour, who is that? + With this he put up to my lord, + The courtiers kept their distance due, + He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; + Then to a corner both withdrew. + Imagine now my lord and Bush + Whispering in junto most profound, + Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3] + While all the rest stood gaping round. + At length a spark, not too well bred, + Of forward face and ear acute, + Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, + To overhear the grand dispute; + To learn what Northern kings design, + Or from Whitehall some new express, + Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; + For sure (thought he) it can't be less. + My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, + Disguised in two old threadbare coats, + Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy + How markets went for hay and oats. + With that he draws two handfuls out, + The one was oats, the other hay; + Puts this to's excellency's snout, + And begs he would the other weigh. + My lord seems pleased, but still directs + By all means to bring down the rates; + Then, with a congee circumflex, + Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. + Our listener stood awhile confused, + But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, + Enraged to see the world abused, + By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: To Ireland, as one of the Lords Justices.] + + [Footnote 2: Who, by insinuating that the post of secretary was + unsuitable for a clergyman, obtained it for himself, though it had been + promised to Swift; and when Swift claimed the Deanery of Derry, in virtue + of Lord Berkeley's promise of the "first good preferment that should fall + in his gift," the earl referred him to Bush, who told him that it was + promised to another, but that if he would lay down a thousand pounds for + it he should have the preference. Swift, enraged at the insult, + immediately left the castle; but was ultimately pacified by being + presented with the Rectory of Agher and the Vicarages of Laracor and + Rathbeggan. See Forster's "Life of Swift," p. 111; Birkbeck Hill's + "Letters of Swift," and "Prose Works," vol. xi, 380.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Always taken before my lord went to council.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal"; the celebrated farce + written by the Duke of Buckingham, in conjunction with Martin Clifford, + Butler, Sprat, and others, in ridicule of the rhyming tragedies then in + vogue, and especially of Dryden in the character of Bayes.—See Malone's + "Life of Dryden," p. 95.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal," Act I, Sc. 1; Act II, + Sc. 1; always whispering each other.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROBLEM, + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS WHEN HE IS IN LOVE" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did ever problem thus perplex, + Or more employ the female sex? + So sweet a passion who would think, + Jove ever form'd to make a stink? + The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, + Whether it be a truth or lie. + Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, + Works in my lord by stool and sweat, + Which brings a stink from every pore, + And from behind and from before; + Yet what is wonderful to tell it, + None but the favourite nymph can smell it. + But now, to solve the natural cause + By sober philosophic laws; + Whether all passions, when in ferment, + Work out as anger does in vermin; + So, when a weasel you torment, + You find his passion by his scent. + We read of kings, who, in a fright, + Though on a throne, would fall to sh—. + Beside all this, deep scholars know, + That the main string of Cupid's bow, + Once on a time was an a— gut; + Now to a nobler office put, + By favour or desert preferr'd + From giving passage to a t—; + But still, though fix'd among the stars, + Does sympathize with human a—. + Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech, + Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch, + Till the kind looseness comes, and then, + Conclude the bow relax'd again. + And now, the ladies all are bent, + To try the great experiment, + Ambitious of a regent's heart, + Spread all their charms to catch a f— + Watching the first unsavoury wind, + Some ply before, and some behind. + My lord, on fire amid the dames, + F—ts like a laurel in the flames. + The fair approach the speaking part, + To try the back-way to his heart. + For, as when we a gun discharge, + Although the bore be none so large, + Before the flame from muzzle burst, + Just at the breech it flashes first; + So from my lord his passion broke, + He f—d first and then he spoke. + The ladies vanish in the smother, + To confer notes with one another; + And now they all agreed to name + Whom each one thought the happy dame. + Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, + I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink. + You smell the stink! by G—d, you lie, + Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. + Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear; + Let's not fall out; we all had share; + And, by the most I can discover, + My lord's a universal lover. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. x, 67; lib. xxix. + + As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are + Call'd <i>Pompey, Scipio</i>, and <i>Caesar;</i> + As pies and daws are often styl'd + With Christian nicknames, like a child; + As we say <i>Monsieur</i> to an ape, + Without offence to human shape; + So men have got, from bird and brute, + Names that would best their nature suit. + The <i>Lion, Eagle, Fox</i>, and <i>Boar</i>, + Were heroes' titles heretofore, + Bestow'd as hi'roglyphics fit + To show their valour, strength, or wit: + For what is understood by <i>fame</i>, + Besides the getting of a <i>name?</i> + But, e'er since men invented guns, + A diff'rent way their fancy runs: + To paint a hero, we inquire + For something that will conquer <i>fire.</i> + Would you describe <i>Turenne</i>[1] or <i>Trump?</i>[2] + Think of a <i>bucket</i> or a <i>pump.</i> + Are these too low?—then find out grander, + Call my LORD CUTTS a <i>Salamander.</i>[3] + 'Tis well;—but since we live among + Detractors with an evil tongue, + Who may object against the term, + Pliny shall prove what we affirm: + Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply, + And I'll be judg'd by standers by. + First, then, our author has defined + This reptile of the serpent kind, + With gaudy coat, and shining train; + But loathsome spots his body stain: + Out from some hole obscure he flies, + When rains descend, and tempests rise, + Till the sun clears the air; and then + Crawls back neglected to his den.[4] + So, when the war has raised a storm, + I've seen a snake in human form, + All stain'd with infamy and vice, + Leap from the dunghill in a trice, + Burnish and make a gaudy show, + Become a general, peer, and beau, + Till peace has made the sky serene, + Then shrink into its hole again. + "All this we grant—why then, look yonder, + Sure that must be a Salamander!" + Further, we are by Pliny told, + This serpent is extremely cold; + So cold, that, put it in the fire, + 'Twill make the very flames expire: + Besides, it spues a filthy froth + (Whether thro' rage or lust or both) + Of matter purulent and white, + Which, happening on the skin to light, + And there corrupting to a wound, + Spreads leprosy and baldness round.[5] + So have I seen a batter'd beau, + By age and claps grown cold as snow, + Whose breath or touch, where'er he came, + Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame: + And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel, + Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel, + Receive the filth which he ejects, + She soon would find the same effects + Her tainted carcass to pursue, + As from the Salamander's spue; + A dismal shedding of her locks, + And, if no leprosy, a pox. + "Then I'll appeal to each bystander, + If this be not a Salamander?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The famous Mareschal Turenne, general of the French forces, + called the greatest commander of the age.] + + [Footnote 2: Admiral of the States General in their war with England, + eminent for his courage and his victories.] + + [Footnote 3: Who obtained this name from his coolness under fire at the + siege of Namur. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. + 267.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: "Animal lacertae figura, stellatum, numquam nisi magnis + imbribus proveniens et serenitate desinens."—Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. + x, 67.] + + [Footnote 5: "Huic tantus rigor ut ignem tactu restinguat non alio modo + quam glacies. ejusdem sanie, quae lactea ore vomitur, quacumque parte + corporis humani contacta toti defluunt pili, idque quod contactum est + colorem in vitiliginem mutat."—Lib. x, 67. "Inter omnia venenata + salamandrae scelus maximum est. . . . nam si arbori inrepsit omnia poma + inficit veneno, et eos qui ederint necat frigida vi nihil aconito + distans."—Lib. xxix, 4, 23.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mordanto fills the trump of fame, + The Christian world his deeds proclaim, + And prints are crowded with his name. + + In journeys he outrides the post, + Sits up till midnight with his host, + Talks politics, and gives the toast. + + Knows every prince in Europe's face, + Flies like a squib from place to place, + And travels not, but runs a race. + + From Paris gazette à -la-main, + This day arriv'd, without his train, + Mordanto in a week from Spain. + + A messenger comes all a-reek + Mordanto at Madrid to seek; + He left the town above a week. + + Next day the post-boy winds his horn, + And rides through Dover in the morn: + Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. + + Mordanto gallops on alone, + The roads are with his followers strewn, + This breaks a girth, and that a bone; + + His body active as his mind, + Returning sound in limb and wind, + Except some leather lost behind. + + A skeleton in outward figure, + His meagre corps, though full of vigour, + Would halt behind him, were it bigger. + + So wonderful his expedition, + When you have not the least suspicion, + He's with you like an apparition. + + Shines in all climates like a star; + In senates bold, and fierce in war; + A land commander, and a tar: + + Heroic actions early bred in, + Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, + But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden.[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Who in the year 1705 took Barcelona, and in the winter + following with only 280 horse and 900 foot enterprized and accomplished + the conquest of Valentia.—<i>Pope</i>. + + "—he whose lightning pierc'd th'Iberian lines, + Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, + Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain + Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." + POPE, <i>Imitations of Horace</i>, ii, Sat. 1. + + Lord Peterborough seems to have been equally famous for his skill in + cookery. See note to above Satire, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and + Courthope, iii, 298.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: See Voltaire's "History of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden." + "He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale." + JOHNSON, <i>Vanity of Human Wishes</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE UNION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The queen has lately lost a part + Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart, + For want of which, by way of botch, + She pieced it up again with SCOTCH. + Blest revolution! which creates + Divided hearts, united states! + See how the double nation lies, + Like a rich coat with skirts of frize: + As if a man, in making posies, + Should bundle thistles up with roses. + Who ever yet a union saw + Of kingdoms without faith or law?[2] + Henceforward let no statesman dare + A kingdom to a ship compare; + Lest he should call our commonweal + A vessel with a double keel: + Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd, + And got about a league from land, + By change of wind to leeward side, + The pilot knew not how to guide. + So tossing faction will o'erwhelm + Our crazy double-bottom'd realm. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: <i>I.e.</i>, Differing in religion and law.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; + </h2> + <h3> + OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. 1707 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat + To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a + country scene, + Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: + From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy + Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. + The Graces from the court did next provide + Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: + These Venus cleans'd from ev'ry spurious grain + Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. + Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; + Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE REVERSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR, MRS. CLUDD + + Venus one day, as story goes, + But for what reason no man knows, + In sullen mood and grave deport, + Trudged it away to Jove's high court; + And there his Godship did entreat + To look out for his best receipt: + And make a monster strange and odd, + Abhorr'd by man and every god. + Jove, ever kind to all the fair, + Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, + Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took + A neatly bound and well-gilt book; + Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, + But what was very choice and rare. + Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,— + It might be more, for aught I knew; + But, be the matter more or less, + 'Mong friends 'twill break no squares, I guess. + Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, + Here's one will fit you to a T. + But, as the writing doth prescribe, + 'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. + Away he went, and search'd the stews, + And every street about the Mews; + Diseases, impudence, and lies, + Are found and brought him in a trice. + From Hackney then he did provide, + A clumsy air and awkward pride; + From lady's toilet next he brought + Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. + These Jove put in an old close-stool, + And with them mix'd the vain, the fool. + But now came on his greatest care, + Of what he should his paste prepare; + For common clay or finer mould + Was much too good, such stuff to hold. + At last he wisely thought on mud; + So raised it up, and call'd it—<i>Cludd.</i> + With this, the lady well content, + Low curtsey'd, and away she went. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO OUTWITTED + </h2> + <h3> + TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,[1] UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Phoebus, now short'ning every shade, + Up to the northern <i>tropic</i> came, + And thence beheld a lovely maid, + Attending on a royal dame. + + The god laid down his feeble rays, + Then lighted from his glitt'ring coach; + But fenc'd his head with his own bays, + Before he durst the nymph approach. + + Under those sacred leaves, secure + From common lightning of the skies, + He fondly thought he might endure + The flashes of Ardelia's eyes. + + The nymph, who oft had read in books + Of that bright god whom bards invoke, + Soon knew Apollo by his looks, + And guess'd his business ere he spoke. + + He, in the old celestial cant, + Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, + Whate'er she would desire, to grant— + But wise Ardelia knew his tricks. + + Ovid had warn'd her to beware + Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, + Under pretence of taking air, + To pick up sublunary ladies. + + Howe'er, she gave no flat denial, + As having malice in her heart; + And was resolv'd upon a trial, + To cheat the god in his own art. + + "Hear my request," the virgin said; + "Let which I please of all the Nine + Attend, whene'er I want their aid, + Obey my call, and only mine." + + By vow oblig'd, by passion led, + The god could not refuse her prayer: + He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, + Thrice mutter'd something to the air. + + And now he thought to seize his due; + But she the charm already try'd: + Thalia heard the call, and flew + To wait at bright Ardelia's side. + + On sight of this celestial <i>prude</i>, + Apollo thought it vain to stay; + Nor in her presence durst be rude, + But made his leg and went away. + + He hop'd to find some lucky hour, + When on their queen the Muses wait; + But Pallas owns Ardelia's power: + For vows divine are kept by Fate. + + Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke: + "Deceitful nymph! I see thy art; + And, though I can't my gift revoke, + I'll disappoint its nobler part. + + "Let stubborn pride possess thee long, + And be thou negligent of fame; + With ev'ry Muse to grace thy song, + May'st thou despise a poet's name! + + "Of modest poets be thou first; + To silent shades repeat thy verse, + Till Fame and Echo almost burst, + Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. + + "And last, my vengeance to compleat, + May you descend to take renown, + Prevail'd on by the thing you hate, + A Whig! and one that wears a gown!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Afterwards Countess of Winchelsea.—<i>Scott</i>. See + Journal to Stella Aug. 7, 1712. The Countess was one of Swift's intimate + friends and correspondents. See "Prose Works," xi, 121.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] + </h2> + <h3> + NOW FIRST PUBLISHED + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + In pity to the empty'ng Town, + Some God May Fair invented, + When Nature would invite us down, + To be by Art prevented. + + II + + What a corrupted taste is ours + When milk maids in mock state + Instead of garlands made of Flowers + Adorn their pails with plate. + + III + + So are the joys which Nature yields + Inverted in May Fair, + In painted cloth we look for fields, + And step in Booths for air. + + IV + + Here a Dog dancing on his hams + And puppets mov'd by wire, + Do far exceed your frisking lambs, + Or song of feather'd quire. + + V + Howe'er, such verse as yours I grant + Would be but too inviting: + Were fair Ardelia not my Aunt, + Or were it Worsley's writing.[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Some ladies, among whom were Mrs. Worsley and Mrs. Finch, to + the latter of whom Swift addressed, under the name of Ardelia, the + preceding poem, appear to have written verses to him from May Fair, + offering him such temptations as that fashionable locality supplied to + detain him from the country and its pleasures: and thus he + replies.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 1: There is some playful allusion in this last stanza, not now + decipherable.—<i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In times of old, when Time was young, + And poets their own verses sung, + A verse would draw a stone or beam, + That now would overload a team; + Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, + Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. + Each number had its diff'rent power; + Heroic strains could build a tower; + Sonnets and elegies to Chloris, + Might raise a house about two stories; + A lyric ode would slate; a catch + Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + Now Poets feel this art is lost, + Both to their own and landlord's cost. + Not one of all the tuneful throng + Can hire a lodging for a song. + For Jove consider'd well the case, + That poets were a numerous race; + And if they all had power to build, + The earth would very soon be fill'd: + Materials would be quickly spent, + And houses would not give a rent. + The God of Wealth was therefore made + Sole patron of the building trade; + Leaving to wits the spacious air, + With license to build castles there: + In right whereof their old pretence + To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + There is a worm by Phoebus bred, + By leaves of mulberry is fed, + Which unprovided where to dwell, + Conforms itself to weave a cell; + Then curious hands this texture take, + And for themselves fine garments make. + Meantime a pair of awkward things + Grow to his back instead of wings; + He flutters when he thinks he flies, + Then sheds about his spawn and dies. + Just such an insect of the age + Is he that scribbles for the stage; + His birth he does from Phoebus raise, + And feeds upon imagin'd bays; + Throws all his wit and hours away + In twisting up an ill spun Play: + This gives him lodging and provides + A stock of tawdry shift besides. + With the unravell'd shreds of which + The under wits adorn their speech: + And now he spreads his little fans, + (For all the Muses Geese are Swans) + And borne on Fancy's pinions, thinks + He soars sublimest when he sinks: + But scatt'ring round his fly-blows, dies; + Whence broods of insect-poets rise. + Premising thus, in modern way, + The greater part I have to say; + Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, + In higher strain than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) + Is both a Herald and a Poet; + No wonder then if nicely skill'd + In each capacity to build. + As Herald, he can in a day + Repair a house gone to decay; + Or by achievements, arms, device, + Erect a new one in a trice; + And poets, if they had their due, + By ancient right are builders too: + This made him to Apollo pray + For leave to build—the poets way. + His prayer was granted, for the God + Consented with the usual nod. + After hard throes of many a day + Van was delivered of a play, + Which in due time brought forth a house, + Just as the mountain did the mouse. + One story high, one postern door, + And one small chamber on a floor, + Born like a phoenix from the flame: + But neither bulk nor shape the same; + As animals of largest size + Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; + A type of modern wit and style, + The rubbish of an ancient pile; + So chemists boast they have a power, + From the dead ashes of a flower + Some faint resemblance to produce, + But not the virtue, taste, nor juice. + So modern rhymers strive to blast + The poetry of ages past; + Which, having wisely overthrown, + They from its ruins build their own. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is the earlier version of the Poem discovered by + Forster at Narford, the residence of Mr. Fountaine. See Forster's "Life + of Swift," p. 163.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] + </h2> + <h3> + BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In times of old, when Time was young, + And poets their own verses sung, + A verse would draw a stone or beam, + That now would overload a team; + Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, + Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. + Each number had its diff'rent power; + Heroic strains could build a tower; + Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, + Might raise a house about two stories; + A lyric ode would slate; a catch + Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + But, to their own or landlord's cost, + Now Poets feel this art is lost. + Not one of all our tuneful throng + Can raise a lodging for a song. + For Jove consider'd well the case, + Observed they grew a numerous race; + And should they build as fast as write, + 'Twould ruin undertakers quite. + This evil, therefore, to prevent, + He wisely changed their element: + On earth the God of Wealth was made + Sole patron of the building trade; + Leaving the Wits the spacious air, + With license to build castles there: + And 'tis conceived their old pretence + To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + Premising thus, in modern way, + The better half we have to say; + Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, + In higher strains than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) + Is both a Herald[2] and a Poet; + No wonder then if nicely skill'd + In both capacities to build. + As Herald, he can in a day + Repair a house gone to decay; + Or, by achievements, arms, device, + Erect a new one in a trice; + And as a poet, he has skill + To build in speculation still. + "Great Jove!" he cried, "the art restore + To build by verse as heretofore, + And make my Muse the architect; + What palaces shall we erect! + No longer shall forsaken Thames + Lament his old Whitehall in flames; + A pile shall from its ashes rise, + Fit to invade or prop the skies." + Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god, + Consenting with the usual nod, + Told Van, he knew his talent best, + And left the choice to his own breast. + So Van resolved to write a farce; + But, well perceiving wit was scarce, + With cunning that defect supplies: + Takes a French play as lawful prize;[3] + Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, + Not once suspecting Jove would smoke; + And (like a wag set down to write) + Would whisper to himself, "a <i>bite</i>." + Then, from this motley mingled style, + Proceeded to erect his pile. + So men of old, to gain renown, did + Build Babel with their tongues confounded. + Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best + To turn the matter to a jest; + Down from Olympus' top he slides, + Laughing as if he'd burst his sides: + Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks, + Why then old plays deserve old bricks; + And since you're sparing of your stuff, + Your building shall be small enough. + He spake, and grudging, lent his aid; + Th'experienced bricks, that knew their trade, + (As being bricks at second hand,) + Now move, and now in order stand. + The building, as the Poet writ, + Rose in proportion to his wit— + And first the prologue built a wall; + So wide as to encompass all. + The scene, a wood, produc'd no more + Than a few scrubby trees before. + The plot as yet lay deep; and so + A cellar next was dug below; + But this a work so hard was found, + Two acts it cost him under ground. + Two other acts, we may presume, + Were spent in building each a room. + Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift + To raise a roof with act the fift. + The epilogue behind did frame + A place, not decent here to name. + Now, Poets from all quarters ran, + To see the house of brother Van; + Looked high and low, walk'd often round; + But no such house was to be found. + One asks the watermen hard by, + "Where may the Poet's palace lie?" + Another of the Thames inquires, + If he has seen its gilded spires? + At length they in the rubbish spy + A thing resembling a goose-pie. + Thither in haste the Poets throng, + And gaze in silent wonder long, + Till one in raptures thus began + To praise the pile and builder Van: + "Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trail + Thy house about thee like a snail: + Or harness'd to a nag, at ease + Take journeys in it like a chaise; + Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt, + Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt! + Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all + Thou'rt well contrived, tho' thou art small: + For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isle + May lodge within thy spacious pile. + Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign, + Thy mother burnt, art born again, + Born like a phoenix from the flame: + But neither bulk nor shape the same; + As animals of largest size + Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; + A type of modern wit and style, + The rubbish of an ancient pile; + So chemists boast they have a power, + From the dead ashes of a flower + Some faint resemblance to produce, + But not the virtue, taste, or juice. + So modern rhymers wisely blast + The poetry of ages past; + Which, after they have overthrown, + They from its ruins build their own." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in + all editions of Swift's works.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of + Clarencieux king of arms.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from + Molière.—<i>Scott</i>. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was + indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only + one taken from Molière was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Dépit + Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked + Wife," were original.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + </h2> + <p> + ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF + CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In ancient time, as story tells, + The saints would often leave their cells, + And stroll about, but hide their quality, + To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter's night, + As authors of the legend write, + Two brother hermits, saints by trade, + Taking their tour in masquerade, + Came to a village hard by Rixham,[2] + Ragged and not a groat betwixt 'em. + It rain'd as hard as it could pour, + Yet they were forced to walk an hour + From house to house, wet to the skin, + Before one soul would let 'em in. + They call'd at every door: "Good people, + My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple! + Here we lie starving in the street, + 'Twould grieve a body's heart to see't, + No Christian would turn out a beast, + In such a dreadful night at least; + Give us but straw and let us lie + In yonder barn to keep us dry." + Thus in the stroller's usual cant, + They begg'd relief, which none would grant. + No creature valued what they said, + One family was gone to bed: + The master bawled out half asleep, + "You fellows, what a noise you keep! + So many beggars pass this way, + We can't be quiet, night nor day; + We cannot serve you every one; + Pray take your answer, and be gone." + One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks; + A third could not forbear his mocks; + But bawl'd as loud as he could roar + "You're on the wrong side of the door!" + One surly clown look't out and said, + "I'll fling the p—pot on your head: + You sha'nt come here, nor get a sous! + You look like rogues would rob a house. + Can't you go work, or serve the King? + You blind and lame! 'Tis no such thing. + That's but a counterfeit sore leg! + For shame! two sturdy rascals beg! + If I come down, <i>I'll</i> spoil your trick, + And cure you both with a good stick." + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, + Treated at this ungodly rate, + Having thro' all the village past, + To a small cottage came at last + Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, + Call'd thereabout good man Philemon; + Who kindly did the saints invite + In his poor house to pass the night; + And then the hospitable sire + Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; + Whilst he from out the chimney took + A flitch of bacon off the hook, + And freely from the fattest side + Cut out large slices to be fry'd; + Which tost up in a pan with batter, + And served up in an earthen platter, + Quoth Baucis, "This is wholesome fare, + Eat, honest friends, and never spare, + And if we find our victuals fail, + We can but make it out in ale." + To a small kilderkin of beer, + Brew'd for the good time of the year, + Philemon, by his wife's consent, + Stept with a jug, and made a vent, + And having fill'd it to the brink, + Invited both the saints to drink. + When they had took a second draught, + Behold, a miracle was wrought; + For, Baucis with amazement found, + Although the jug had twice gone round, + It still was full up to the top, + As they ne'er had drunk a drop. + You may be sure so strange a sight, + Put the old people in a fright: + Philemon whisper'd to his wife, + "These men are—Saints—I'll lay my life!" + The strangers overheard, and said, + "You're in the right—but be'nt afraid: + No hurt shall come to you or yours: + But for that pack of churlish boors, + Not fit to live on Christian ground, + They and their village shall be drown'd; + Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, + And grow a church before your eyes." + Scarce had they spoke, when fair and soft, + The roof began to mount aloft; + Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; + The heavy wall went clambering after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, + Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, + And there stood fastened to a joist, + But with the upside down, to show + Its inclination for below: + In vain; for a superior force + Applied at bottom stops its course: + Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, + 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + The wooden jack, which had almost + Lost by disuse the art to roast, + A sudden alteration feels, + Increas'd by new intestine wheels; + But what adds to the wonder more, + The number made the motion slower. + The flyer, altho't had leaden feet, + Would turn so quick you scarce could see't; + But, now stopt by some hidden powers, + Moves round but twice in twice twelve hours, + While in the station of a jack, + 'Twas never known to turn its back, + A friend in turns and windings tried, + Nor ever left the chimney's side. + The chimney to a steeple grown, + The jack would not be left alone; + But, up against the steeple rear'd, + Became a clock, and still adher'd; + And still its love to household cares, + By a shrill voice at noon declares, + Warning the cookmaid not to burn + That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, + Like a huge insect, up the wall; + There stuck, and to a pulpit grew, + But kept its matter and its hue, + And mindful of its ancient state, + Still groans while tattling gossips prate. + The mortar only chang'd its name, + In its old shape a font became. + The porringers, that in a row, + Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, + To a less noble substance chang'd, + Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, + Of Chevy Chase, and English Mall,[3] + Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, + The little Children in the Wood, + Enlarged in picture, size, and letter, + And painted, lookt abundance better, + And now the heraldry describe + Of a churchwarden, or a tribe. + A bedstead of the antique mode, + Composed of timber many a load, + Such as our grandfathers did use, + Was metamorphos'd into pews; + Which yet their former virtue keep + By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, with such feats as these, + Grown to a church by just degrees, + The holy men desired their host + To ask for what he fancied most. + Philemon, having paused a while, + Replied in complimental style: + "Your goodness, more than my desert, + Makes you take all things in good part: + You've raised a church here in a minute, + And I would fain continue in it; + I'm good for little at my days, + Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels + His grazier's coat reach down his heels; + The sleeves new border'd with a list, + Widen'd and gather'd at his wrist, + But, being old, continued just + As threadbare, and as full of dust. + A shambling awkward gait he took, + With a demure dejected look, + Talk't of his offerings, tythes, and dues, + Could smoke and drink and read the news, + Or sell a goose at the next town, + Decently hid beneath his gown. + Contriv'd to preach old sermons next, + Chang'd in the preface and the text. + At christ'nings well could act his part, + And had the service all by heart; + Wish'd women might have children fast, + And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; + Against dissenters would repine. + And stood up firm for "right divine;" + Carried it to his equals higher, + But most obedient to the squire. + Found his head fill'd with many a system; + But classic authors,—he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, + Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. + Instead of homespun coifs, were seen + Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;[4] + Her petticoat, transform'd apace, + Became black satin, flounced with lace. + "Plain Goody" would no longer down, + 'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. + Philemon was in great surprise, + And hardly could believe his eyes. + Amaz'd to see her look so prim, + And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, + Were several years this man and wife: + When on a day, which prov'd their last, + Discoursing o'er old stories past, + They went by chance, amidst their talk, + To the churchyard, to take a walk; + When Baucis hastily cry'd out, + "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"— + "Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? + I hope you don't believe me jealous! + But yet, methinks, I feel it true, + And really yours is budding too— + Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot; + It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, + In short, they both were turn'd to yews. + Old Goodman Dobson of the Green + Remembers he the trees has seen; + He'll talk of them from noon till night, + And goes with folk to show the sight; + On Sundays, after evening prayer, + He gathers all the parish there; + Points out the place of either yew, + Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: + Till once a parson of our town, + To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; + At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd + How much the other tree was griev'd, + Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, + So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster + found in Swift's handwriting at Narford; and which has never been + published. It is well known that, at Addison's suggestion, Swift made + extensive changes in this, "one of the happiest of his poems," concerning + which Forster says, in his "Life of Swift," at p. 165: "The poem, as + printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I + found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the + latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has + been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the + addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two. The question + can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and, + in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison."—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The "village hard by Rixham" of the original has as little + connection with "Chilthorne" as the "village down in Kent" of the altered + version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for + either.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See the next poem for note on this line. Chevy Chase seems + more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered + version.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M. + Colbert Planché's "Costume," p. 395.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + </h2> + <p> + ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF + CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In ancient times, as story tells, + The saints would often leave their cells, + And stroll about, but hide their quality, + To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter night, + As authors of the legend write, + Two brother hermits, saints by trade, + Taking their tour in masquerade, + Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went + To a small village down in Kent; + Where, in the strollers' canting strain, + They begg'd from door to door in vain, + Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win; + But not a soul would let them in. + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, + Treated at this ungodly rate, + Having thro' all the village past, + To a small cottage came at last + Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, + Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; + Who kindly did these saints invite + In his poor hut to pass the night; + And then the hospitable sire + Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; + While he from out the chimney took + A flitch of bacon off the hook, + And freely from the fattest side + Cut out large slices to be fry'd; + Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink, + Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, + And saw it fairly twice go round; + Yet (what was wonderful) they found + 'Twas still replenished to the top, + As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. + The good old couple were amaz'd, + And often on each other gaz'd; + For both were frighten'd to the heart, + And just began to cry, "What <i>art</i>!" + Then softly turn'd aside, to view + Whether the lights were burning blue. + The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, + Told them their calling and their errand: + "Good folk, you need not be afraid, + We are but saints," the hermits said; + "No hurt shall come to you or yours: + But for that pack of churlish boors, + Not fit to live on Christian ground, + They and their houses shall be drown'd; + While you shall see your cottage rise, + And grow a church before your eyes." + They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, + The roof began to mount aloft; + Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; + The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher + Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, + And there stood fasten'd to a joist, + But with the upside down, to show + Its inclination for below: + In vain; for a superior force + Applied at bottom stops its course: + Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, + 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + A wooden jack, which had almost + Lost by disuse the art to roast, + A sudden alteration feels, + Increas'd by new intestine wheels; + And, what exalts the wonder more, + The number made the motion slower. + The flyer, though it had leaden feet, + Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; + But, slacken'd by some secret power, + Now hardly moves an inch an hour. + The jack and chimney, near ally'd, + Had never left each other's side; + The chimney to a steeple grown, + The jack would not be left alone; + But, up against the steeple rear'd, + Became a clock, and still adher'd; + And still its love to household cares, + By a shrill voice at noon, declares, + Warning the cookmaid not to burn + That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, + Like an huge snail, half up the wall; + There stuck aloft in public view, + And with small change, a pulpit grew. + The porringers, that in a row + Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, + To a less noble substance chang'd, + Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, + Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3] + Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, + The little Children in the Wood, + Now seem'd to look abundance better, + Improved in picture, size, and letter: + And, high in order plac'd, describe + The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4] + A bedstead of the antique mode, + Compact of timber many a load, + Such as our ancestors did use, + Was metamorphos'd into pews; + Which still their ancient nature keep + By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, by such feats as these, + Grown to a church by just degrees, + The hermits then desired their host + To ask for what he fancy'd most. + Philemon, having paused a while, + Return'd them thanks in homely style; + Then said, "My house is grown so fine, + Methinks, I still would call it mine. + I'm old, and fain would live at ease; + Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels + His grazier's coat fall down his heels: + He sees, yet hardly can believe, + About each arm a pudding sleeve; + His waistcoat to a cassock grew, + And both assumed a sable hue; + But, being old, continued just + As threadbare, and as full of dust. + His talk was now of tithes and dues: + Could smoke his pipe, and read the news; + Knew how to preach old sermons next, + Vamp'd in the preface and the text; + At christ'nings well could act his part, + And had the service all by heart; + Wish'd women might have children fast, + And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; + Against dissenters would repine, + And stood up firm for "right divine;" + Found his head fill'd with many a system; + But classic authors,—he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, + Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. + Instead of homespun coifs, were seen + Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; + Her petticoat, transform'd apace, + Became black satin, flounced with lace. + "Plain Goody" would no longer down, + 'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. + Philemon was in great surprise, + And hardly could believe his eyes. + Amaz'd to see her look so prim, + And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, + Were several years this man and wife: + When on a day, which prov'd their last, + Discoursing o'er old stories past, + They went by chance, amidst their talk, + [5]To the churchyard to take a walk; + When Baucis hastily cry'd out, + "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"— + "Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? + I hope you don't believe me jealous! + But yet, methinks, I feel it true, + And really yours is budding too—Nay,—now + I cannot stir my foot; + It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, + In short, they both were turn'd to yews. + Old Goodman Dobson of the Green + Remembers he the trees has seen; + He'll talk of them from noon till night, + And goes with folk to show the sight; + On Sundays, after evening prayer, + He gathers all the parish there; + Points out the place of either yew, + Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: + Till once a parson of our town, + To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; + At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd + How much the other tree was griev'd, + Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, + So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in + accordance with Addison's suggestions.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orléans. See "Hudibras," "Lady's Answer," verse + 285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular + ballad was written. The line in the text is from "Hudibras," Part I, + c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla: + "A bold virago, stout and tall, + As Joan of France, or English Mall." + The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii, + 239.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country + churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE + 1708 + + When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, + And call'd to take the cards away, + Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, + How Miss pick'd every painted card, + And, busy both with hand and eye, + Soon rear'd a house two stories high. + Van's genius, without thought or lecture + Is hugely turn'd to architecture: + He view'd the edifice, and smiled, + Vow'd it was pretty for a child: + It was so perfect in its kind, + He kept the model in his mind. + But, when he found the boys at play + And saw them dabbling in their clay, + He stood behind a stall to lurk, + And mark the progress of their work; + With true delight observed them all + Raking up mud to build a wall. + The plan he much admired, and took + The model in his table-book: + Thought himself now exactly skill'd, + And so resolved a house to build: + A real house, with rooms and stairs, + Five times at least as big as theirs; + Taller than Miss's by two yards; + Not a sham thing of play or cards: + And so he did; for, in a while, + He built up such a monstrous pile, + That no two chairmen could be found + Able to lift it from the ground. + Still at Whitehall it stands in view, + Just in the place where first it grew; + There all the little schoolboys run, + Envying to see themselves outdone. + From such deep rudiments as these, + Van is become, by due degrees, + For building famed, and justly reckon'd, + At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3] + No wonder, since wise authors show, + That best foundations must be low: + And now the duke has wisely ta'en him + To be his architect at Blenheim. + But raillery at once apart, + If this rule holds in every art; + Or if his grace were no more skill'd in + The art of battering walls than building, + We might expect to see next year + A mouse-trap man chief engineer. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See <i>ante</i>, p. 51, "The Reverse."—<i>W, E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De + Architectura."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of + his majesty's works.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A GRUB-STREET ELEGY + </h2> + <h3> + ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, + Though we all took it for a jest: + Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd, + Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd. + Strange, an astrologer should die + Without one wonder in the sky; + Not one of all his crony stars + To pay their duty at his hearse! + No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! + No comet with a flaming beard! + The sun hath rose and gone to bed, + Just as if Partridge were not dead; + Nor hid himself behind the moon + To make a dreadful night at noon. + He at fit periods walks through Aries, + Howe'er our earthly motion varies; + And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator, + As if there had been no such matter. + Some wits have wonder'd what analogy + There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology; + How Partridge made his optics rise + From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. + A list the cobbler's temples ties, + To keep the hair out of his eyes; + From whence 'tis plain the diadem + That princes wear derives from them; + And therefore crowns are now-a-days + Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; + Which plainly shows the near alliance + 'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science. + Besides, that slow-paced sign Böötes, + As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis; + But Partridge ended all disputes; + He knew his trade, and call'd it <i>boots</i>.[3] + The horned moon,[4] which heretofore + Upon their shoes the Romans wore, + Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, + And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, + Shows how the art of cobbling bears + A near resemblance to the spheres. + A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, + (A great refiner in barometry,) + Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; + And what is parchment else but leather? + Which an astrologer might use + Either for almanacks or shoes. + Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, + At once did practise both these arts: + And as the boding owl (or rather + The bat, because her wings are leather) + Steals from her private cell by night, + And flies about the candle-light; + So learned Partridge could as well + Creep in the dark from leathern cell, + And in his fancy fly as far + To peep upon a twinkling star. + Besides, he could confound the spheres, + And set the planets by the ears; + To show his skill, he Mars could join + To Venus in aspect malign; + Then call in Mercury for aid, + And cure the wounds that Venus made. + Great scholars have in Lucian read, + When Philip King of Greece was dead + His soul and spirit did divide, + And each part took a different side; + One rose a star; the other fell + Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5] + Thus Partridge still shines in each art, + The cobbling and star-gazing part, + And is install'd as good a star + As any of the Caesars are. + Triumphant star! some pity show + On cobblers militant below, + Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, + Torment by pissing out their lights, + Or through a chink convey their smoke, + Enclosed artificers to choke. + Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, + May'st follow still thy calling there. + To thee the Bull will lend his hide, + By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd; + For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, + And scrape her pitchy sides for wax: + Then Ariadne kindly lends + Her braided hair to make thee ends; + The points of Sagittarius' dart + Turns to an awl by heavenly art; + And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, + Will forge for thee a paring-knife. + For want of room by Virgo's side, + She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride, + To take thee kindly in between; + And then the Signs will be Thirteen. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by + Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 <i>et seq.—W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See his Almanack.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver + which distinguished the wearer as a senator. + "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."—Juvenal, <i>Sat</i>. vii, 192; and + Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.] + + [Footnote 6: + "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens + Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit." + VIRG., <i>Georg.</i>, i, 34.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EPITAPH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here, five feet deep, lies on his back + A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; + Who to the stars, in pure good will, + Does to his best look upward still. + Weep, all you customers that use + His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; + And you that did your fortunes seek, + Step to his grave but once a-week; + This earth, which bears his body's print, + You'll find has so much virtue in't, + That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell + Whate'er concerns you full as well, + In physic, stolen goods, or love, + As he himself could, when above. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach + Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. + Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, + And softly stole to discompose her own; + The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door + Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. + Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, + Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. + The youth with broomy stumps began to trace + The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2] + The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, + Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: + Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; + And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. + The turnkey now his flock returning sees, + Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3] + The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, + And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, + 1786.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: To find old nails.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the + prison.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Careful observers may foretell the hour, + (By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower. + While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er + Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. + Returning home at night, you'll find the sink + Strike your offended sense with double stink. + If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: + You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. + A coming shower your shooting corns presage, + Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; + Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; + He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. + Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, + A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, + That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, + And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. + Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, + While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; + Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean + Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: + You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop + To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. + Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, + But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, + And wafted with its foe by violent gust, + 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3] + Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, + When dust and rain at once his coat invade? + Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, + Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! + Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, + Threatening with deluge this <i>devoted</i> town. + To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, + Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. + The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, + Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. + The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, + While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. + Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, + Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. + Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5] + Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. + Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, + While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, + And ever and anon with frightful din + The leather sounds; he trembles from within. + So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, + Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, + (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, + Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) + Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear, + And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. + Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, + And bear their trophies with them as they go: + Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell + What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell. + They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, + From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, + And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, + Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7] + Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, + Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, + Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in + the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis + the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of + Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: + "there never was such a Shower since Danäe's," etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost + the right pronunciation, have <i>aches</i> as one syllable; and then to + complete the metre have foisted in "aches <i>will</i> throb." Thus, what the + poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See + Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81, + edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line + 407, where persons are mentioned who + "Can by their Pangs and <i>Aches</i> find + All turns and changes of the wind."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S + <i>Dispensary</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the + "Miscellanies": + "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, + Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.] + + [Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in + "The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of + Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition + of Pope, 8vo, 1751.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK + </h2> + <h3> + 1710 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whoever pleases to inquire + Why yonder steeple wants a spire, + The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1] + The philosophic cause will show. + Once on a time a western blast, + At least twelve inches overcast, + Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all, + Which came with a prodigious fall; + And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, + Lit with its bottom on the ground: + For, by the laws of gravitation, + It fell into its proper station. + This is the little strutting pile + You see just by the churchyard stile; + The walls in tumbling gave a knock, + And thus the steeple got a shock; + From whence the neighbouring farmer calls + The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2] + The vicar once a-week creeps in, + Sits with his knees up to his chin; + Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, + Till the small ragged flock is met. + A traveller, who by did pass, + Observed the roof behind the grass; + On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, + And saw the parson creeping out: + Was much surprised to see a crow + Venture to build his nest so low. + A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought + The crib was down, the blackbird caught. + A third, who lost his way by night, + Was forced for safety to alight, + And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, + His horse had like to spoil his hoof. + Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, + This building was design'd a model; + Or of a pigeon-house or oven, + To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. + Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, + And every one was pleased that heard it; + All that you make this stir about + Is but a still which wants a spout. + The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd + More probably than all the rest; + He said, but that it wanted room, + It might have been a pigmy's tomb. + The doctor's family came by, + And little miss began to cry, + Give me that house in my own hand! + Then madam bade the chariot stand, + Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, + Pray, reach that thing here to the child: + That thing, I mean, among the kale; + And here's to buy a pot of ale. + The clerk said to her in a heat, + What! sell my master's country seat, + Where he comes every week from town! + He would not sell it for a crown. + Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; + In half an hour thou'lt make another. + Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss + A finer house ten times than this; + The dean will give me willow sticks, + And Joe my apron-full of bricks. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, + for venerable white locks.—<i>Scott</i>. He had a claim on the Irish + Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works," + vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire + for a collector's place.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.] + + [Footnote 4: Stella.] + + [Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.] + + [Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Scene, the Royal Exchange</i> + + CORYDON + + Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, + No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, + While other girls confess the genial spring, + And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, + Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, + And throw each useless chafing-dish away; + Why sits my Phillis discontented here, + Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? + Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, + Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play? + + PHILLIS + + Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, + Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: + Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, + Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; + Then how you swore, how many vows you made! + Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, + Waft the soft accents to the gods above. + Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) + I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame. + + CORYDON + + When I forget the favour you bestow'd, + Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road: + Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, + And mass be sung where operas are seen. + The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, + Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; + Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, + At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum. + + PHILLIS + + But what to me does all that love avail, + If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, + Each night with wine and wenches you regale? + My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, + And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. + On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, + And with shrill voice invite them as they go. + Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine, + And unregarded wave upon the twine. + The week flies round, and when my profit's known, + I hardly clear enough to change a crown. + + CORYDON + + Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, + Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; + As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, + And ruddy peaches them; as first in place + Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, + And ice on that: so Phillis does appear + In playhouse and in Park, above the rest + Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest. + + PHILLIS + + And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, + Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, + And views me hourly with a scornful eye. + + CORYDON + + She might as well with bright Cleora vie. + + PHILLIS + + With this large petticoat I strive in vain + To hide my folly past, and coming pain; + 'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, + Observe the symptoms I had once before: + A second babe at Wapping must be placed, + When I scarce bear the charges of the last. + + CORYDON + + What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, + Five shillings, and a coral for his gums; + To-morrow I intend him something more. + + PHILLIS + + I sent a frock and pair of shoes before. + + CORYDON + + However, you shall home with me to-night, + Forget your cares, and revel in delight, + I have in store a pint or two of wine, + Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine. + + And now on either side, and all around, + The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; + Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, + And ties her hood, preparing to be gone. + + L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals," + and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed + by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CONFERENCE + </h2> + <h3> + BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CHARIOT + + My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, + To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; + Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day + At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; + And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion + Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;— + Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love + As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; + Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, + I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; + And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, + Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together. + + CHAIR + + By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, + With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry. + By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; + He that makes love to me, must make it in French. + Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, + Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit? + Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, + No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix: + Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, + With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat. + Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat, + And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat. + You may think that you make a figure most shining, + But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining. + Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry, + To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry? + If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due + In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to. + + CHARIOT + + Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; + Is it your French breeding has made you so pert? + Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: + Who is it that values your —— or your fox? + Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed + His bloody red hand to her bloody red head. + You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail + Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; + And although it may pass for gold on a ninny, + Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea. + Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, + Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket. + I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; + Your velvet was wore before in a mant, + On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,— + The fire she carries hath changed its colour. + Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, + If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; + They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, + Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare. + We know how your lady was on you befriended; + You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: + But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; + She is two or three years above being out. + Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour + On one he can't hope of e'er making <i>bigger</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom + Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll + of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, + whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery." + See, <i>post</i>, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + OCTOBER 31, 1713 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Among the numbers who employ + Their tongues and pens to give you joy, + Dear Harley! generous youth, admit + What friendship dictates more than wit. + Forgive me, when I fondly thought + (By frequent observations taught) + A spirit so inform'd as yours + Could never prosper in amours. + The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, + With all acquired and natural parts, + Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, + Was an unfortunate gallant. + Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, + The nymph had soon been brought to yield; + Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, + The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. + Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, + Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; + For such is all the sex's flight, + They fly from learning, wit, and light; + They fly, and none can overtake + But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. + How then, dear Harley, could I guess + That you should meet, in love, success? + For, if those ancient tales be true, + Phoebus was beautiful as you; + Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, + For wit and learning spoil'd his face. + And since the same resemblance held + In gifts wherein you both excell'd, + I fancied every nymph would run + From you, as from Latona's son. + Then where, said I, shall Harley find + A virgin of superior mind, + With wit and virtue to discover, + And pay the merit of her lover? + This character shall Ca'endish claim, + Born to retrieve her sex's fame. + The chief among the glittering crowd, + Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, + (As fools are insolent and vain) + Madly aspired to wear her chain; + But Pallas, guardian of the maid, + Descending to her charge's aid, + Held out Medusa's snaky locks, + Which stupified them all to stocks. + The nymph with indignation view'd + The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; + For Pallas, with celestial light, + Had purified her mortal sight; + Show'd her the virtues all combined, + Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. + Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, + Display their various nets for hearts: + Their looks are all by method set, + When to be prude, and when coquette; + Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, + Their only pride is to refuse. + But, when a goddess would bestow + Her love on some bright youth below, + Round all the earth she casts her eyes; + And then, descending from the skies, + Makes choice of him she fancies best, + And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. + Thus the bright empress of the morn[3] + Chose for her spouse a mortal born: + The goddess made advances first; + Else what aspiring hero durst? + Though, like a virgin of fifteen, + She blushes when by mortals seen; + Still blushes, and with speed retires, + When Sol pursues her with his fires. + Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen + Struck with Endymion's graceful mien + Down from her silver chariot came, + And to the shepherd own'd her flame. + Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, + And chaster than the Queen of Night + Descended from her sphere to find + A mortal of superior kind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married + Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of + Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the + Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and + Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel + tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven; + hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Desponding Phyllis was endu'd + With ev'ry talent of a prude: + She trembled when a man drew near; + Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: + If o'er against her you were placed, + She durst not look above your waist: + She'd rather take you to her bed, + Than let you see her dress her head; + In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, + Repeat the absolution loud: + In church, secure behind her fan, + She durst behold that monster man: + There practis'd how to place her head, + And bite her lips to make them red; + Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, + Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. + And heave her bosom unaware, + For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare. + At length a lucky lover came, + And found admittance to the dame, + Suppose all parties now agreed, + The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, + The vicar and the ring bespoke: + Guess, how could such a match be broke? + See then what mortals place their bliss in! + Next morn betimes the bride was missing: + The mother scream'd, the father chid; + Where can this idle wench be hid? + No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, + And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; + Because her father used to say, + The girl had such a bashful way! + Now John the butler must be sent + To learn the road that Phyllis went: + The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; + For John must neither light nor stop, + But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, + And bring her back alive or dead. + See here again the devil to do! + For truly John was missing too: + The horse and pillion both were gone! + Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. + Old Madam, who went up to find + What papers Phyl had left behind, + A letter on the toilet sees, + "To my much honour'd father—these—" + ('Tis always done, romances tell us, + When daughters run away with fellows,) + Fill'd with the choicest common-places, + By others used in the like cases. + "That long ago a fortune-teller + Exactly said what now befell her; + And in a glass had made her see + A serving-man of low degree. + It was her fate, must be forgiven; + For marriages were made in Heaven: + His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, + She'd do't if 'twere to do again: + Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin; + For John was come of honest kin. + Love never thinks of rich and poor; + She'd beg with John from door to door. + Forgive her, if it be a crime; + She'll never do't another time. + She ne'er before in all her life + Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife." + One argument she summ'd up all in, + "The thing was done and past recalling; + And therefore hoped she should recover + His favour when his passion's over. + She valued not what others thought her, + And was—his most obedient daughter." + Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, + Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: + Away they rode in homely sort, + Their journey long, their money short; + The loving couple well bemir'd; + The horse and both the riders tir'd: + Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; + Phyl cried! and John began to curse: + Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, + When first she ventured out with him; + John wish'd that he had broke a leg, + When first for her he quitted Peg. + But what adventures more befell 'em, + The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; + How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, + Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd: + How oft she broke her marriage vows, + In kindness to maintain her spouse, + Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; + For now the surgeon must be paid, + To whom those perquisites are gone, + In Christian justice due to John. + When food and raiment now grew scarce, + Fate put a period to the farce, + And with exact poetic justice; + For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; + They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, + Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.—<i>Swift</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX + </h2> + <h3> + ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Virtue conceal'd within our breast + Is inactivity at best: + But never shall the Muse endure + To let your virtues lie obscure; + Or suffer Envy to conceal + Your labours for the public weal. + Within your breast all wisdom lies, + Either to govern or advise; + Your steady soul preserves her frame, + In good and evil times, the same. + Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, + Stand in your sacred presence awed; + Your hand alone from gold abstains, + Which drags the slavish world in chains. + Him for a happy man I own, + Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2] + And happy he who wisely knows + To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; + Or, if it please the powers divine, + Can suffer want and not repine. + The man who infamy to shun + Into the arms of death would run; + That man is ready to defend, + With life, his country or his friend. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less + friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, <i>passim</i>; and + an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 2: + "Non possidentem multa vocaveris + recte beatum: rectius occupat + nomen beati, qui deorum + muneribus sapienter uti + duramque callet pauperiem pati, + pejusque leto flagitium timet."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR. DELANY,[1] + </h2> + <h3> + OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To you whose virtues, I must own + With shame, I have too lately known; + To you, by art and nature taught + To be the man I long have sought, + Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, + Placed you in life too far behind: + Or, what I should repine at more, + Placed me in life too far before: + To you the Muse this verse bestows, + Which might as well have been in prose; + No thought, no fancy, no sublime, + But simple topics told in rhyme. + Three gifts for conversation fit + Are humour, raillery, and wit: + The last, as boundless as the wind, + Is well conceived, though not defined; + For, sure by wit is only meant + Applying what we first invent. + What humour is, not all the tribe + Of logic-mongers can describe; + Here only nature acts her part, + Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: + For wit and humour differ quite; + That gives surprise, and this delight, + Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, + Only by affectation spoil'd; + 'Tis never by invention got, + Men have it when they know it not. + Our conversation to refine, + True humour must with wit combine: + From both we learn to rally well, + Wherein French writers most excel; + [2]Voiture, in various lights, displays + That irony which turns to praise: + His genius first found out the rule + For an obliging ridicule: + He flatters with peculiar air + The brave, the witty, and the fair: + And fools would fancy he intends + A satire where he most commends. + But as a poor pretending beau, + Because he fain would make a show, + Nor can afford to buy gold lace, + Takes up with copper in the place: + So the pert dunces of mankind, + Whene'er they would be thought refined, + Because the diff'rence lies abstruse + 'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, + To show their parts will scold and rail, + Like porters o'er a pot of ale. + Such is that clan of boisterous bears, + Always together by the ears; + Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe + That meet for nothing but to gibe; + Who first run one another down, + And then fall foul on all the town; + Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, + And call'd by excellence The Club. + I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, + All special friends, and always jar. + The mettled and the vicious steed + Do not more differ in their breed, + Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, + As rudeness is to repartee. + If what you said I wish unspoke, + 'Twill not suffice it was a joke: + Reproach not, though in jest, a friend + For those defects he cannot mend; + His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, + If named with scorn, gives just offence. + What use in life to make men fret, + Part in worse humour than they met? + Thus all society is lost, + Men laugh at one another's cost: + And half the company is teazed + That came together to be pleased: + For all buffoons have most in view + To please themselves by vexing you. + When jests are carried on too far, + And the loud laugh begins the war, + You keep your countenance for shame, + Yet still you think your friend to blame; + For though men cry they love a jest, + 'Tis but when others stand the test; + And (would you have their meaning known) + They love a jest when 'tis their own. + You wonder now to see me write + So gravely where the subject's light; + Some part of what I here design + Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; + Who full of humour, fire, and wit, + Not always judges what is fit, + But loves to take prodigious rounds, + And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, + You must, although the point be nice, + Venture to give him some advice; + Few hints from you will set him right, + And teach him how to be polite. + Bid him like you, observe with care, + Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; + Nor indiscreetly to suppose + All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose. + To study the obliging jest, + By reading those who teach it best; + For prose I recommend Voiture's, + For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. + He'll find the secret out from thence, + To rhyme all day without offence; + And I no more shall then accuse + The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse. + If he be guilty, you must mend him; + If he be innocent, defend him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, + born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged + Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. + Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too + hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died + 1648.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.] + + [Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively + party, <i>post</i>, p. 137.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ELEGY[1] + </h2> + <p> + ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, + By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; + Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound + Redeem him from his prison underground. + His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst + Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. + Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know + His faithful steward in the shades below. + He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; + He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: + And by his looks, had he held out his palms, + He might be thought an object fit for alms. + So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, + He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself. + Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; + Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; + And under hand and seal, the Irish nation + Were forc'd to own to him their obligation. + He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, + In half a minute is not worth a groat. + His coffers from the coffin could not save, + Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave. + A golden monument would not be right, + Because we wish the earth upon him light. + Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, + Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; + He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; + The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. + Old as he was, no vulgar known disease + On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; + "[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight + Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; + And, as he saw his darling money fail, + Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." + He who so long was current, 'twould be strange + If he should now be cry'd down since his change. + The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; + Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! + A dismal banker must that banker be, + Who gives no bills but of mortality! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who + died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be + in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was + brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the + company.—<i>C. Walker</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath this verdant hillock lies + Demar, the wealthy and the wise, + His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, + Have put his carcass in a chest; + The very chest in which, they say, + His other self, his money, lay. + And, if his heirs continue kind + To that dear self he left behind, + I dare believe, that four in five + Will think his better self alive. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: + "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd + His money bags together sew'd + And that he might securely rest," + Variation—From the Chetwode MS.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, + </h2> + <h3> + ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You always are making a god of your spouse; + But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; + Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, + And you adore him, because he adores you. + Your argument's weak, and so you will find; + For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? + Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. + In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, + You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. + In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, + You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. + O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, + Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request! + Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, + Instead of the deans, make the deanery double. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St. + Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his + hospitality. See Journal to Stella, <i>passim</i>, "Prose Works," vol. + ii—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, + Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, + Found out a new method at once of confessing, + And making the most of so mighty a blessing: + To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse, + By making his patron preside in his house; + And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, + That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense; + So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat + With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. + Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, + Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as + appears from the verses which follow.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Right Trusty, and so forth—we let you know + We are very ill used by you mortals below. + For, first, I have often by chemists been told, + (Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold; + Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it, + That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it. + Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine, + I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine; + To me the good fellows apply for relief, + Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef: + Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards + Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards. + That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think, + And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink. + But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd, + I alone can inspire the poetical crowd: + This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College, + Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge. + This every pretender in rhyme will admit, + Without troubling his head about judgment or wit. + These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom, + And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em. + They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls, + And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls. + But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany, + Whom I for your sake have used better than any, + And, of my mere motion, and special good grace, + Intended in time to succeed in your place, + On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came, + With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name, + To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass, + Where for fear of the cold I never can pass, + Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil, + Of value five shillings, in English a pencil, + Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write, + While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light. + My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath, + That she stopt in her course to look at them both; + That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding; + And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading: + That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day, + But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey: + And by the description, I certainly know, + 'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago; + Whom when I with the best of my talents endued, + On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude: + That some verses were writ with felonious intent, + Direct to the North, where I never once went: + That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane, + But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again; + Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4] + And presently guessed the fancy was mine. + She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen + At night between Cavan Street and College Green. + Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown, + The reason is plain, they are none of his own; + And observe while you live that no man is shy + To discover the goods he came honestly by. + If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it, + And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it. + Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark, + There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark; + And let them be seen by the world if he dare, + I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware. + But as for the poem he writ on your sash, + I think I have now got him under my lash; + My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow, + And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow. + Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread + In all parts of the globe where your language is read. + He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal, + When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual: + But the secret is this; I did lately intend + To write a few verses on you as my friend: + I studied a fortnight, before I could find, + As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind, + And resolved the next winter (for that is my time, + When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme; + Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus; + When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us, + Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick + (For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,) + And from my own stock provided with topics, + He gets to a window beyond both the tropics, + There out of my sight, just against the north zone, + Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own; + And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow: + Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo? + High treason by statute! yet here you object, + He only stole hints, but the verse is correct; + Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd; + So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd. + Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance, + We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence. + Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire, + To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire; + We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen, + To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. + And we order our subjects of every degree + To believe all his verses were written by me: + And under the pain of our highest displeasure, + To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure. + And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime, + I'm too much revenged already by Time, + In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases, + But will now be her friend whenever she pleases. + And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover + Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also + with the copy transcribed by Stella.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Diana.] + + [Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran: + "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line + And found by the wit the Fancy was mine + For none of his poems were ever yet shown + Which he in his conscience could claim for his own." + <i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NEWS FROM PARNASSUS + </h2> + <h3> + BY DR. DELANY + </h3> + <h3> + OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. + The poets assembled here on the eleventh, + Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know + He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below; + But declared that no bard should this honour inherit, + Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit: + Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case, + For each bard believed he'd a right to the place; + So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate, + He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate: + 'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose, + Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose; + Till at length he determined that every bard + Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard. + First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1] + Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration: + "Since the soul of great Milton was given to me, + I hope the convention will quickly agree."— + "Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool? + Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school? + Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time, + And given in return neither reason nor rhyme." + To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you, + I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you: + Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd, + Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd; + That at my instigation, a poem you writ, + Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit; + That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice, + Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice. + Jove sent her to me, her power to try; + The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny? + She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire. + Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher." + The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding, + For he merited much for his wit and his breeding. + 'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him, + He else might expect they should pay what they owe him. + And therefore they prudently chose to discard + The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward: + The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance, + "You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France: + You bend your ambition to rise in the state; + I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great." + Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3] + "The convention allows me a versificator." + Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit; + By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit. + I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth, + The greatest objection against you's your youth; + Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside; + If you live you shall certainly one day preside." + Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets, + "'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4] + You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before; + But give me the bard that can teach them to soar. + Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess, + Who lately attempted my style with success; + Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit, + And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit: + Who makes it appear, by all he has writ, + His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit; + Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease, + But excels even Virgil in elegant praise: + Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due + Yet writes in a manner entirely new; + Though none with more ease their depths can explore, + Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store; + Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see, + In scorning to borrow from any but me: + It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays + Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays. + This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift: + The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No. + 66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir + Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift + writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and + he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into + blank verse.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a + "formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a + "pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and + "Odyssey."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Diana.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO'S EDICT + </h2> + <h3> + OCCASIONED BY "NEWS FROM PARNASSUS" + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ireland is now our royal care, + We lately fix'd our viceroy there. + How near was she to be undone, + Till pious love inspired her son! + What cannot our vicegerent do, + As poet and as patriot too? + Let his success our subjects sway, + Our inspirations to obey, + And follow where he leads the way: + Then study to correct your taste; + Nor beaten paths be longer traced. + No simile shall be begun, + With rising or with setting sun; + And let the secret head of Nile + Be ever banish'd from your isle. + When wretched lovers live on air, + I beg you'll the chameleon spare; + And when you'd make a hero grander, + Forget he's like a salamander.[1] + No son of mine shall dare to say, + Aurora usher'd in the day, + Or ever name the milky-way. + You all agree, I make no doubt, + Elijah's mantle is worn out. + The bird of Jove shall toil no more + To teach the humble wren to soar. + Your tragic heroes shall not rant, + Nor shepherds use poetic cant. + Simplicity alone can grace + The manners of the rural race. + Theocritus and Philips be + Your guides to true simplicity. + When Damon's soul shall take its flight, + Though poets have the second-sight, + They shall not see a trail of light. + Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, + Nor a new star adorn the skies: + For who can hope to place one there, + As glorious as Belinda's hair? + Yet, if his name you'd eternize, + And must exalt him to the skies; + Without a star this may be done: + So Tickell mourn'd his Addison. + If Anna's happy reign you praise, + Pray, not a word of halcyon days: + Nor let my votaries show their skill + In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2] + For know I cannot bear to hear + The mimicry of "deep, yet clear." + Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, + Against the phoenix I protest. + When poets soar in youthful strains, + No Phaethon to hold the reins. + When you describe a lovely girl, + No lips of coral, teeth of pearl. + Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, + However beauteous, for his mother; + Nor shall his darts at random fly + From magazine in Celia's eye. + With woman compounds I am cloy'd, + Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3] + For foreign aid what need they roam, + Whom fate has amply blest at home? + Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, + Has form'd a model for your land, + Whom Jove endued with every grace; + The glory of the Granard race; + Now destined by the powers divine + The blessing of another line. + Then, would you paint a matchless dame, + Whom you'd consign to endless fame? + Invoke not Cytherea's aid, + Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; + Nor need you on the Graces call; + Take qualities from Donegal.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," <i>ante</i>, p. + 46.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.] + + [Footnote 3: <i>Ante</i>, p. 50.] + + [Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of + Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen + Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was + composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having + reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he + executed the following very spirited translation.—<i>W. E. B.</i> + + TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720 + + O'ROURKE'S noble fare + Will ne'er be forgot, + By those who were there, + Or those who were not. + + His revels to keep, + We sup and we dine + On seven score sheep, + Fat bullocks, and swine. + + Usquebaugh to our feast + In pails was brought up, + A hundred at least, + And a madder[1] our cup. + + O there is the sport! + We rise with the light + In disorderly sort, + From snoring all night. + + O how was I trick'd! + My pipe it was broke, + My pocket was pick'd, + I lost my new cloak. + + I'm rifled, quoth Nell, + Of mantle and kercher,[2] + Why then fare them well, + The de'el take the searcher. + + Come, harper, strike up; + But, first, by your favour, + Boy, give us a cup: + Ah! this hath some savour. + + O'Rourke's jolly boys + Ne'er dreamt of the matter, + Till, roused by the noise, + And musical clatter, + + They bounce from their nest, + No longer will tarry, + They rise ready drest, + Without one Ave-Mary. + + They dance in a round, + Cutting capers and ramping; + A mercy the ground + Did not burst with their stamping. + + The floor is all wet + With leaps and with jumps, + While the water and sweat + Splish-splash in their pumps. + + Bless you late and early, + Laughlin O'Enagin![3] + But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. + Margery Grinagin.[5] + + Bring straw for our bed, + Shake it down to the feet, + Then over us spread + The winnowing sheet. + + To show I don't flinch, + Fill the bowl up again: + Then give us a pinch + Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6] + + Good lord! what a sight, + After all their good cheer, + For people to fight + In the midst of their beer! + + They rise from their feast, + And hot are their brains, + A cubit at least + The length of their skeans.[7] + + What stabs and what cuts, + What clattering of sticks; + What strokes on the guts, + What bastings and kicks! + + With cudgels of oak, + Well harden'd in flame, + A hundred heads broke, + A hundred struck lame. + + You churl, I'll maintain + My father built Lusk, + The castle of Slane, + And Carrick Drumrusk: + + The Earl of Kildare, + And Moynalta his brother, + As great as they are, + I was nurst by their mother.[8] + + Ask that of old madam: + She'll tell you who's who, + As far up as Adam, + She knows it is true. + + Come down with that beam, + If cudgels are scarce, + A blow on the weam, + Or a kick on the a——se. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the + women.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: An Irish oath.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; + their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or + foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When first Diana leaves her bed, + Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, + A frowzy dirty-colour'd red + Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face: + + But by degrees, when mounted high, + Her artificial face appears + Down from her window in the sky, + Her spots are gone, her visage clears. + + 'Twixt earthly females and the moon, + All parallels exactly run; + If Celia should appear too soon, + Alas, the nymph would be undone! + + To see her from her pillow rise, + All reeking in a cloudy steam, + Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, + Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme! + + The soot or powder which was wont + To make her hair look black as jet, + Falls from her tresses on her front, + A mingled mass of dirt and sweat. + + Three colours, black, and red, and white + So graceful in their proper place, + Remove them to a different light, + They form a frightful hideous face: + + For instance, when the lily slips + Into the precincts of the rose, + And takes possession of the lips, + Leaving the purple to the nose: + + So Celia went entire to bed, + All her complexion safe and sound; + But, when she rose, the black and red, + Though still in sight, had changed their ground. + + The black, which would not be confined, + A more inferior station seeks, + Leaving the fiery red behind, + And mingles in her muddy cheeks. + + The paint by perspiration cracks, + And falls in rivulets of sweat, + On either side you see the tracks + While at her chin the conflu'nts meet. + + A skilful housewife thus her thumb, + With spittle while she spins anoints; + And thus the brown meanders come + In trickling streams betwixt her joints. + + But Celia can with ease reduce, + By help of pencil, paint, and brush, + Each colour to its place and use, + And teach her cheeks again to blush. + + She knows her early self no more, + But fill'd with admiration stands; + As other painters oft adore + The workmanship of their own hands. + + Thus, after four important hours, + Celia's the wonder of her sex; + Say, which among the heavenly powers + Could cause such wonderful effects? + + Venus, indulgent to her kind, + Gave women all their hearts could wish, + When first she taught them where to find + White lead, and Lusitanian dish. + + Love with white lead cements his wings; + White lead was sent us to repair + Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things, + A lady's face, and China-ware. + + She ventures now to lift the sash; + The window is her proper sphere; + Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash, + Nor let the beaux approach too near. + + Take pattern by your sister star; + Delude at once and bless our sight; + When you are seen, be seen from far, + And chiefly choose to shine by night. + + In the Pall Mall when passing by, + Keep up the glasses of your chair, + Then each transported fop will cry, + "G——d d——n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!" + + But art no longer can prevail, + When the materials all are gone; + The best mechanic hand must fail, + Where nothing's left to work upon. + + Matter, as wise logicians say, + Cannot without a form subsist; + And form, say I, as well as they, + Must fail if matter brings no grist. + + And this is fair Diana's case; + For, all astrologers maintain, + Each night a bit drops off her face, + When mortals say she's in her wane: + + While Partridge wisely shows the cause + Efficient of the moon's decay, + That Cancer with his pois'nous claws + Attacks her in the milky way: + + But Gadbury,[2] in art profound, + From her pale cheeks pretends to show + That swain Endymion is not sound, + Or else that Mercury's her foe. + + But let the cause be what it will, + In half a month she looks so thin, + That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill, + See but her forehead and her chin. + + Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, + Till midnight never shows her head; + So rotting Celia strolls the street, + When sober folks are all a-bed: + + For sure, if this be Luna's fate, + Poor Celia, but of mortal race, + In vain expects a longer date + To the materials of her face. + + When Mercury her tresses mows, + To think of oil and soot is vain: + No painting can restore a nose, + Nor will her teeth return again. + + Two balls of glass may serve for eyes, + White lead can plaister up a cleft; + But these, alas, are poor supplies + If neither cheeks nor lips be left. + + Ye powers who over love preside! + Since mortal beauties drop so soon, + If ye would have us well supplied, + Send us new nymphs with each new moon! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with the copy transcribed by + Stella.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of + ephemerides.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in + August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see + "Dictionary of National Biography."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, + A reverend Dean began to woo[2] + A handsome, young, imperious girl, + Nearly related to an earl.[3] + Her parents and her friends consent; + The couple to the temple went: + They first invite the Cyprian queen; + 'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" + But Cupid in disdain could scarce + Forbear to bid them kiss his —— + The Graces next, and all the Muses, + Were bid in form, but sent excuses. + Juno attended at the porch, + With farthing candle for a torch; + While mistress Iris held her train, + The faded bow bedropt with rain. + Then Hebe came, and took her place, + But show'd no more than half her face. + Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, + In joy the marriage-day was spent; + The marriage-<i>day</i>, you take me right, + I promise nothing for the night. + The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, + Assumes an artificial vigour; + A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace + His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; + Like the faint red upon a pippin, + Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. + And thus set out this happy pair, + The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; + But, what I gladly would forget, + The swain is old, the nymph coquette. + Both from the goal together start; + Scarce run a step before they part; + No common ligament that binds + The various textures of their minds; + Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, + Less corresponding than their years. + The Dean desires his coffee soon, + She rises to her tea at noon. + While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, + She at the glass consults her looks; + While Betty's buzzing at her ear, + Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! + So odd a choice how could she make! + Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. + Then, on her finger ends she counts, + Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. + The Dean, she heard her uncle say, + Is sixty, if he be a day; + His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; + You see the crow's feet round his eyes. + At one she rambles to the shops, + To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; + Or calls a council of her maids, + And tradesmen, to compare brocades. + Her weighty morning business o'er, + Sits down to dinner just at four; + Minds nothing that is done or said, + Her evening work so fills her head. + The Dean, who used to dine at one, + Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; + In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, + Looks like the chaplain of the household; + Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, + In French brocades, and Flanders lace; + He wonders what employs her brain, + But never asks, or asks in vain; + His mind is full of other cares, + And, in the sneaking parson's airs, + Computes, that half a parish dues + Will hardly find his wife in shoes. + Canst thou imagine, dull divine, + 'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? + Hath she no other wants beside? + You feed her lust as well as pride, + Enticing coxcombs to adore, + And teach her to despise thee more. + If in her coach she'll condescend + To place him at the hinder end, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose, + His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] + She drops him at the church, to pray, + While she drives on to see the play. + He like an orderly divine, + Comes home a quarter after nine, + And meets her hasting to the ball: + Her chairmen push him from the wall. + The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, + And calls the family to prayers; + Then goes alone to take his rest + In bed, where he can spare her best. + At five the footmen make a din, + Her ladyship is just come in; + The masquerade began at two, + She stole away with much ado; + And shall be chid this afternoon, + For leaving company so soon: + She'll say, and she may truly say't, + She can't abide to stay out late. + But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, + Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: + The cause, alas! is quickly guest; + The town has whisper'd round the jest. + Think on some remedy in time, + The Dean you see, is past his prime, + Already dwindled to a lath: + No other way but try the Bath. + For Venus, rising from the ocean, + Infused a strong prolific potion, + That mix'd with Acheloüs spring, + The horned flood, as poets sing, + Who, with an English beauty smitten, + Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; + The genial virtue with him brought, + And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; + Then fled, and left his horn behind, + For husbands past their youth to find; + The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, + Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, + Where childless wives crowd every morn, + To drink in Acheloüs horn;[6] + Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs + Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. + And here the father often gains + That title by another's pains. + Hither, though much against his grain + The Dean has carried Lady Jane. + He, for a while, would not consent, + But vow'd his money all was spent: + Was ever such a clownish reason! + And must my lady slip her season? + The doctor, with a double fee, + Was bribed to make the Dean agree. + Here, all diversions of the place + Are proper in my lady's case: + With which she patiently complies, + Merely because her friends advise; + His money and her time employs + In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; + Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, + Since others oft have found one there; + Where if the Dean by chance appears, + It shames his cassock and his years. + He keeps his distance in the gallery, + Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; + For 'twould his character expose, + To bathe among the belles and beaux. + So have I seen, within a pen, + Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; + But, when let out, they run and muddle, + As instinct leads them, in a puddle; + The sober hen, not born to swim, + With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] + The Dean, with all his best endeavour, + Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. + A victim to the last essays + Of vigour in declining days, + He dies, and leaves his mourning mate + (What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. + The widow goes through all her forms: + New lovers now will come in swarms. + O, may I see her soon dispensing + Her favours to some broken ensign! + Him let her marry for his face, + And only coat of tarnish'd lace; + To turn her naked out of doors, + And spend her jointure on his whores; + But, for a parting present, leave her + A rooted pox to last for ever! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated + January, 1721-2.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: + "A rich divine began to woo," + "A grave divine resolved to woo," + are Swift's successive changes of this line.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but + he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: + "If by a more than usual grace + She lends him in her chariot place, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose + For fear his gown should soil her clothes."—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib. + ix.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was + erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to + James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of + Modena, having conceived after bathing there.—Collinson's "History of + Somersetshire."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first + draft.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.—<i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROGRESS OF POETRY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The farmer's goose, who in the stubble + Has fed without restraint or trouble, + Grown fat with corn and sitting still, + Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; + And hardly waddles forth to cool + Her belly in the neighbouring pool! + Nor loudly cackles at the door; + For cackling shows the goose is poor. + But, when she must be turn'd to graze, + And round the barren common strays, + Hard exercise, and harder fare, + Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; + Her body light, she tries her wings, + And scorns the ground, and upward springs; + While all the parish, as she flies, + Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. + Such is the poet fresh in pay, + The third night's profits of his play; + His morning draughts till noon can swill, + Among his brethren of the quill: + With good roast beef his belly full, + Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, + Deep sunk in plenty and delight, + What poet e'er could take his flight? + Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, + What poet e'er could sing a note? + Nor Pegasus could bear the load + Along the high celestial road; + The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, + To raise the lumber from the earth. + But view him in another scene, + When all his drink is Hippocrene, + His money spent, his patrons fail, + His credit out for cheese and ale; + His two-years coat so smooth and bare, + Through every thread it lets in air; + With hungry meals his body pined, + His guts and belly full of wind; + And, like a jockey for a race, + His flesh brought down to flying case: + Now his exalted spirit loathes + Encumbrances of food and clothes; + And up he rises like a vapour, + Supported high on wings of paper. + He singing flies, and flying sings, + While from below all Grub-Street rings. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, + Arma virûm, tabulaeque, et Troïa gaza per undas. + VIRG. + + For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, + projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and + ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, + see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," + Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and + arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his + grandfather.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye wise philosophers, explain + What magic makes our money rise, + When dropt into the Southern main; + Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes? + + Put in your money fairly told; + <i>Presto</i>! be gone—'Tis here again: + Ladies and gentlemen, behold, + Here's every piece as big as ten. + + Thus in a basin drop a shilling, + Then fill the vessel to the brim, + You shall observe, as you are filling, + The pond'rous metal seems to swim: + + It rises both in bulk and height, + Behold it swelling like a sop; + The liquid medium cheats your sight: + Behold it mounted to the top! + + In stock three hundred thousand pounds, + I have in view a lord's estate; + My manors all contiguous round! + A coach-and-six, and served in plate! + + Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, + Puts all upon a desperate bet; + Then plunges in the Southern waves, + Dipt over head and ears—in debt. + + So, by a calenture misled, + The mariner with rapture sees, + On the smooth ocean's azure bed, + Enamell'd fields and verdant trees: + + With eager haste he longs to rove + In that fantastic scene, and thinks + It must be some enchanted grove; + And in he leaps, and down he sinks. + + Five hundred chariots just bespoke, + Are sunk in these devouring waves, + The horses drown'd, the harness broke, + And here the owners find their graves. + + Like Pharaoh, by directors led, + They with their spoils went safe before; + His chariots, tumbling out the dead, + Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore. + + Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, + The young adventurer o'er the deep + An eagle's flight and state assumes, + And scorns the middle way to keep. + + On paper wings he takes his flight, + With wax the father bound them fast; + The wax is melted by the height, + And down the towering boy is cast. + + A moralist might here explain + The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] + Describe his fall into the main, + And from a fable form a truth. + + His wings are his paternal rent, + He melts the wax at every flame; + His credit sunk, his money spent, + In Southern Seas he leaves his name. + + Inform us, you that best can tell, + Why in that dangerous gulf profound, + Where hundreds and where thousands fell, + Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd? + + So have I seen from Severn's brink + A flock of geese jump down together; + Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, + And, swimming, never wet a feather. + + But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, + Directors better knew their tools; + We see the nation's credit crack'd, + Each knave has made a thousand fools. + + One fool may from another win, + And then get off with money stored; + But, if a sharper once comes in, + He throws it all, and sweeps the board. + + As fishes on each other prey, + The great ones swallowing up the small, + So fares it in the Southern Sea; + The whale directors eat up all. + + When stock is high, they come between, + Making by second-hand their offers; + Then cunningly retire unseen, + With each a million in his coffers. + + So, when upon a moonshine night, + An ass was drinking at a stream, + A cloud arose, and stopt the light, + By intercepting every beam: + + The day of judgment will be soon, + Cries out a sage among the crowd; + An ass has swallow'd up the moon! + The moon lay safe behind the cloud. + + Each poor subscriber to the sea + Sinks down at once, and there he lies; + Directors fall as well as they, + Their fall is but a trick to rise. + + So fishes, rising from the main, + Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; + The moisture dried, they sink again, + And dip their fins again to fly. + + Undone at play, the female troops + Come here their losses to retrieve; + Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, + Like Lapland witches in a sieve. + + Thus Venus to the sea descends, + As poets feign; but where's the moral? + It shows the Queen of Love intends + To search the deep for pearl and coral. + + The sea is richer than the land, + I heard it from my grannam's mouth, + Which now I clearly understand; + For by the sea she meant the South. + + Thus, by directors we are told, + "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; + Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, + Look round, and see how thick it lies: + + "We, gentlemen, are your assisters, + We'll come, and hold you by the chin."— + Alas! all is not gold that glisters, + Ten thousand sink by leaping in. + + O! would those patriots be so kind, + Here in the deep to wash their hands, + Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find + The sea indeed had golden sands. + + A shilling in the bath you fling, + The silver takes a nobler hue, + By magic virtue in the spring, + And seems a guinea to your view. + + But, as a guinea will not pass + At market for a farthing more, + Shown through a multiplying glass, + Than what it always did before: + + So cast it in the Southern seas, + Or view it through a jobber's bill; + Put on what spectacles you please, + Your guinea's but a guinea still. + + One night a fool into a brook + Thus from a hillock looking down, + The golden stars for guineas took, + And silver Cynthia for a crown. + + The point he could no longer doubt; + He ran, he leapt into the flood; + There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, + All cover'd o'er with slime and mud. + + "Upon the water cast thy bread, + And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] + But gold, upon this ocean spread, + Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it: + + There is a gulf, where thousands fell, + Here all the bold adventurers came, + A narrow sound, though deep as Hell— + 'Change Alley is the dreadful name. + + Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, + Yet he that on the surface lies, + Without a pilot seldom knows + The time it falls, or when 'twill rise. + + Subscribers here by thousands float, + And jostle one another down; + Each paddling in his leaky boat, + And here they fish for gold, and drown. + + "Now buried in the depth below, + Now mounted up to Heaven again, + They reel and stagger to and fro, + At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4] + + Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, + A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, + Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, + And strip the bodies of the dead. + + But these, you say, are factious lies, + From some malicious Tory's brain; + For, where directors get a prize, + The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain. + + Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, + Some cully often wins a bet, + By venturing on the cheating side, + Though not into the secret let. + + While some build castles in the air, + Directors build them in the seas; + Subscribers plainly see them there, + For fools will see as wise men please. + + Thus oft by mariners are shown + (Unless the men of Kent are liars) + Earl Godwin's castles overflown, + And palace roofs, and steeple spires. + + Mark where the sly directors creep, + Nor to the shore approach too nigh! + The monsters nestle in the deep, + To seize you in your passing by. + + Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, + Who, taught by instinct how to shun + The crocodile, that lurking lies, + Run as they drink, and drink and run. + + Antæus could, by magic charms, + Recover strength whene'er he fell; + Alcides held him in his arms, + And sent him up in air to Hell. + + Directors, thrown into the sea, + Recover strength and vigour there; + But may be tamed another way, + Suspended for a while in air. + + Directors! for 'tis you I warn, + By long experience we have found + What planet ruled when you were born; + We see you never can be drown'd. + + Beware, nor overbulky grow, + Nor come within your cully's reach; + For, if the sea should sink so low + To leave you dry upon the beach, + + You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: + Your foes already waiting stand, + To tear you like a founder'd hulk, + While you lie helpless on the sand. + + Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, + The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: + The monster into parts divide, + And strip the bones, and melt the oil. + + Oh! may some western tempest sweep + These locusts whom our fruits have fed, + That plague, directors, to the deep, + Driven from the South Sea to the Red! + + May he, whom Nature's laws obey, + Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, + "Quiet the raging of the sea, + And still the madness of the crowd!" + + But never shall our isle have rest, + Till those devouring swine run down, + (The devils leaving the possest) + And headlong in the waters drown. + + The nation then too late will find, + Computing all their cost and trouble, + Directors' promises but wind, + South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Phaëthon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. + xi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.] + + [Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.] + + [Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in + 1866.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, + Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: + Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et altè + Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps + Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una. + Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; + Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PROLOGUE + </h2> + <h3> + BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS SENT WITH THE PROLOGUE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not + allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon + which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. + The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company + of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, + etc. to act in. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our set of strollers, wandering up and down, + Hearing the house was empty, came to town; + And, with a license from our good lord mayor, + Went to one Griffith, formerly a player: + Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe, + To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe, + To let our company supply their places, + And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces. + Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me; + I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he. + When we perform, look sharp among our crew, + There's not a creature here you ever knew. + The former folks were servants to the king; + We, humble strollers, always on the wing. + Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole, + Rather than starve, a better man would stroll. + Stay! let me see—Three hundred pounds a-year, + For leave to act in town!—'Tis plaguy dear. + Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark, + For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk. + Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix, + The public should bestow the actors six; + A score of guineas given underhand, + For a good word or so, we understand. + To help an honest lad that's out of place, + May cost a crown or so; a common case: + And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought + To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat. + But, in the chronicles of former ages, + Who ever heard of servants paying wages? + I pity Elrington with all my heart; + Would he were here this night to act my part! + I told him what it was to be a stroller; + How free we acted, and had no comptroller: + In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor, + First get a license, then produce our ware; + We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum: + Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come; + And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on, + Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone. + I told him in the smoothest way I could, + All this, and more, yet it would do no good. + But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks, + He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2] + To whom our country has been always dear, + Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here, + Owns all your favours, here intends to stay, + And, as a stroller, act in every play: + And the whole crew this resolution takes, + To live and die all strollers, for your sakes; + Not frighted with an ignominious name, + For your displeasure is their only shame. + A pox on Elrington's majestic tone! + Now to a word of business in our own. + Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last: + Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. + Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss, + The next we act shall be as good as this. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great + reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by + Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the + death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the + management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic + consideration. He died in July, 1732.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in + comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786; + Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National + Biography."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + TO MR. HOPPY'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, AT SMOCK-ALLEY + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, + I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. + He's not the first person who never did write, + And yet has been fed by a benefit-night. + The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye, + In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury. + But then you must know, those players still act on + Some very good reasons, for such benefaction. + A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail; + From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. + Your emerited actors, and actresses too, + For what they have done (though no more they can do) + And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G——, + And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea; + A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright, + Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night. + Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found + That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound, + Paid to him clear money once every year: + And however some think it a little too dear, + Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow, + Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow. + First, because by the King to us he was sent, + To guide the whole session of this parliament. + To preside in our councils, both public and private, + And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at. + When bold B—— roars, and meek M—— raves, + When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be——h by halves, + When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories; + And to himself constant when a member no more is, + But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes; + As S——t is dull, and with S——d, who dotes; + Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low, + And with eloquent bow, the house he must show, + That that worthy member who spoke last must give + The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive, + That his sentiment on this affair isn't right; + That he mightily wonders which way he came by't: + That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown; + And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down. + For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear, + Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year, + And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood, + To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good; + To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit; + And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit. + To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat, + And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat: + All which he deserves; for although all the day + He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay; + And if he rise early to watch for the state, + To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late. + Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say + Hop has got all the money for our acting this play, + Which makes us poor actors look <i>je ne sçai quoy</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the + avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the + company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to + have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But + it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous + guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's + accuracy of numbers.—<i>Scott</i>. Perhaps so, but the note to this + piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the <i>Captain</i>, one evening, at the + end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at + <i>Gallstown</i>"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous + guests." This is very different from "composed."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROLOGUE[1] + </h2> + <p> + TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. SHERIDAN. + SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great cry, and little wool—is now become + The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom; + No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp; + Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. + Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry; + Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! + Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange + To shift your clothes, since you delight in change. + One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell— + The men will like you every bit as well. + See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff, + And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough; + My wife admires me more, and swears she never, + In any dress, beheld me look so clever. + And if a man be better in such ware, + What great advantage must it give the fair! + Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds; + Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds; + Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find + Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined— + And what are they but maggots in the mind? + For which I think it reason to conclude, + That clothes may change our temper like our food. + Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes + Too much about the party-colour'd dyes; + Although the lustre is from you begun, + We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun. + How sweet and innocent's the country maid, + With small expense in native wool array'd; + Who copies from the fields her homely green, + While by her shepherd with delight she's seen! + Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool + How much more lovely, and how beautiful, + Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove! + While wool would help to warm us into love! + Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, + We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the + Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish + Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL2" id="link2H_EPIL2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE + </h2> + <p> + TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY THE DEAN. + SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who dares affirm this is no pious age, + When charity begins to tread the stage? + When actors, who at best are hardly savers, + Will give a night of benefit to weavers? + Stay—let me see, how finely will it sound! + <i>Imprimis</i>, From his grace[1] a hundred pound. + Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors; + And then comes in the <i>item</i> of the actors. + <i>Item</i>, The actors freely give a day— + The poet had no more who made the play. + But whence this wondrous charity in players? + They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: + Under the rose, since here are none but friends, + (To own the truth) we have some private ends. + Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, + Hold up the prices of their old brocades; + We'll dress in manufactures made at home; + Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2] + We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen + And Antony shall court her in ratteen. + In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad, + And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid, + In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, + See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; + And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, + With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage. + In short, our kings and princesses within + Are all resolved this project to begin; + And you, our subjects, when you here resort, + Must imitate the fashion of the court. + O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, + Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: + But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, + And scarce a crown is left to see the play. + Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs + Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; + But wit and weaving had the same beginning; + Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: + And, next, observe how this alliance fits, + For weavers now are just as poor as wits: + Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, + For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; + But weavers will be kinder to the players, + And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs. + And to your knowledge, there is often less in + The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Archbishop King.] + + [Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.," + lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish + Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER + </h2> + <p> + TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE. IN BEHALF OF THE + DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Femineo generi tribuantur. + + The Muses, whom the richest silks array, + Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; + The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, + And gives each colour to the pictured maids; + Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, + Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine. + And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff + And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? + The player in mimic piety may storm, + Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm: + The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, + May curse the belles and chintzes of the age: + Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, + And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. + The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, + Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; + Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, + Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: + Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, + And be the emblem of your innocence. + Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, + Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour: + Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, + Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. + Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, + For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these? + Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade + Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid. + Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, + Thus act subservient to a poplin gown? + Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough + The under petticoat be made of stuff. + Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May, + When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay! + And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they? + In what weak colours would the plaid appear, + Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair! + The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff; + Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough? + Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, + Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, + Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, + And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky! + Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full: + And all this for the benefit of wool! + "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers, + That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?" + The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, + Demand their care, to make their webs complete: + These may they tend, their promises receive; + We cannot pay too much for what they give! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. BY DR. DELANY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, + You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; + 'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, + You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; + 'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, + And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; + 'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, + And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; + 'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, + Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; + 'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, + And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; + 'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, + 'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, + 'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, + It is part of the new, and part of the old; + It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse— + wish then, dear George, it were better or worse. + + [Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George + Rochfort, Esq.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COUNTRY LIFE + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, + </h2> + <h3> + THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort. + <i>George</i>, his eldest son. + <i>Nim</i>, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting. + <i>Dan</i>, Mr. Jackson, a parson. + Gaulstown, the Baron's seat. + <i>Sheridan</i>, a pedant and pedagogue. + <i>Delany</i>, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor + of Ireland. + Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal. + Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thalia, tell, in sober lays, + How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days; + And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, + Yet <i>Neget quis carmina Gallo?</i> + Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I + Not Sheridan, but friend Delany. + Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers + We sally forth at different hours; + At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, + Goes round the house to wake the rest; + At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, + Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2] + At ten my lady comes and hectors + And kisses George, and ends our lectures; + And when she has him by the neck fast, + Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast. + We squander there an hour or more, + And then all hands, boys, to the oar; + All, heteroclite Dan except, + Who never time nor order kept, + But by peculiar whimseys drawn, + Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn: + O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, + Or mars a text, or mends his hose; + Or—but proceed we in our journal— + At two, or after, we return all: + From the four elements assembling, + Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, + From airy garrets some descend, + Some from the lake's remotest end; + My lord and Dean the fire forsake, + Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; + The loiterers quake, no corner hides them + And Lady Betty soundly chides them. + Now water brought, and dinner done; + With "Church and King" the ladies gone. + Not reckoning half an hour we pass + In talking o'er a moderate glass. + Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief + Steals off to doze away his beef; + And this must pass for reading Hammond— + While George and Dean go to backgammon. + George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, + And then, again, boys, to the oar. + But when the sun goes to the deep, + (Not to disturb him in his sleep, + Or make a rumbling o'er his head, + His candle out, and he a-bed,) + We watch his motions to a minute, + And leave the flood when he goes in it. + Now stinted in the shortening day, + We go to prayers and then to play, + Till supper comes; and after that + We sit an hour to drink and chat. + 'Tis late—the old and younger pairs, + By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs. + The weary Dean goes to his chamber; + And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, + So when the circle we have run, + The curtain falls and all is done. + I might have mention'd several facts, + Like episodes between the acts; + And tell who loses and who wins, + Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; + How Dan caught nothing in his net, + And how the boat was overset. + For brevity I have retrench'd + How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: + It would be an exploit to brag on, + How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; + How steady in the storm he sat, + And saved his oar, but lost his hat: + How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) + Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; + How skilfully Dan mends his nets; + How fortune fails him when he sets; + Or how the Dean delights to vex + The ladies, and lampoon their sex: + I might have told how oft Dean Perceval + Displays his pedantry unmerciful, + How haughtily he cocks his nose, + To tell what every schoolboy knows: + And with his finger and his thumb, + Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: + But now there needs no more be said on't, + Nor how his wife, that female pedant, + Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: + For candles how she trucks her dripping; + Was forced to send three miles for yeast, + To brew her ale, and raise her paste; + Tells everything that you can think of, + How she cured Charley of the chincough; + What gave her brats and pigs the measles, + And how her doves were killed by weasels; + How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright + She had with dreams the other night. + But now, since I have gone so far on, + A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; + And tell how little weight he sets + On all Whig papers and gazettes; + But for the politics of Pue,[4] + Thinks every syllable is true: + And since he owns the King of Sweden [5] + Is dead at last, without evading, + Now all his hopes are in the czar; + "Why, Muscovy is not so far; + Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, + And in a month he's at your gates; + Perhaps from what the packet brings, + By Christmas we shall see strange things." + Why should I tell of ponds and drains, + What carps we met with for our pains; + Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable + To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? + But you, who are a scholar, know + How transient all things are below, + How prone to change is human life! + Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife— + This grand event has broke our measures; + Their reign began with cruel seizures; + The Dean must with his quilt supply + The bed in which those tyrants lie; + Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, + (My lady says, she can't afford one,) + George is half scared out of his wits, + For Clem gets all the dainty bits. + Henceforth expect a different survey, + This house will soon turn topsyturvy; + They talk of farther alterations, + Which causes many speculations. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for + his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The butler.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p. + 347.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a + "petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to + "Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of + Gaulstown.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WOULD you that Delville I describe? + Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: + For who would be satirical + Upon a thing so very small? + You scarce upon the borders enter, + Before you're at the very centre. + A single crow can make it night, + When o'er your farm she takes her flight: + Yet, in this narrow compass, we + Observe a vast variety; + Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, + Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs, + And hills and dales, and woods and fields, + And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields: + All to your haggard brought so cheap in, + Without the mowing or the reaping: + A razor, though to say't I'm loth, + Would shave you and your meadows both. + Though small's the farm, yet here's a house + Full large to entertain a mouse; + But where a rat is dreaded more + Than savage Caledonian boar; + For, if it's enter'd by a rat, + There is no room to bring a cat. + A little rivulet seems to steal + Down through a thing you call a vale, + Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, + Like rain along a blade of leek: + And this you call your sweet meander, + Which might be suck'd up by a gander, + Could he but force his nether bill + To scoop the channel of the rill. + For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, + Were it as big as city gutter. + Next come I to your kitchen garden, + Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; + And round this garden is a walk + No longer than a tailor's chalk; + Thus I compare what space is in it, + A snail creeps round it in a minute. + One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze + Up through a tuft you call your trees: + And, once a year, a single rose + Peeps from the bud, but never blows; + In vain then you expect its bloom! + It cannot blow for want of room. + In short, in all your boasted seat, + There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's + friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is + unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, + Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. + This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent, + And bid him go ask what his votary meant? + "Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: + 'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser! + Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, + I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; + For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; + And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CARBERIAE RUPES + </h2> + <h3> + IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo + Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, + Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa + Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur + Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis. + Nam, longâ venti rabie, atque aspergine crebrâ + Aequorei laticis, specus imâ rupe cavatur: + Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant; + Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas. + Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem + Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum + In capita anguipedum coelo jaculâsse gigantum. + Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu + Exesa è scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, + Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo + Cautibus enormè junctis laquearia tecti + Formantur; moles olim ruitura supernè. + Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, + Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae. + Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, + Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; + Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextrâ + Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, + Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procellâ: + Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia latè, + Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, + Terretur tamen, et longè fugit, arva relinquens. + Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, + Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, + Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt. + Piscator terrâ non audet vellere funem; + Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aëra sudum + Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CARBERY ROCKS + </h2> + <h3> + TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds + Its airy head amid the azure clouds, + Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props, + Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops; + With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound, + From shore to shore the rocks return the sound: + The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, + And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: + For, long the whirling winds and beating tides + Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides. + Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge + Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge. + Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, + When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; + Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, + To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load. + Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide + Presents an orifice on either side. + A dismal orifice, from sea to sea + Extended, pervious to the God of Day: + Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form + An arch, the ruin of a future storm: + High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, + And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake. + But when bleak Winter with his sullen train + Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; + When o'er the craggy steep without control, + Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; + Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, + Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, + Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, + Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, + Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: + Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore. + The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks + Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, + Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, + Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. + The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, + The wither'd herb improvident they crop, + Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, + Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep. + The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, + Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, + Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, + Wearies with vows the monarch of the main. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES + </h2> + <h3> + ON MR. FORD[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COME, be content, since out it must, + For Stella has betray'd her trust; + And, whispering, charged me not to say + That Mr. Ford was born to-day; + Or, if at last I needs must blab it, + According to my usual habit, + She bid me, with a serious face, + Be sure conceal the time and place; + And not my compliment to spoil, + By calling this your native soil; + Or vex the ladies, when they knew + That you are turning forty-two: + But, if these topics shall appear + Strong arguments to keep you here, + I think, though you judge hardly of it, + Good manners must give place to profit. + The nymphs, with whom you first began, + Are each become a harridan; + And Montague so far decay'd, + Her lovers now must all be paid; + And every belle that since arose, + Has her contemporary beaux. + Your former comrades, once so bright, + With whom you toasted half the night, + Of rheumatism and pox complain, + And bid adieu to dear champaign. + Your great protectors, once in power, + Are now in exile or the Tower. + Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, + Who hate your person and your cause, + If once they get you on the spot, + You must be guilty of the plot; + For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire, + But use you ten times worse than Prior. + In London! what would you do there? + Can you, my friend, with patience bear + (Nay, would it not your passion raise + Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase) + To see a scoundrel strut and hector, + A foot-boy to some rogue director, + To look on vice triumphant round, + And virtue trampled on the ground? + Observe where bloody **** stands + With torturing engines in his hands, + Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail, + Threatening the pillory and jail: + If this you think a pleasing scene, + To London straight return again; + Where, you have told us from experience, + Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians. + I thought my very spleen would burst, + When fortune hither drove me first; + Was full as hard to please as you, + Nor persons' names nor places knew: + But now I act as other folk, + Like prisoners when their gaol is broke. + If you have London still at heart, + We'll make a small one here by art; + The difference is not much between + St. James's Park and Stephen's Green; + And Dawson Street will serve as well + To lead you thither as Pall Mall. + Nor want a passage through the palace, + To choke your sight, and raise your malice. + The Deanery-house may well be match'd, + Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2] + Nor shall I, when you hither come, + Demand a crown a-quart for stum. + Then for a middle-aged charmer, + Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3] + She's now as handsome every bit, + And has a thousand times her wit + The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, + Will half supply a Gay and Pope. + Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not, + No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot. + I throw into the bargain Tim; + In London can you equal him? + What think you of my favourite clan, + Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan; + Fellows of modest worth and parts, + With cheerful looks and honest hearts? + Can you on Dublin look with scorn? + Yet here were you and Ormond born. + O! were but you and I so wise, + To see with Robert Grattan's eyes! + Robin adores that spot of earth, + That literal spot which gave him birth; + And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste, + As fine as Hampton-court at least." + When to your friends you would enhance + The praise of Italy or France, + For grandeur, elegance, and wit, + We gladly hear you, and submit; + But then, to come and keep a clutter, + For this or that side of a gutter, + To live in this or t'other isle, + We cannot think it worth your while; + For, take it kindly or amiss, + The difference but amounts to this, + We bury on our side the channel + In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7] + You for the news are ne'er to seek; + While we, perhaps, may wait a week; + You happy folks are sure to meet + A hundred whores in every street; + While we may trace all Dublin o'er + Before we find out half a score. + You see my arguments are strong, + I wonder you held out so long; + But, since you are convinced at last, + We'll pardon you for what has past. + So—let us now for whist prepare; + Twelve pence a corner, if you dare. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his + friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the + poem, "Stella at Wood Park."—Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's + intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a + fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and + nation."—<i>Nichols</i>.] + + [Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till + about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, + "exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind + than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the + Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i, + 172.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death + of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.] + + [Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in + 1733.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DREAMS + </h2> + <h3> + AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Petronii Fragmenta, xxx. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, + And with false flitting shades our minds delude + Jove never sends us downward from the skies; + Nor can they from infernal mansions rise; + But are all mere productions of the brain, + And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1] + + For when in bed we rest our weary limbs, + The mind unburden'd sports in various whims; + The busy head with mimic art runs o'er + The scenes and actions of the day before.[2] + + The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, + To regal rage devotes some patriot's head. + With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, + The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt. + + The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, + And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. + With like remorse his brother of the trade, + The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. + + The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, + And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. + Nor less Tom-t—d-man, of true statesman mould, + Collects the city filth in search of gold. + + Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, + And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. + His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, + Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob. + + The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, + Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. + The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, + Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes. + + The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, + As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: + While the sly mountebank attends his trade, + Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. + + The hireling senator of modern days + Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: + And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace + Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: + "Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, + Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, + Sed sibi quisque facit."] + + [Footnote 2: + "Nam cum prostrata sopore + Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, + Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, + </h2> + <h3> + IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, + Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. + Can anything be more unkind? + Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? + Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,— + A friend that loves to see and hear you. + Why am I robb'd of that delight, + When you can be no loser by't + Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) + That if you heard you'd be no gainer? + For sure you are not yet to learn, + That hearing is not your concern. + Then be your doors no longer barr'd: + Your business, sir, is to be heard. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wise pretend to make it clear, + 'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. + Why are we then so fond of two, + When by experience one would do? + 'Tis true, say they, cut off the head, + And there's an end; the man is dead; + Because, among all human race, + None e'er was known to have a brace: + But confidently they maintain, + That where we find the members twain, + The loss of one is no such trouble, + Since t'other will in strength be double. + The limb surviving, you may swear, + Becomes his brother's lawful heir: + Thus, for a trial, let me beg of + Your reverence but to cut one leg off, + And you shall find, by this device, + The other will be stronger twice; + For every day you shall be gaining + New vigour to the leg remaining. + So, when an eye has lost its brother, + You see the better with the other, + Cut off your hand, and you may do + With t'other hand the work of two: + Because the soul her power contracts, + And on the brother limb reacts. + But yet the point is not so clear in + Another case, the sense of hearing: + For, though the place of either ear + Be distant, as one head can bear, + Yet Galen most acutely shows you, + (Consult his book <i>de partium usu</i>) + That from each ear, as he observes, + There creep two auditory nerves, + Not to be seen without a glass, + Which near the <i>os petrosum</i> pass; + Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there, + One goes to this, and one to t'other ear; + Which made my grandam always stuff her ears + Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers. + You see my learning; but, to shorten it, + When my left ear was deaf a fortnight, + To t'other ear I felt it coming on: + And thus I solve this hard phenomenon. + + 'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies + To weak, or old, or clouded eyes: + Your arms, though both your eyes were lost, + Would guard your nose against a post: + Without your legs, two legs of wood + Are stronger, and almost as good: + And as for hands, there have been those + Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1] + But no contrivance yet appears + To furnish artificial ears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot. + And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush + betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it + done at all.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME + </h2> + <h3> + TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NELL scolded in so loud a din, + That Will durst hardly venture in: + He mark'd the conjugal dispute; + Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute; + But, when he saw his friend appear, + Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!" + At sight of Will she bawl'd no more, + But hurried out and clapt the door. + Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell, + (Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell. + Why what a peal the jade has rung! + D—n her, why don't you slit her tongue? + For nothing else will make it cease. + Dear Will, I suffer this for peace: + I never quarrel with my wife; + I bear it for a quiet life. + Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it; + Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it. + Will went again to visit Dick; + And entering in the very nick, + He saw virago Nell belabour, + With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour. + Poor Will, who needs must interpose, + Received a brace or two of blows. + But now, to make my story short, + Will drew out Dick to take a quart. + Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims; + Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs? + If she were mine, and had such tricks, + I'd teach her how to handle sticks: + Z—ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1] + Or truck the carrion for tobacco: + I'd send her far enough away—— + Dear Will; but what would people say? + Lord! I should get so ill a name, + The neighbours round would cry out shame. + Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; + But who believed him when he said it? + Can he, who makes himself a slave, + Consult his peace, or credit save? + Dick found it by his ill success, + His quiet small, his credit less. + She served him at the usual rate; + She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: + And what he thought the hardest case, + The parish jeer'd him to his face; + Those men who wore the breeches least, + Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. + At home he was pursued with noise; + Abroad was pester'd by the boys: + Within, his wife would break his bones: + Without, they pelted him with stones; + The 'prentices procured a riding,[2] + To act his patience and her chiding. + False patience and mistaken pride! + There are ten thousand Dicks beside; + Slaves to their quiet and good name, + Are used like Dick, and bear the blame. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See <i>post</i>, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."] + + [Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to + ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in + this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through + the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and + her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, + enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix, + 370, 578.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS + 1726 + + Ye poets ragged and forlorn, + Down from your garrets haste; + Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, + Not yet consign'd to paste; + + I know a trick to make you thrive; + O, 'tis a quaint device: + Your still-born poems shall revive, + And scorn to wrap up spice. + + Get all your verses printed fair, + Then let them well be dried; + And Curll[1] must have a special care + To leave the margin wide. + + Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; + And when he sets to write, + No letter with an envelope + Could give him more delight. + + When Pope has fill'd the margins round, + Why then recall your loan; + Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, + And swear they are your own. + + [Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, + <i>passim.—W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer + (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the + covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters + themselves.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PASTORAL DIALOGUE + </h2> + <p> + WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, WHO DIED + THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the + following explanatory introduction: + + Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It + was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond + was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of + Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer + there. It is within a mile of Richmond. + + "Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now + Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the + Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles + from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert + the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the + ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the + above dialogue."—<i>Dublin Edition</i>, 1734. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, + And all that he or they can say; + Sing on I must, and sing I will, + Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill. + Last Friday night, as neighbours use, + This couple met to talk of news: + For, by old proverbs, it appears, + That walls have tongues, and hedges ears. + + MARBLE HILL + + Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, + Your mistress now is grown a queen; + You'll find it soon by woful proof, + She'll come no more beneath your roof. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + The kingly prophet well evinces, + That we should put no trust in princes: + My royal master promised me + To raise me to a high degree: + But now he's grown a king, God wot, + I fear I shall be soon forgot. + You see, when folks have got their ends, + How quickly they neglect their friends; + Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, + Pray God, they now may find as true! + + MARBLE HILL + + My house was built but for a show, + My lady's empty pockets know; + And now she will not have a shilling, + To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; + For all the courtly madams round + Now pay four shillings in the pound; + 'Tis come to what I always thought: + My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2] + Had you and I been courtiers born, + We should not thus have lain forlorn; + For those we dext'rous courtiers call, + Can rise upon their masters' fall: + But we, unlucky and unwise, + Must fall because our masters rise. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + My master, scarce a fortnight since, + Was grown as wealthy as a prince; + But now it will be no such thing, + For he'll be poor as any king; + And by his crown will nothing get, + But like a king to run in debt. + + MARBLE HILL + + No more the Dean, that grave divine, + Shall keep the key of my (no) wine; + My ice-house rob, as heretofore, + And steal my artichokes no more; + Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen + Bedraggled in my walks so green: + Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; + And here no more will dangle Pope. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, + To spunge a breakfast once a-week; + To cry the bread was stale, and mutter + Complaints against the royal butter. + But now I fear it will be said, + No butter sticks upon his bread.[4] + We soon shall find him full of spleen, + For want of tattling to the queen; + Stunning her royal ears with talking; + His reverence and her highness walking: + While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller, + Sits mounted on the garden-roller. + A goodly sight to see her ride, + With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. + In velvet cap his head lies warm, + His hat, for show, beneath his arm. + + MARBLE HILL + + Some South-Sea broker from the city + Will purchase me, the more's the pity; + Lay all my fine plantations waste, + To fit them to his vulgar taste: + Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, + My master Pope will break his heart. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + In my own Thames may I be drownded, + If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: + Except her majesty prevails + To place me with the Prince of Wales; + And then I shall be free from fears, + For he'll be prince these fifty years. + I then will turn a courtier too, + And serve the times as others do. + Plain loyalty, not built on hope, + I leave to your contriver, Pope; + None loves his king and country better, + Yet none was ever less their debtor. + + MARBLE HILL + + Then let him come and take a nap + In summer on my verdant lap; + Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, + To Kensington, or hot St. James's; + Nor shall I dull in silence sit; + For 'tis to me he owes his wit; + My groves, my echoes, and my birds, + Have taught him his poetic words. + We gardens, and you wildernesses, + Assist all poets in distresses. + Him twice a-week I here expect, + To rattle Moody[7] for neglect; + An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge + In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; + And I can hardly get him down + Three times a-week to brush my gown. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + I pity you, dear Marble Hill; + But hope to see you flourish still. + All happiness—and so adieu. + + MARBLE HILL + + Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after + supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden + on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at + the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th, + wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room + where he was born.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the + narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to + Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death, + described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy + could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and + states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the + King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty + thousand pounds to her family.—See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p. + 304; v, p. 456.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his + esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral + Epistle."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean + suspected.] + + [Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England + after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of + religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See + Voltaire, "Siècle de Louis XIV."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: The gardener.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire + In men, Possession and Desire! + Think what they wish so great a blessing; + So disappointed when possessing! + A moralist profoundly sage + (I know not in what book or page, + Or whether o'er a pot of ale) + Related thus the following tale. + Possession, and Desire, his brother, + But still at variance with each other, + Were seen contending in a race; + And kept at first an equal pace; + 'Tis said, their course continued long, + For this was active, that was strong: + Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt, + Misled them many a league about; + Seduced by some deceiving light, + They take the wrong way for the right; + Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, + They often climb, and often creep. + Desire, the swifter of the two, + Along the plain like lightning flew: + Till, entering on a broad highway, + Where power and titles scatter'd lay, + He strove to pick up all he found, + And by excursions lost his ground: + No sooner got, than with disdain + He threw them on the ground again; + And hasted forward to pursue + Fresh objects, fairer to his view, + In hope to spring some nobler game; + But all he took was just the same: + Too scornful now to stop his pace, + He spurn'd them in his rival's face. + Possession kept the beaten road, + And gather'd all his brother strew'd; + But overcharged, and out of wind, + Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind. + Desire had now the goal in sight; + It was a tower of monstrous height; + Where on the summit Fortune stands, + A crown and sceptre in her hands; + Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell, + Where many a bold adventurer fell. + Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile, + And saw the treacherous goddess smile; + But as he climb'd to grasp the crown, + She knock'd him with the sceptre down! + He tumbled in the gulf profound; + There doom'd to whirl an endless round. + Possession's load was grown so great, + He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight; + And, as he now expiring lay, + Flocks every ominous bird of prey; + The raven, vulture, owl, and kite, + At once upon his carcass light, + And strip his hide, and pick his bones, + Regardless of his dying groans. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +ON CENSURE + 1727 + + Ye wise, instruct me to endure + An evil, which admits no cure; + Or, how this evil can be borne, + Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. + Bare innocence is no support, + When you are tried in Scandal's court. + Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; + All others, who inferior sit, + Conceive themselves in conscience bound + To join, and drag you to the ground. + Your altitude offends the eyes + Of those who want the power to rise. + The world, a willing stander-by, + Inclines to aid a specious lie: + Alas! they would not do you wrong; + But all appearances are strong. + Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay + On what detracting people say! + For let mankind discharge their tongues + In venom, till they burst their lungs, + Their utmost malice cannot make + Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; + Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, + Or put one feature out of place; + Nor will you find your fortune sink + By what they speak or what they think; + Nor can ten hundred thousand lies + Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. + The most effectual way to balk + Their malice, is—to let them talk. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND + 1727 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A set of phrases learn'd by rote; + A passion for a scarlet coat; + When at a play, to laugh or cry, + Yet cannot tell the reason why; + Never to hold her tongue a minute, + While all she prates has nothing in it; + Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, + And take his nonsense all for wit; + Her learning mounts to read a song, + But half the words pronouncing wrong; + Has every repartee in store + She spoke ten thousand times before; + Can ready compliments supply + On all occasions cut and dry; + Such hatred to a parson's gown, + The sight would put her in a swoon; + For conversation well endued, + She calls it witty to be rude; + And, placing raillery in railing, + Will tell aloud your greatest failing; + Nor make a scruple to expose + Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; + Can at her morning tea run o'er + The scandal of the day before; + Improving hourly in her skill, + To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. + In choosing lace, a critic nice, + Knows to a groat the lowest price; + Can in her female clubs dispute, + What linen best the silk will suit, + What colours each complexion match, + And where with art to place a patch. + If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, + Can finely counterfeit a fright; + So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, + She ravishes all hearts to hear her. + Can dext'rously her husband teaze, + By taking fits whene'er she please; + By frequent practice learns the trick + At proper seasons to be sick; + Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, + At once creating love and pity; + If Molly happens to be careless, + And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, + She gets a cold as sure as death, + And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; + Admires how modest women can + Be so robustious like a man. + In party, furious to her power; + A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; + Her arguments directly tend + Against the side she would defend; + Will prove herself a Tory plain, + From principles the Whigs maintain; + And, to defend the Whiggish cause, + Her topics from the Tories draws. + O yes! if any man can find + More virtues in a woman's mind, + Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1] + She'll pay the charges to a farthing; + Take notice, she has my commission + To add them in the next edition; + They may outsell a better thing: + So, holla, boys; God save the King! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, + Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, + He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, + And promised to pay for it when he came back. + His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; + His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't. + The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, + And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!" + But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, + Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side! + And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, + He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!" + The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; + Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: + Then said, I must speak to the people a little; + But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1] + My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) + He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. + Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, + Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; + My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, + And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; + Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, + Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was + the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of + stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1727 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +POPE has the talent well to speak, + But not to reach the ear; + His loudest voice is low and weak, + The Dean too deaf to hear. + + Awhile they on each other look, + Then different studies choose; + The Dean sits plodding on a book; + Pope walks, and courts the Muse. + + Now backs of letters, though design'd + For those who more will need 'em, + Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, + Himself can hardly read 'em. + + Each atom by some other struck, + All turns and motions tries; + Till in a lump together stuck, + Behold a poem rise: + + Yet to the Dean his share allot; + He claims it by a canon; + That without which a thing is not, + Is <i>causa sine quâ non</i>. + + Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; + For, had our deaf divine + Been for your conversation fit, + You had not writ a line. + + Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed + The sexton reason'd well; + And justly half the merit claim'd, + Because he rang the bell. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS +</pre> + <h3> + WRITTEN AT LONDON + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By poets we are well assured + That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; + A complicated heap of ills, + Despising boluses and pills. + Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, + Since first I gave my heart to you. + Now, by your cruelty hard bound, + I strain my guts, my colon wound. + Now jealousy my grumbling tripes + Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. + When pity in those eyes I view, + My bowels wambling make me spew. + When I an amorous kiss design'd, + I belch'd a hurricane of wind. + Once you a gentle sigh let fall; + Remember how I suck'd it all; + What colic pangs from thence I felt, + Had you but known, your heart would melt, + Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, + Till Nature pointed out a vent. + How have you torn my heart to pieces + With maggots, humours, and caprices! + By which I got the hemorrhoids; + And loathsome worms my <i>anus</i> voids. + Whene'er I hear a rival named, + I feel my body all inflamed; + Which, breaking out in boils and blains, + With yellow filth my linen stains; + Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, + Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; + And then I drag a bloated <i>corpus</i>, + Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; + When, if I cannot purge or stale, + I must be tapp'd to fill a pail. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <h3> + BOUTS RIMEZ[1] + </h3> + <h3> + ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, + Of classic beauty, <i>haec et illa</i>; + Not all his birch inspires such wit + As th'ogling beams of Domitilla. + + Let nobles toast, in bright champaign, + Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; + I'll drink her health, again, again, + In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla. + + At Goodman's Fields I've much admired + The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; + But what are they to the soft step, + The gliding air of Domitilla? + + Virgil has eternized in song + The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3] + Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; + He might have dream'd of Domitilla. + + Great Theodose condemn'd a town + For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4] + And deuce take London! if some knight + O' th' city wed not Domitilla. + + Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, + Gives us a medal of Plantilla; + But O! the empress has not eyes, + Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla. + + Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, + Piled on the mules of king At-tila, + Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) + Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla. + + Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, + Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- + —bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let + To verse—but now for Domitilla. + + Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch + To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6] + And thus I offer up my catch + To the snow-white hands of Domitilla. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a + line, and to which rhymes must be found.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, <i>inter alia</i>, for his + enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints. + See his Works, <i>edit.</i> Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a + remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to + Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the + "Journal."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.] + + [Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several + books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS + </h2> + <h3> + UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now the active young attorneys + Briskly travel on their journeys, + Looking big as any giants, + On the horses of their clients; + Like so many little Marses + With their tilters at their a—s, + Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, + And with harness-buckles furnish'd, + And with whips and spurs so neat, + And with jockey-coats complete, + And with boots so very greasy, + And with saddles eke so easy, + And with bridles fine and gay, + Bridles borrow'd for a day, + Bridles destined far to roam, + Ah! never, never to come home. + And with hats so very big, sir, + And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, + And with ruffles to be shown, + Cambric ruffles not their own; + And with Holland shirts so white, + Shirts becoming to the sight, + Shirts bewrought with different letters, + As belonging to their betters. + With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, + Gotten from their dainty doxies, + And with rings so very trim, + Lately taken out of lim—[1] + And with very little pence, + And as very little sense; + With some law, but little justice, + Having stolen from my hostess, + From the barber and the cutler, + Like the soldier from the sutler; + From the vintner and the tailor, + Like the felon from the jailor; + Into this and t'other county, + Living on the public bounty; + Thorough town and thorough village, + All to plunder, all to pillage: + Thorough mountains, thorough valleys, + Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, + Some to—kiss with farmers' spouses, + And make merry in their houses; + Some to tumble country wenches + On their rushy beds and benches; + And if they begin a fray, + Draw their swords, and——run away; + All to murder equity, + And to take a double fee; + Till the people are all quiet, + And forget to broil and riot, + Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, + Safely glad to sup their porridge, + And vacation's over—then, + Hey, for London town again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: <i>Limbo</i>, any place of misery and restraint. + "For he no sooner was at large, + But Trulla straight brought on the charge, + And in the selfsame <i>Limbo</i> put + The knight and squire where he was shut." + <i>Hudibras</i>, Part i, canto iii, 1,000. + Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PUPPET-SHOW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The life of man to represent, + And turn it all to ridicule, + Wit did a puppet-show invent, + Where the chief actor is a fool. + + The gods of old were logs of wood, + And worship was to puppets paid; + In antic dress the idol stood, + And priest and people bow'd the head. + + No wonder then, if art began + The simple votaries to frame, + To shape in timber foolish man, + And consecrate the block to fame. + + From hence poetic fancy learn'd + That trees might rise from human forms; + The body to a trunk be turn'd, + And branches issue from the arms. + + Thus Dædalus and Ovid too, + That man's a blockhead, have confest: + Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue; + Life is a farce, the world a jest. + + The same great truth South Sea has proved + On that famed theatre, the alley; + Where thousands, by directors moved + Are now sad monuments of folly. + + What Momus was of old to Jove, + The same a Harlequin is now; + The former was buffoon above, + The latter is a Punch below. + + This fleeting scene is but a stage, + Where various images appear; + In different parts of youth and age, + Alike the prince and peasant share. + + Some draw our eyes by being great, + False pomp conceals mere wood within; + And legislators ranged in state + Are oft but wisdom in machine. + + A stock may chance to wear a crown, + And timber as a lord take place; + A statue may put on a frown, + And cheat us with a thinking face. + + Others are blindly led away, + And made to act for ends unknown; + By the mere spring of wires they play, + And speak in language not their own. + + Too oft, alas! a scolding wife + Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; + And many drink the cup of life, + Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan. + + In short, whatever men pursue, + Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: + This mimic race brings all to view: + Alike they dress, they talk, they move. + + Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, + Mortals to please and to deride; + And, when death breaks thy vital band, + Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride. + + Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, + Thy image shall preserve thy fame; + Ages to come thy worth shall own, + Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name. + + Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, + Before he looks in nature's glass; + Puns cannot form a witty scene, + Nor pedantry for humour pass. + + To make men act as senseless wood, + And chatter in a mystic strain, + Is a mere force on flesh and blood, + And shows some error in the brain. + + He that would thus refine on thee, + And turn thy stage into a school, + The jest of Punch will ever be, + And stand confest the greater fool. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.] + + [Footnote 2: Sheridan.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY + </h2> + <h3> + IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part + In you, who ought to know my heart, + Are well acquainted with my zeal + For all the female commonweal— + How could it come into your mind + To pitch on me, of all mankind, + Against the sex to write a satire, + And brand me for a woman-hater? + On me, who think them all so fair, + They rival Venus to a hair; + Their virtues never ceased to sing, + Since first I learn'd to tune a string? + Methinks I hear the ladies cry, + Will he his character belie? + Must never our misfortunes end? + And have we lost our only friend? + Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears, + No more let fall those precious tears. + Sooner shall, etc. + + [Here several verses are omitted.] + + The hound be hunted by the hare, + Than I turn rebel to the fair. + 'Twas you engaged me first to write, + Then gave the subject out of spite: + The journal of a modern dame, + Is, by my promise, what you claim. + My word is past, I must submit; + And yet perhaps you may be bit. + I but transcribe; for not a line + Of all the satire shall be mine. + Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes + The common slanders of the times, + Of modern times, the guilt is yours, + And me my innocence secures. + Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, + The annals of a female day. + By nature turn'd to play the rake well, + (As we shall show you in the sequel,) + The modern dame is waked by noon, + (Some authors say not quite so soon,) + Because, though sore against her will, + She sat all night up at quadrille. + She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, + And asks if it be time to rise; + Of headache and the spleen complains; + And then, to cool her heated brains, + Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, + Takes a large dram of citron water. + Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray, + Don't I look frightfully to-day? + But was it not confounded hard? + Well, if I ever touch a card! + Four matadores, and lose codille! + Depend upon't, I never will. + But run to Tom, and bid him fix + The ladies here to-night by six." + "Madam, the goldsmith waits below; + He says, his business is to know + If you'll redeem the silver cup + He keeps in pawn?"—"Why, show him up." + "Your dressing-plate he'll be content + To take, for interest <i>cent. per cent.</i> + And, madam, there's my Lady Spade + Has sent this letter by her maid." + "Well, I remember what she won; + And has she sent so soon to dun? + Here, carry down these ten pistoles + My husband left to pay for coals: + I thank my stars they all are light, + And I may have revenge to-night." + Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, + She enters on her usual theme; + Her last night's ill success repeats, + Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: + "She slipt spadillo in her breast, + Then thought to turn it to a jest: + There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, + And to each other give the sign." + Through every game pursues her tale, + Like hunters o'er their evening ale. + Now to another scene give place: + Enter the folks with silks and lace: + Fresh matter for a world of chat, + Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: + "Observe this pattern—there's a stuff; + I can have customers enough. + Dear madam, you are grown so hard— + This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: + Madam, if there be truth in man, + I never sold so cheap a fan." + This business of importance o'er, + And madam almost dress'd by four; + The footman, in his usual phrase, + Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." + She answers, in her usual style, + "The cook must keep it back a while; + I never can have time to dress, + No woman breathing takes up less; + I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; + I wish the dinner at Old Nick." + At table now she acts her part, + Has all the dinner cant by heart: + "I thought we were to dine alone, + My dear; for sure, if I had known + This company would come to-day— + But really 'tis my spouse's way! + He's so unkind, he never sends + To tell when he invites his friends: + I wish ye may but have enough!" + And while with all this paltry stuff + She sits tormenting every guest, + Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, + In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, + Which modern ladies call polite; + You see the booby husband sit + In admiration at her wit! + But let me now a while survey + Our madam o'er her evening tea; + Surrounded with her noisy clans + Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, + When, frighted at the clamorous crew, + Away the God of Silence flew, + And fair Discretion left the place, + And modesty with blushing face; + Now enters overweening Pride, + And Scandal, ever gaping wide, + Hypocrisy with frown severe, + Scurrility with gibing air; + Rude laughter seeming like to burst, + And Malice always judging worst; + And Vanity with pocket glass, + And Impudence with front of brass; + And studied Affectation came, + Each limb and feature out of frame; + While Ignorance, with brain of lead, + Flew hovering o'er each female head. + Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, + A hundred tongues, as poets use, + When, to give every dame her due, + A hundred thousand were too few? + Or how should I, alas! relate + The sum of all their senseless prate, + Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, + Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? + Now comes the general scandal charge; + What some invent, the rest enlarge; + And, "Madam, if it be a lie, + You have the tale as cheap as I; + I must conceal my author's name: + But now 'tis known to common fame." + Say, foolish females, bold and blind, + Say, by what fatal turn of mind, + Are you on vices most severe, + Wherein yourselves have greatest share? + Thus every fool herself deludes; + The prude condemns the absent prudes: + Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, + Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; + Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes + To censure Phyllis for perfumes; + While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, + That Florimel wears iron stays; + Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, + Admires how girls can talk with fellows; + And, full of indignation, frets, + That women should be such coquettes: + Iris, for scandal most notorious, + Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" + And Rufa, with her combs of lead, + Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: + Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, + Talks half a day in praise of silence; + And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, + Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. + Now voices over voices rise, + While each to be the loudest vies: + They contradict, affirm, dispute, + No single tongue one moment mute; + All mad to speak, and none to hearken, + They set the very lap-dog barking; + Their chattering makes a louder din + Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; + Not schoolboys at a barring out + Raised ever such incessant rout; + The jumbling particles of matter + In chaos made not such a clatter; + Far less the rabble roar and rail, + When drunk with sour election ale. + Nor do they trust their tongues alone, + But speak a language of their own; + Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, + Far better than a printed book; + Convey a libel in a frown, + And wink a reputation down; + Or by the tossing of the fan, + Describe the lady and the man. + But see, the female club disbands, + Each twenty visits on her hands. + Now all alone poor madam sits + In vapours and hysteric fits; + "And was not Tom this morning sent? + I'd lay my life he never went; + Past six, and not a living soul! + I might by this have won a vole." + A dreadful interval of spleen! + How shall we pass the time between? + "Here, Betty, let me take my drops; + And feel my pulse, I know it stops; + This head of mine, lord, how it swims! + And such a pain in all my limbs!" + "Dear madam, try to take a nap"— + But now they hear a footman's rap: + "Go, run, and light the ladies up: + It must be one before we sup." + The table, cards, and counters, set, + And all the gamester ladies met, + Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, + Our madam can sit up all night; + "Whoever comes, I'm not within." + Quadrille's the word, and so begin. + How can the Muse her aid impart, + Unskill'd in all the terms of art? + Or in harmonious numbers put + The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? + The superstitious whims relate, + That fill a female gamester's pate? + What agony of soul she feels + To see a knave's inverted heels! + She draws up card by card, to find + Good fortune peeping from behind; + With panting heart, and earnest eyes, + In hope to see spadillo rise; + In vain, alas! her hope is fed; + She draws an ace, and sees it red; + In ready counters never pays, + But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; + Ever with some new fancy struck, + Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. + "This morning, when the parson came, + I said I should not win a game. + This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? + I think I never had good luck in't. + I'm so uneasy in my stays: + Your fan, a moment, if you please. + Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; + I always lose when you look on." + "Lord! madam, you have lost codille: + I never saw you play so ill." + "Nay, madam, give me leave to say, + 'Twas you that threw the game away: + When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, + You took it with a matadore; + I saw you touch your wedding ring + Before my lady call'd a king; + You spoke a word began with H, + And I know whom you meant to teach, + Because you held the king of hearts; + Fie, madam, leave these little arts." + "That's not so bad as one that rubs + Her chair to call the king of clubs; + And makes her partner understand + A matadore is in her hand." + "Madam, you have no cause to flounce, + I swear I saw you thrice renounce." + "And truly, madam, I know when + Instead of five you scored me ten. + Spadillo here has got a mark; + A child may know it in the dark: + I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails: + I wish some folks would pare their nails." + While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, + It passes but for common form: + But, conscious that they all speak true, + And give each other but their due, + It never interrupts the game, + Or makes them sensible of shame. + The time too precious now to waste, + The supper gobbled up in haste; + Again afresh to cards they run, + As if they had but just begun. + But I shall not again repeat, + How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. + At last they hear the watchman knock, + "A frosty morn—past four o'clock." + The chairmen are not to be found, + "Come, let us play the other round." + Now all in haste they huddle on + Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone; + But, first, the winner must invite + The company to-morrow night. + Unlucky madam, left in tears, + (Who now again quadrille forswears,) + With empty purse, and aching head, + Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOGICIANS REFUTED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Logicians have but ill defined + As rational, the human kind; + Reason, they say, belongs to man, + But let them prove it if they can. + Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, + By ratiocinations specious, + Have strove to prove, with great precision, + With definition and division, + <i>Homo est ratione praeditum;</i> + But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, + And must, in spite of them, maintain, + That man and all his ways are vain; + And that this boasted lord of nature + Is both a weak and erring creature; + That instinct is a surer guide + Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; + And that brute beasts are far before 'em. + <i>Deus est anima brutorum.</i> + Whoever knew an honest brute + At law his neighbour prosecute, + Bring action for assault or battery, + Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? + O'er plains they ramble unconfined, + No politics disturb their mind; + They eat their meals, and take their sport + Nor know who's in or out at court. + They never to the levee go + To treat, as dearest friend, a foe: + They never importune his grace, + Nor ever cringe to men in place: + Nor undertake a dirty job, + Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1] + Fraught with invective, they ne'er go + To folks at Paternoster Row. + No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, + No pickpockets, or poetasters, + Are known to honest quadrupeds; + No single brute his fellow leads. + Brutes never meet in bloody fray, + Nor cut each other's throats for pay. + Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape + Comes nearest us in human shape; + Like man, he imitates each fashion, + And malice is his lurking passion: + But, both in malice and grimaces, + A courtier any ape surpasses. + Behold him, humbly cringing, wait + Upon the minister of state; + View him soon after to inferiors + Aping the conduct of superiors; + He promises with equal air, + And to perform takes equal care. + He in his turn finds imitators, + At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, + Their masters' manner still contract, + And footmen, lords and dukes can act. + Thus, at the court, both great and small + Behave alike, for all ape all. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of + party-writers.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN + </h2> + <p> + WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE THE HIGH + COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor + should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; + secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a + most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, + without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be + constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either + for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... + thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might + prevent dangers to come."—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere bribes convince you whom to choose, + The precepts of Lord Coke peruse. + Observe an elephant, says he, + And let him like your member be: + First take a man that's free from <i>Gaul</i>, + For elephants have none at all; + In flocks or parties he must keep; + For elephants live just like sheep. + Stubborn in honour he must be; + For elephants ne'er bend the knee. + Last, let his memory be sound, + In which your elephant's profound; + That old examples from the wise + May prompt him in his noes and ayes. + Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ, + In all the form of lawyer's wit: + And then, with Latin and all that, + Shows the comparison is pat. + Yet in some points my lord is wrong, + One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: + Now, men of parliament, God knows, + Are more like elephants of shows; + Whose docile memory and sense + Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; + To get their master half-a-crown, + They spread the flag, or lay it down: + Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, + And guarded nations from attacks, + Now practise every pliant gesture, + Opening their trunk for every tester. + Siam, for elephants so famed, + Is not with England to be named: + Their elephants by men are sold; + Ours sell themselves, and take the gold. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM + </h2> + <h3> + BY MR. LINDSAY[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Dublin, Sept.</i> 7, 1728. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, + In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; + While smiling Nature, in her best attire, + Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. + Can he, who knows that real good should please, + Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"— + This Paulus preach'd:—When, entering at the door, + Upon his board the client pours the ore: + He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, + Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent + pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the + Justices of the Common Pleas.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, + And honest Paulus judges right. + Then, why these quarrels to the sun, + Without whose aid you're all undone? + Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat? + Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; + The influence of whose golden beams + Soon licks up all unsavoury steams? + The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: + It has; but then it greased his fist. + True lawyers, for the wisest ends, + Have always been Apollo's friends. + Not for his superficial powers + Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; + Not for inspiring poets' brains + With penniless and starveling strains; + Not for his boasted healing art; + Not for his skill to shoot the dart; + Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; + Nor for his prophecies in riddles: + But for a more substantial cause— + Apollo's patron of the laws; + Whom Paulus ever must adore, + As parent of the golden ore, + By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, + Begot upon his grandam Earth; + By Phoebus first produced to light; + By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: + Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, + By clients to her priests and trustees. + Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand + With even balance in her hand, + Must we suppose she has in view, + How to give every man his due; + Her scales you see her only hold, + To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold. + Now, should I own your case was grievous, + Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? + 'Tis very true, and none denies, + At least, that such complaints are wise: + 'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, + To cry, like statesmen, <i>Quanta patimur!</i> + But, since the truth must needs be stretched + To prove that lawyers are so wretched, + This paradox I'll undertake, + For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; + By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, + May serve as arguments <i>ad hominem</i>: + Yet I disdain to offer those + Made use of by detracting foes. + I own the curses of mankind + Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: + The clamours of ten thousand tongues + Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; + I own, his conscience always free, + (Provided he has got his fee,) + Secure of constant peace within, + He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. + Yet well they merit to be pitied, + By clients always overwitted. + And though the gospel seems to say, + What heavy burdens lawyers lay + Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, + Nor lend a finger to their labour, + Always for saving their own bacon; + No doubt, the text is here mistaken: + The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: + To prove it, I appeal to fact; + And thus by demonstration show + What burdens lawyers undergo. + With early clients at his door, + Though he was drunk the night before, + And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, + The wretch must be at court by nine; + Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, + As ridden by a midnight hag; + Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, + In English vile, and viler French, + And Latin, vilest of the three; + And all for poor ten moidores fee! + Of paper how is he profuse, + With periods long, in terms abstruse! + What pains he takes to be prolix! + A thousand lines to stand for six! + Of common sense without a word in! + And is not this a grievous burden? + The lawyer is a common drudge, + To fight our cause before the judge: + And, what is yet a greater curse, + Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: + While he at ease, secure and light, + Walks boldly home at dead of night; + When term is ended, leaves the town, + Trots to his country mansion down; + And, disencumber'd of his load, + No danger dreads upon the road; + Despises rapparees,[2] and rides + Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. + Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, + To state this question <i>pro</i> and <i>con</i>. + My satire may offend, 'tis true; + However, it concerns not you. + I own, there may, in every clan, + Perhaps, be found one honest man; + Yet link them close, in this they jump, + To be but rascals in the lump. + Imagine Lindsay at the bar, + He's much the same his brethren are; + Well taught by practice to imbibe + The fundamentals of his tribe: + And in his client's just defence, + Must deviate oft from common sense; + And make his ignorance discern'd, + To get the name of counsel-learn'd, + (As <i>lucus</i> comes <i>a non lucendo</i>,) + And wisely do as other men do: + But shift him to a better scene, + Among his crew of rogues in grain; + Surrounded with companions fit, + To taste his humour, sense, and wit; + You'd swear he never took a fee, + Nor knew in law his A, B, C. + 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, + To keep good sense in crowds of fools. + And we admire the man, who saves + His honesty in crowds of knaves; + Nor yields up virtue at discretion, + To villains of his own profession. + Lindsay, you know what pains you take + In both, yet hardly save your stake; + And will you venture both anew, + To sit among that venal crew, + That pack of mimic legislators, + Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters? + For as the rabble daub and rifle + The fool who scrambles for a trifle; + Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, + Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; + You must expect the like disgrace, + Scrambling with rogues to get a place; + Must lose the honour you have gain'd, + Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: + Disclaim for ever all pretence + To common honesty and sense; + And join in friendship with a strict tie, + To M—l, C—y, and Dick Tighe.[3] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave + the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, + 150.—<i>W. E .B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, + and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times + mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and + how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, + etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DIALOGUE + </h2> + <p> + BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION + TO HORACE, BOOK II, SATIRE I + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sunt quibus in Satirâ," etc. +</pre> + <h3> + WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729 + </h3> + <h3> + DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since there are persons who complain + There's too much satire in my vein; + That I am often found exceeding + The rules of raillery and breeding; + With too much freedom treat my betters, + Not sparing even men of letters: + You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, + What's your advice? Shall I give o'er? + Nor ever fools or knaves expose, + Either in verse or humorous prose: + And to avoid all future ill, + In my scrutoire lock up my quill? +</pre> + <h3> + LAWYER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since you are pleased to condescend + To ask the judgment of a friend, + Your case consider'd, I must think + You should withdraw from pen and ink, + Forbear your poetry and jokes, + And live like other Christian folks; + Or if the Muses must inspire + Your fancy with their pleasing fire, + Take subjects safer for your wit + Than those on which you lately writ. + Commend the times, your thoughts correct, + And follow the prevailing sect; + Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story, + Shows all the malice of a Tory; + While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page, + Discovers freedom without rage. + To Woolston[4] recommend our youth, + For learning, probity, and truth; + That noble genius, who unbinds + The chains which fetter freeborn minds; + Redeems us from the slavish fears + Which lasted near two thousand years; + He can alone the priesthood humble, + Make gilded spires and altars tumble. +</pre> + <h3> + DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Must I commend against my conscience, + Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense; + To such a subject tune my lyre, + And sing like one of Milton's choir, + Where devils to a vale retreat, + And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate; + Lament upon their hapless fall, + That Force free Virtue should enthrall? + Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power + Make me pollute the Muses' bower? +</pre> + <h3> + LAWYER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As from the tripod of Apollo, + Hear from my desk the words that follow: + "Some, by philosophers misled, + Must honour you alive and dead; + And such as know what Greece has writ, + Must taste your irony and wit; + While most that are, or would be great, + Must dread your pen, your person hate; + And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie, + And there without a mitre die." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."] + + [Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the + Reformation."] + + [Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him, + see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles + caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in + 1733.—<i>W.E.B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON BURNING A DULL POEM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1729 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An ass's hoof alone can hold + That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. + Methought, when I this poem read, + No vessel but an ass's head + Such frigid fustian could contain; + I mean, the head without the brain. + The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, + Went down like stupifying draughts; + I found my head begin to swim, + A numbness crept through every limb. + In haste, with imprecations dire, + I threw the volume in the fire; + When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, + It burnt to ashes in a trice. + How could I more enhance its fame? + Though born in snow, it died in flame. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD + </h2> + <h3> + OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN[1] TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE. 1730 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, + And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, + (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year, + For the good of our church, a true English dean. + A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, + The worst you can say, he committed a rape. + + In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, + And there he grew fond of another man's wife; + Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her; + But she valued her honour much more than her life. + She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape + To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape. + + The dean he pursued, to recover his game; + And now to attack her again he prepares: + But the company stood in defence of the dame, + They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs. + His deanship was now in a damnable scrape, + And this was no time for committing a rape. + + To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, + And orders the landlord to bring him a whore; + No scruple came on him his gown to expose, + 'Twas what all his life he had practised before. + He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, + And got a good clap, but committed no rape. + + The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, + Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight; + For why, they had both been brought up to the trade + Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night. + His landlord was ready his deanship to ape + In every debauch but committing a rape. + + This Protestant zealot, this English divine, + In church and in state was of principles sound; + Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line, + And grieved that a Tory should live above ground. + Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape, + For no other crime but committing a rape? + + By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, + Each priest had a concubine <i>jure ecclesiae</i>; + Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a <i>commendam</i>? + And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: + Then why should the dean, when whores are so cheap, + Be put to the peril and toil of a rape? + + If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet, + (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,) + To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, + Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser. + But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape, + For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape. + + Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, + Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten? + To hang him, all England would lend him their garters, + Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3] + Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, + For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape. + + The dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing; + He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; + He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling; + But here was to pay the devil and all. + His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap, + And hang'd he must be for committing a rape. + + If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: + Why are they so wilful to struggle with men? + If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, + No devil nor dean could ravish them then. + Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape + Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape. + + Our church and our state dear England maintains, + For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: + She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, + And better would give us, if better she had. + But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, + When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered + himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the + Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."—<i>London Evening + Post</i>, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean + of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose + trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on + behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's + Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her + for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape + was committed against her in the city of Dublin."—<i>Daily Post-Boy</i>, June + 23, 1730.—<i>Nichols</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years + ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.—See "The penitent death of + a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at + Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several + passages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements, + preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland. + + "<i>Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius + Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam assequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed + magisterium sanctitatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia fortasse + quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille + laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi</i>. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin, + Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."] + + [Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty + of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was + fined £300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of + Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the + Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON STEPHEN DUCK + </h2> + <h3> + THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730 + + The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, + The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." + From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; + For which her majesty allows him grains: + Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw + His poems, think them all not worth a straw! + Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble, + Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double. + + [Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small + collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal + Gardens of Richmond. + "How shall we fill a library with wit, + When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?" +POPE, <i>Imitations of Horace</i>, ii, Ep. 1.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Five hours (and who can do it less in?) + By haughty Celia spent in dressing; + The goddess from her chamber issues, + Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues. + Strephon, who found the room was void, + And Betty otherwise employ'd, + Stole in, and took a strict survey + Of all the litter as it lay: + Whereof, to make the matter clear, + An inventory follows here. + And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, + Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd; + Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, + And turn'd it round on ev'ry side: + On such a point, few words are best, + And Strephon bids us guess the rest; + But swears, how damnably the men lie + In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. + Now listen, while he next produces + The various combs for various uses; + Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, + No brush could force a way betwixt; + A paste of composition rare, + Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: + A fore-head cloth with oil upon't, + To smooth the wrinkles on her front: + Here alum-flour, to stop the steams + Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: + There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, + [1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; + With puppy-water, beauty's help, + Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp. + Here gallipots and vials placed, + Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; + Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, + And ointments good for scabby chops. + Hard by a filthy bason stands, + Foul'd with the scouring of her hands: + The bason takes whatever comes, + The scrapings from her teeth and gums, + A nasty compound of all hues, + For here she spits, and here she spues. + But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels + When he beheld and smelt the towels, + Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd, + With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd; + No object Strephon's eye escapes; + Here petticoats in frouzy heaps; + Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, + All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot. + The stockings why should I expose, + Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2] + Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking, + Which Celia slept at least a week in? + A pair of tweezers next he found, + To pluck her brows in arches round; + Or hairs that sink the forehead low, + Or on her chin like bristles grow. + The virtues we must not let pass + Of Celia's magnifying glass; + When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't, + It shew'd the visage of a giant: + A glass that can to sight disclose + The smallest worm in Celia's nose, + And faithfully direct her nail + To squeeze it out from head to tail; + For, catch it nicely by the head, + It must come out, alive or dead. + Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest? + And must you needs describe the chest? + That careless wench! no creature warn her + To move it out from yonder corner! + But leave it standing full in sight, + For you to exercise your spight? + In vain the workman shew'd his wit, + With rings and hinges counterfeit, + To make it seem in this disguise + A cabinet to vulgar eyes: + Which Strephon ventur'd to look in, + Resolved to go thro' thick and thin. + He lifts the lid: there needs no more, + He smelt it all the time before. + As, from within Pandora's box, + When Epimetheus op'd the locks, + A sudden universal crew + Of human evils upward flew; + He still was comforted to find + That hope at last remain'd behind: + So Strephon, lifting up the lid, + To view what in the chest was hid, + The vapours flew from up the vent; + But Strephon, cautious, never meant + The bottom of the pan to grope, + And foul his hands in search of hope. + O! ne'er may such a vile machine + Be once in Celia's chamber seen! + O! may she better learn to keep + Those "secrets of the hoary deep." [3] + As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat, + Which, tho' with art you salt and beat, + As laws of cookery require, + And toast them at the clearest fire; + If from upon the hopeful chops + The fat upon a cinder drops, + To stinking smoke it turns the flame, + Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came, + And up exhales a greasy stench, + For which you curse the careless wench: + So things which must not be exprest, + When drop'd into the reeking chest, + Send up an excremental smell + To taint the part from whence they fell: + The petticoats and gown perfume, + And waft a stink round ev'ry room. + Thus finishing his grand survey, + Disgusted Strephon slunk away; + Repeating in his amorous fits, + "Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh—!" + But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping, + Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: + His foul imagination links + Each dame he sees with all her stinks; + And, if unsavoury odours fly, + Conceives a lady standing by. + All women his description fits, + And both ideas jump like wits; + By vicious fancy coupled fast, + And still appearing in contrast. + I pity wretched Strephon, blind + To all the charms of woman kind. + Should I the Queen of Love refuse, + Because she rose from stinking ooze? + To him that looks behind the scene, + Statira's but some pocky quean. + When Celia in her glory shews, + If Strephon would but stop his nose, + (Who now so impiously blasphemes + Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, + Her washes, slops, and every clout, + With which he makes so foul a rout;) + He soon would learn to think like me, + And bless his ravish'd sight to see + Such order from confusion sprung, + Such gaudy tulips raised from dung. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."—1732.] + + [Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."—1732.] + + [Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: + "Before their eyes in sudden view appear + The secrets of the hoary deep."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If neither brass nor marble can withstand + The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; + If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, + And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; + When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine) + Is out at elbows, why should I repine? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CASSINUS AND PETER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A TRAGICAL ELEGY + + 1731 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, + Both special wits and lovers both, + Conferring, as they used to meet, + On love, and books, in rapture sweet; + (Muse, find me names to fit my metre, + Cassinus this, and t'other Peter.) + Friend Peter to Cassinus goes, + To chat a while, and warm his nose: + But such a sight was never seen, + The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen. + He seem'd as just crept out of bed; + One greasy stocking round his head, + The other he sat down to darn, + With threads of different colour'd yarn; + His breeches torn, exposing wide + A ragged shirt and tawny hide. + Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare, + But well embrown'd with dirt and hair + A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown, + (A rug, for nightgown he had none,) + His jordan stood in manner fitting + Between his legs, to spew or spit in; + His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, + And half unsmoked, lay by his side. + Him thus accoutred Peter found, + With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; + The leavings of his last night's pot + On embers placed, to drink it hot. + Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate: + What makes thee lie a-bed so late? + The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, + Their matins chant in every bush; + And I have heard thee oft salute + Aurora with thy early flute. + Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps! + How! not a word come from thy lips? + Then gave him some familiar thumps, + A college joke to cure the dumps. + The swain at last, with grief opprest, + Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest. + Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread, + Yet ask I must—is Celia dead? + How happy I, were that the worst! + But I was fated to be curst! + Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore? + O Peter, would it were no more! + Why, plague confound her sandy locks! + Say, has the small or greater pox + Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face? + Be easy, 'tis a common case. + O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, + Which time and accidents will tarnish: + But Celia has contrived to blast + Those beauties that might ever last. + Nor can imagination guess, + Nor eloquence divine express, + How that ungrateful charming maid + My purest passion has betray'd: + Conceive the most envenom'd dart + To pierce an injured lover's heart. + Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, + I know she loves the barber's boy. + Friend Peter, this I could excuse, + For every nymph has leave to choose; + Nor have I reason to complain, + She loves a more deserving swain. + But, oh! how ill hast thou divined + A crime, that shocks all human kind; + A deed unknown to female race, + At which the sun should hide his face: + Advice in vain you would apply— + Then leave me to despair and die. + Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn + These elegies and sonnets burn; + And on the marble grave these rhymes, + A monument to after-times— + "Here Cassy lies, by Celia slain, + And dying, never told his pain." + Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, + The loud Cerberian triple bark; + And there—behold Alecto stand, + A whip of scorpions in her hand: + Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry + Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry: + I come! I come! Medusa see, + Her serpents hiss direct at me. + Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: + "Avaunt—ye cannot say 'twas I."[1] + Dear Cassy, thou must purge and bleed; + I fear thou wilt be mad indeed. + But now, by friendship's sacred laws, + I here conjure thee, tell the cause; + And Celia's horrid fact relate: + Thy friend would gladly share thy fate. + To force it out, my heart must rend; + Yet when conjured by such a friend— + Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd! + These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact. + Now bend thine ear, since out it must; + But, when thou seest me laid in dust, + The secret thou shalt ne'er impart, + Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; + (How would her virgin soul bemoan + A crime to all her sex unknown!) + Nor whisper to the tattling reeds + The blackest of all female deeds; + Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, + Where Echo sits, and listening mocks; + Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale + Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; + Nor to the chattering feather'd race + Discover Celia's foul disgrace. + But, if you fail, my spectre dread, + Attending nightly round your bed— + And yet I dare confide in you; + So take my secret, and adieu: + Nor wonder how I lost my wits: + Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh—! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: + "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc. + "Avaunt, and quit my sight."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, + For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; + Never did Covent-Garden boast + So bright a batter'd strolling toast! + No drunken rake to pick her up, + No cellar where on tick to sup; + Returning at the midnight hour, + Four stories climbing to her bower; + Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, + Takes off her artificial hair; + Now picking out a crystal eye, + She wipes it clean, and lays it by. + Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide + Stuck on with art on either side, + Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, + Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em. + Now dext'rously her plumpers draws, + That serve to fill her hollow jaws, + Untwists a wire, and from her gums + A set of teeth completely comes; + Pulls out the rags contrived to prop + Her flabby dugs, and down they drop. + Proceeding on, the lovely goddess + Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, + Which, by the operator's skill, + Press down the lumps, the hollows fill. + Up goes her hand, and off she slips + The bolsters that supply her hips; + With gentlest touch she next explores + Her chancres, issues, running sores; + Effects of many a sad disaster, + And then to each applies a plaster: + But must, before she goes to bed, + Rub off the daubs of white and red, + And smooth the furrows in her front + With greasy paper stuck upon't. + She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; + And then between two blankets creeps. + With pains of love tormented lies; + Or, if she chance to close her eyes, + Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams, + And feels the lash, and faintly screams; + Or, by a faithless bully drawn, + At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; + Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported + Alone, and by no planter courted; + Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks, + Surrounded with a hundred stinks, + Belated, seems on watch to lie, + And snap some cully passing by; + Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs + On watchmen, constables, and duns, + From whom she meets with frequent rubs; + But never from religious clubs; + Whose favour she is sure to find, + Because she pays them all in kind. + Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight! + Behold the ruins of the night! + A wicked rat her plaster stole, + Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole. + The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd; + And puss had on her plumpers p—st, + A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease: + And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas. + The nymph, though in this mangled plight + Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite. + But how shall I describe her arts + To re-collect the scatter'd parts? + Or show the anguish, toil, and pain, + Of gath'ring up herself again? + The bashful Muse will never bear + In such a scene to interfere. + Corinna, in the morning dizen'd, + Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the + Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and + pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See + the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily, + been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New + Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished. + For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present," + by Wheatley.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See + "A quiet life and a good name," <i>ante</i>, p. 152.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See <i>ante</i>, p. 78, "Descripton of a City + Shower."—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STREPHON AND CHLOE + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Chloe all the town has rung, + By ev'ry size of poets sung: + So beautiful a nymph appears + But once in twenty thousand years; + By Nature form'd with nicest care, + And faultless to a single hair. + Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, + Confess'd her of no mortal race: + And then so nice, and so genteel; + Such cleanliness from head to heel; + No humours gross, or frouzy steams, + No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, + Before, behind, above, below, + Could from her taintless body flow: + Would so discreetly things dispose, + None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] + Her dearest comrades never caught her + Squat on her hams to make maid's water: + You'd swear that so divine a creature + Felt no necessities of nature. + In summer had she walk'd the town, + Her armpits would not stain her gown: + At country dances, not a nose + Could in the dog-days smell her toes. + Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs, + Like ivory dry, and soft as wax. + Her hands, the softest ever felt, + [2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. + Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid, + Nor let her loose to spoil your trade. + While she engrosses ev'ry swain, + You but o'er half the world can reign. + Think what a case all men are now in, + What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing! + What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts! + What hampers full of bleeding hearts! + What sword-knots! what poetic strains! + What billets-doux, and clouded canes! + But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong, + He blew a settlement along; + And bravely drove his rivals down, + With coach and six, and house in town. + The bashful nymph no more withstands, + Because her dear papa commands. + The charming couple now unites: + Proceed we to the marriage rites. + <i>Imprimis</i>, at the Temple porch + Stood Hymen with a flaming torch: + The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings + Her infant loves with purple wings: + And pigeons billing, sparrows treading, + Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding. + The Muses next in order follow, + Conducted by their squire, Apollo: + Then Mercury with silver tongue; + And Hebe, goddess ever young. + Behold, the bridegroom and his bride + Walk hand in hand, and side by side; + She, by the tender Graces drest, + But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest. + The nymph was cover'd with her <i>flammeum</i>[3], + And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4]. + And last, to make the matter sure, + Dame Juno brought a priest demure. + [5]Luna was absent, on pretence + Her time was not till nine months hence. + The rites perform'd, the parson paid, + In state return'd the grand parade; + With loud huzzas from all the boys, + That now the pair must crown their joys. + But still the hardest part remains: + Strephon had long perplex'd his brains, + How with so high a nymph he might + Demean himself the wedding-night: + For, as he view'd his person round, + Mere mortal flesh was all he found: + His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet, + Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet; + With other parts, that shall be nameless, + The ladies else might think me shameless. + The weather and his love were hot; + And, should he struggle, I know what— + Why, let it go, if I must tell it— + He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it; + While she, a goddess dyed in grain, + Was unsusceptible of stain, + And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin + Exhaled ambrosia from within. + Can such a deity endure + A mortal human touch impure? + How did the humbled swain detest + His prickly beard, and hairy breast! + His night-cap, border'd round with lace, + Could give no softness to his face. + Yet, if the goddess could be kind, + What endless raptures must he find! + And goddesses have now and then + Come down to visit mortal men; + To visit and to court them too: + A certain goddess, God knows who, + (As in a book he heard it read,) + Took Col'nel Peleus[6] to her bed. + But what if he should lose his life + By vent'ring on his heavenly wife! + (For Strephon could remember well, + That once he heard a school-boy tell, + How Semele,[7] of mortal race, + By thunder died in Jove's embrace.) + And what if daring Strephon dies + By lightning shot from Chloe's eyes! + While these reflections fill'd his head, + The bride was put in form to bed: + He follow'd, stript, and in he crept, + But awfully his distance kept. + Now, "ponder well, ye parents dear;" + Forbid your daughters guzzling beer; + And make them ev'ry afternoon + Forbear their tea, or drink it soon; + That, ere to bed they venture up, + They may discharge it ev'ry sup; + If not, they must in evil plight + Be often forc'd to rise at night. + Keep them to wholesome food confin'd, + Nor let them taste what causes wind: + 'Tis this the sage of Samos means, + Forbidding his disciples beans.[8] + O! think what evils must ensue; + Miss Moll, the jade, will burn it blue; + And, when she once has got the art, + She cannot help it for her heart; + But out it flies, even when she meets + Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets. + <i>Carminative</i> and <i>diuretic</i>[9] + Will damp all passion sympathetic; + And Love such nicety requires, + One blast will put out all his fires. + Since husbands get behind the scene, + The wife should study to be clean; + Nor give the smallest room to guess + The time when wants of nature press; + But after marriage practise more + Decorum than she did before; + To keep her spouse deluded still, + And make him fancy what she will. + In bed we left the married pair; + 'Tis time to show how things went there. + Strephon, who had been often told + That fortune still assists the bold, + Resolved to make the first attack; + But Chloe drove him fiercely back. + How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe, + With constitution cold and snowy, + Permit a brutish man to touch her? + Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher. + Resistance on the wedding-night + Is what our maidens claim by right; + And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed, + Was maid in thought, in word, and deed. + Yet some assign a different reason; + That Strephon chose no proper season. + Say, fair ones, must I make a pause, + Or freely tell the secret cause? + Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak) + Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak. + This point must needs be settled first: + The bride must either void or burst. + Then see the dire effects of pease; + Think what can give the colic ease. + The nymph oppress'd before, behind, + As ships are toss'd by waves and wind, + Steals out her hand, by nature led, + And brings a vessel into bed; + Fair utensil, as smooth and white + As Chloe's skin, almost as bright. + Strephon, who heard the fuming rill + As from a mossy cliff distil, + Cried out, Ye Gods! what sound is this? + Can Chloe, heavenly Chloe,——? + But when he smelt a noisome steam + Which oft attends that lukewarm stream; + (Salerno both together joins,[10] + As sov'reign med'cines for the loins:) + And though contriv'd, we may suppose, + To slip his ears, yet struck his nose; + He found her while the scent increast, + As mortal as himself at least. + But soon, with like occasions prest + He boldly sent his hand in quest + (Inspired with courage from his bride) + To reach the pot on t'other side; + And, as he fill'd the reeking vase; + Let fly a rouser in her face. + The little Cupids hov'ring round, + (As pictures prove) with garlands crown'd, + Abash'd at what they saw and heard, + Flew off, nor ever more appear'd. + Adieu to ravishing delights, + High raptures, and romantic flights; + To goddesses so heav'nly sweet, + Expiring shepherds at their feet; + To silver meads and shady bowers, + Dress'd up with amaranthine flowers. + How great a change! how quickly made! + They learn to call a spade a spade. + They soon from all constraint are freed; + Can see each other do their need. + On box of cedar sits the wife, + And makes it warm for dearest life; + And, by the beastly way of thinking, + Find great society in stinking. + Now Strephon daily entertains + His Chloe in the homeliest strains; + And Chloe, more experienc'd grown, + With int'rest pays him back his own. + No maid at court is less asham'd, + Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd, + Than she to name her parts behind, + Or when a-bed to let out wind. + Fair Decency, celestial maid! + Descend from Heaven to Beauty's aid! + Though Beauty may beget desire, + 'Tis thou must fan the Lover's fire; + For Beauty, like supreme dominion, + Is best supported by Opinion: + If Decency bring no supplies, + Opinion falls, and Beauty dies. + To see some radiant nymph appear + In all her glitt'ring birth-day gear, + You think some goddess from the sky + Descended, ready cut and dry: + But ere you sell yourself to laughter, + Consider well what may come after; + For fine ideas vanish fast, + While all the gross and filthy last. + O Strephon, ere that fatal day + When Chloe stole your heart away, + Had you but through a cranny spy'd + On house of ease your future bride, + In all the postures of her face, + Which nature gives in such a case; + Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings, + 'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings, + Than from experience find too late + Your goddess grown a filthy mate. + Your fancy then had always dwelt + On what you saw and what you smelt; + Would still the same ideas give ye, + As when you spy'd her on the privy; + And, spite of Chloe's charms divine, + Your heart had been as whole as mine. + Authorities, both old and recent, + Direct that women must be decent; + And from the spouse each blemish hide, + More than from all the world beside. + Unjustly all our nymphs complain + Their empire holds so short a reign; + Is, after marriage, lost so soon, + It hardly lasts the honey-moon: + For, if they keep not what they caught, + It is entirely their own fault. + They take possession of the crown, + And then throw all their weapons down: + Though, by the politician's scheme, + Whoe'er arrives at power supreme, + Those arts, by which at first they gain it, + They still must practise to maintain it. + What various ways our females take + To pass for wits before a rake! + And in the fruitless search pursue + All other methods but the true! + Some try to learn polite behaviour + By reading books against their Saviour; + Some call it witty to reflect + On ev'ry natural defect; + Some shew they never want explaining + To comprehend a double meaning. + But sure a tell-tale out of school + Is of all wits the greatest fool; + Whose rank imagination fills + Her heart, and from her lips distils; + You'd think she utter'd from behind, + Or at her mouth was breaking wind. + Why is a handsome wife ador'd + By every coxcomb but her lord? + From yonder puppet-man inquire, + Who wisely hides his wood and wire; + Shows Sheba's queen completely drest, + And Solomon in royal vest: + But view them litter'd on the floor, + Or strung on pegs behind the door; + Punch is exactly of a piece + With Lorrain's duke, and prince of Greece. + A prudent builder should forecast + How long the stuff is like to last; + And carefully observe the ground, + To build on some foundation sound. + What house, when its materials crumble, + Must not inevitably tumble? + What edifice can long endure + Raised on a basis unsecure? + Rash mortals, ere you take a wife, + Contrive your pile to last for life: + Since beauty scarce endures a day, + And youth so swiftly glides away; + Why will you make yourself a bubble, + To build on sand with hay and stubble? + On sense and wit your passion found, + By decency cemented round; + Let prudence with good-nature strive, + To keep esteem and love alive. + Then come old age whene'er it will, + Your friendship shall continue still: + And thus a mutual gentle fire + Shall never but with life expire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A delicate way of speaking of a lady retiring behind a bush + in a garden.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: + "Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull + Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full." +DENHAM, <i>Cooper's Hill.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 3: A veil with which the Roman brides covered themselves when + going to be married.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Marriage song, sung at weddings.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Diana.] + + [Footnote 6: Who married Thetis, the Nereid, by whom he became the father + of Achilles.—Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. xi, 221, <i>seq.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: See Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. iii.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: A precept of Pythagoras. Hence, in French <i>argot</i>, beans, as + causing wind, are called <i>musiciens.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: Provocative of perspiration and urine.] + + [Footnote 1: "Mingere cum bombis res est saluberrima lumbis." A precept + to be found in the "Regimen Sanitatis," or "Schola Salernitana," a work + in rhyming Latin verse composed at Salerno, the earliest school in + Christian Europe where medicine was professed, taught, and practised. The + original text, if anywhere, is in the edition published and commented + upon by Arnaldus de Villa Nova, about 1480. Subsequently above one + hundred and sixty editions of the "Schola Salernitana" were published, + with many additions. A reprint of the first edition, edited by Sir + Alexander Croke, with woodcuts from the editions of 1559, 1568, and + 1573, was published at Oxford in 1830.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Apollo, god of light and wit, + Could verse inspire, but seldom writ, + Refined all metals with his looks, + As well as chemists by their books; + As handsome as my lady's page; + Sweet five-and-twenty was his age. + His wig was made of sunny rays, + He crown'd his youthful head with bays; + Not all the court of Heaven could show + So nice and so complete a beau. + No heir upon his first appearance, + With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents, + E'er drove, before he sold his land, + So fine a coach along the Strand; + The spokes, we are by Ovid told, + Were silver, and the axle gold: + I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four, + For Jupiter allows no more. + Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts, + Enough to win ten thousand hearts, + No vulgar deity above + Was so unfortunate in love. + Three weighty causes were assign'd, + That moved the nymphs to be unkind. + Nine Muses always waiting round him, + He left them virgins as he found them. + His singing was another fault; + For he could reach to B in <i>alt</i>: + And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1] + Such singers are like Nicolini. + At last, the point was fully clear'd; + In short, Apollo had no beard. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "Bubus tantum feminis vox gravior, in alio omni genere + exilior quam maribus, in homine etiam castratis."—"Hist. Nat.," xi, 51. + "A condicione castrati seminis quae spadonia appellant Belgae," + <i>ib</i>. xv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All folks who pretend to religion and grace, + Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: + But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined + The place of the damn'd—I'll tell you my mind. + Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, + Most certainly there is HELL to be found: + Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves, + Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; + Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; + Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; + Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; + Damn'd time-serving priests all over the nation; + And into the bargain I'll readily give you + Damn'd ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy. + Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, + For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: + And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. + How happy for us that it is not at home! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With a whirl of thought oppress'd, + I sunk from reverie to rest. + An horrid vision seized my head; + I saw the graves give up their dead! + Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, + And thunder roars and lightning flies! + Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, + The world stands trembling at his throne! + While each pale sinner hung his head, + Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: + "Offending race of human kind, + By nature, reason, <i>learning</i>, blind; + You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; + And you, who never fell—<i>through pride</i>: + You who in different sects were shamm'd, + And come to see each other damn'd; + (So some folk told you, but they knew + No more of Jove's designs than you;) + —The world's mad business now is o'er, + And I resent these pranks no more. + —I to such blockheads set my wit! + I damn such fools!—Go, go, you're <i>bit</i>." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to + Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says: "Je vous envoie + ci-jointe une pièce par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous + déplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais été imprimée, vous en dévinerez bien la + raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, écrit de sa + propre main."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUDAS. 1731 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the just vengeance of incensed skies, + Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. + The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe, + Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe; + Which though his conscience forced him to restore, + (And parsons tell us, no man can do more,) + Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst, + He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst. + Those former ages differ'd much from this; + Judas betray'd his master with a kiss: + But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times, + Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes; + Some who can perjure through a two inch-board, + Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord: + Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn + To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn. + As ancient Judas by transgression fell, + And burst asunder ere he went to hell; + So could we see a set of new Iscariots + Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots; + Each modern Judas perish like the first, + Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst; + Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face, + To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place, + His habitation let all men forsake, + And let his bishopric another take!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, + To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] + Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere, + Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear. + Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, + To lose an inch of favour for a friend? + Say, had the court no better place to choose + For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse? + How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, + To squire a royal girl of two years old: + In leading strings her infant steps to guide, + Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5] + But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame, + Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame. + Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied, + When o'er your patron's treasure you preside: + The world shall own, his choice was wise and just, + For sons of Phoebus never break their trust. + Not love of beauty less the heart inflames + Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames, + Their passions not more impotent and cold, + Than those of poets to the lust of gold. + With Pæan's purest fire his favourites glow, + The dregs will serve to ripen ore below: + His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit + That wealth should be the appanage of wit, + The god of light could ne'er have been so blind + To deal it to the worst of human kind. + But let me now, for I can do it well, + Your conduct in this new employ foretell. + And first: to make my observation right, + I place a statesman full before my sight, + A bloated minister in all his gear, + With shameless visage and perfidious leer: + Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw, + And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw. + My fancy drags this monster to my view, + To shew the world his chief reverse in you. + Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood + Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud; + With these the court and senate-house he plies, + Made up of noise, and impudence, and lies. + Now let me show how Bob and you agree: + You serve a potent prince,[7] as well as he. + The ducal coffers trusted to your charge, + Your honest care may fill, perhaps enlarge: + His vassals easy, and the owner blest; + They pay a trifle, and enjoy the rest. + Not so a nation's revenues are paid; + The servant's faults are on the master laid. + The people with a sigh their taxes bring, + And, cursing Bob, forget to bless the king. + Next hearken, Gay, to what thy charge requires, + With servants, tenants, and the neighbouring squires, + Let all domestics feel your gentle sway; + Nor bribe, insult, nor flatter, nor betray. + Let due reward to merit be allow'd; + Nor with your kindred half the palace crowd; + Nor think yourself secure in doing wrong, + By telling noses [8] with a party strong. + Be rich; but of your wealth make no parade; + At least, before your master's debts are paid; + Nor in a palace, built with charge immense, + Presume to treat him at his own expense.[9] + Each farmer in the neighbourhood can count + To what your lawful perquisites amount. + The tenants poor, the hardness of the times, + Are ill excuses for a servant's crimes. + With interest, and a premium paid beside, + The master's pressing wants must be supplied; + With hasty zeal behold the steward come + By his own credit to advance the sum; + Who, while th'unrighteous Mammon is his friend, + May well conclude his power will never end. + A faithful treasurer! what could he do more? + He lends my lord what was my lord's before. + The law so strictly guards the monarch's health, + That no physician dares prescribe by stealth: + The council sit; approve the doctor's skill; + And give advice before he gives the pill. + But the state empiric acts a safer part; + And, while he poisons, wins the royal heart. + But how can I describe the ravenous breed? + Then let me now by negatives proceed. + Suppose your lord a trusty servant send + On weighty business to some neighbouring friend: + Presume not, Gay, unless you serve a drone, + To countermand his orders by your own. + Should some imperious neighbour sink the boats, + And drain the fish-ponds, while your master dotes; + Shall he upon the ducal rights intrench, + Because he bribed you with a brace of tench? + Nor from your lord his bad condition hide, + To feed his luxury, or soothe his pride. + Nor at an under rate his timber sell, + And with an oath assure him, all is well; + Or swear it rotten, and with humble airs [10] + Request it of him, to complete your stairs; + Nor, when a mortgage lies on half his lands, + Come with a purse of guineas in your hands. + Have Peter Waters [11] always in your mind; + That rogue, of genuine ministerial kind, + Can half the peerage by his arts bewitch, + Starve twenty lords to make one scoundrel rich: + And, when he gravely has undone a score, + Is humbly pray'd to ruin twenty more. + A dext'rous steward, when his tricks are found, + Hush-money sends to all the neighbours round; + His master, unsuspicious of his pranks, + Pays all the cost, and gives the villain thanks. + And, should a friend attempt to set him right, + His lordship would impute it all to spite; + Would love his favourite better than before, + And trust his honesty just so much more. + Thus families, like realms, with equal fate, + Are sunk by premier ministers of state. + Some, when an heir succeeds, go bodily on, + And, as they robb'd the father, rob the son. + A knave, who deep embroils his lord's affairs, + Will soon grow necessary to his heirs. + His policy consists in setting traps, + In finding ways and means, and stopping gaps; + He knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, + Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease. + In either case, an equal chance is run; + For, keep or turn him out, my lord's undone. + You want a hand to clear a filthy sink; + No cleanly workman can endure the stink. + A strong dilemma in a desperate case! + To act with infamy, or quit the place. + A bungler thus, who scarce the nail can hit, + With driving wrong will make the panel split: + Nor dares an abler workman undertake + To drive a second, lest the whole should break. + In every court the parallel will hold; + And kings, like private folks, are bought and sold. + The ruling rogue, who dreads to be cashler'd, + Contrives, as he is hated, to be fear'd; + Confounds accounts, perplexes all affairs: + For vengeance more embroils, than skill repairs. + So robbers, (and their ends are just the same,) + To 'scape inquiries, leave the house in flame. + I knew a brazen minister of state,[12] + Who bore for twice ten years the public hate. + In every mouth the question most in vogue + Was, when will they turn out this odious rogue? + A juncture happen'd in his highest pride: + While he went robbing on, his master died.[13] + We thought there now remain'd no room to doubt; + The work is done, the minister must out. + The court invited more than one or two: + Will you, Sir Spencer?[14] or will you, or you? + But not a soul his office durst accept; + The subtle knave had all the plunder swept: + And, such was then the temper of the times, + He owed his preservation to his crimes. + The candidates observed his dirty paws; + Nor found it difficult to guess the cause: + But, when they smelt such foul corruptions round him, + Away they fled, and left him as they found him. + Thus, when a greedy sloven once has thrown + His snot into the mess, 'tis all his own. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Dean having been told by an intimate friend that the + Duke of Queensberry had employed Mr. Gay to inspect the accounts and + management of his grace's receivers and stewards (which, however, proved + to be a mistake), wrote this Epistle to his friend.—<i>H</i>. Through the + whole piece, under the pretext of instructing Gay in his duty as the + duke's auditor of accounts, he satirizes the conduct of Sir Robert + Walpole, then Prime Minister.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: See the "Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret," <i>post</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The Countess of Suffolk.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Robert Walpole.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The post of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa was + offered to Gay, which he and his friends considered as a great indignity, + her royal highness being a mere infant.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.] + + [Footnote 7: A title given to every duke by the + heralds.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: Counting the numbers of a division. A horse dealer's + term.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: Alluding to the magnificence of Houghton, the seat of Sir + Robert Walpole, by which he greatly impaired his fortune. + "What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? + Some Demon whispered, 'Visto! have a Taste.'" +POPE, <i>Moral Essays</i>, Epist. iv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: These lines are thought to allude to some story concerning + a vast quantity of mahogany declared rotten, and then applied by somebody + to wainscots, stairs, door-cases, etc.—<i>Dublin edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 11: He hath practised this trade for many years, and still + continues it with success; and after he hath ruined one lord, is + earnestly solicited to take another.—<i>Dublin edition</i>. + Properly Walter, a dexterous and unscrupulous attorney. + "Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, + And therefore hopes this nation may be sold." +POPE, <i>Moral Essays</i>, Epist. iii. + And see his character fully displayed in Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams' + poem, "Peter and my Lord Quidam," Works, with notes, edit. 1822. Peter + was the original of Peter Pounce in Fielding's "Joseph + Andrews."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 12: Sir Robert Walpole, who was called Sir Robert Brass.] + + [Footnote 13: King George I, who died on the 12th June, + 1727.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 14: Sir Spencer Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons, + afterwards created Earl of Wilmington. George II, on his accession to the + throne, intended that Compton should be Prime Minister, but Walpole, + through the influence of the queen, retained his place, Compton having + confessed "his incapacity to undertake so arduous a task." As Lord + Wilmington, he is constantly ridiculed by Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams. + See his Works, with notes by Horace Walpole, edit. 1822.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A LADY + </h2> + <p> + WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER IN THE HEROIC STYLE + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After venting all my spite, + Tell me, what have I to write? + Every error I could find + Through the mazes of your mind, + Have my busy Muse employ'd, + Till the company was cloy'd. + Are you positive and fretful, + Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? + Those, and twenty follies more, + I have often told before. + Hearken what my lady says: + Have I nothing then to praise? + Ill it fits you to be witty, + Where a fault should move your pity. + If you think me too conceited, + Or to passion quickly heated; + If my wandering head be less + Set on reading than on dress; + If I always seem too dull t'ye; + I can solve the diffi—culty. + You would teach me to be wise: + Truth and honour how to prize; + How to shine in conversation, + And with credit fill my station; + How to relish notions high; + How to live, and how to die. + But it was decreed by Fate— + Mr. Dean, you come too late. + Well I know, you can discern, + I am now too old to learn: + Follies, from my youth instill'd, + Have my soul entirely fill'd; + In my head and heart they centre, + Nor will let your lessons enter. + Bred a fondling and an heiress; + Drest like any lady mayoress: + Cocker'd by the servants round, + Was too good to touch the ground; + Thought the life of every lady + Should be one continued play-day— + Balls, and masquerades, and shows, + Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux. + Thus you have my case at large, + And may now perform your charge. + Those materials I have furnish'd, + When by you refined and burnish'd, + Must, that all the world may know 'em, + Be reduced into a poem. + But, I beg, suspend a while + That same paltry, burlesque style; + Drop for once your constant rule, + Turning all to ridicule; + Teaching others how to ape you; + Court nor parliament can 'scape you; + Treat the public and your friends + Both alike, while neither mends. + Sing my praise in strain sublime: + Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme. + 'Tis but just, you should produce, + With each fault, each fault's excuse; + Not to publish every trifle, + And my few perfections stifle. + With some gifts at least endow me, + Which my very foes allow me. + Am I spiteful, proud, unjust? + Did I ever break my trust? + Which of all our modern dames + Censures less, or less defames? + In good manners am I faulty? + Can you call me rude or haughty? + Did I e'er my mite withhold + From the impotent and old? + When did ever I omit + Due regard for men of wit? + When have I esteem express'd + For a coxcomb gaily dress'd? + Do I, like the female tribe, + Think it wit to fleer and gibe? + Who with less designing ends + Kindlier entertains her friends; + With good words and countenance sprightly, + Strives to treat them more politely? + Think not cards my chief diversion: + 'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion: + Never knew I any good in 'em, + But to dose my head like laudanum. + We, by play, as men, by drinking, + Pass our nights to drive out thinking. + From my ailments give me leisure, + I shall read and think with pleasure; + Conversation learn to relish, + And with books my mind embellish. + Now, methinks, I hear you cry, + Mr. Dean, you must reply. + Madam, I allow 'tis true: + All these praises are your due. + You, like some acute philosopher, + Every fault have drawn a gloss over;[1] + Placing in the strongest light + All your virtues to my sight. + Though you lead a blameless life, + Are an humble prudent wife, + Answer all domestic ends: + What is this to us your friends? + Though your children by a nod + Stand in awe without a rod; + Though, by your obliging sway, + Servants love you, and obey; + Though you treat us with a smile; + Clear your looks, and smooth your style; + Load our plates from every dish; + This is not the thing we wish. +</pre> + <p> + </p> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We expect employment better. + You must learn, if you would gain us, + With good sense to entertain us. + Scholars, when good sense describing, + Call it tasting and imbibing; + Metaphoric meat and drink + Is to understand and think; + We may carve for others thus; + And let others carve for us; + To discourse, and to attend, + Is, to help yourself and friend. + Conversation is but carving; + Carve for all, yourself is starving: + Give no more to every guest, + Than he's able to digest; + Give him always of the prime; + And but little at a time. + Carve to all but just enough: + Let them neither starve nor stuff: + And, that you may have your due, + Let your neighbours carve for you. + This comparison will hold, + Could it well in rhyme be told, + How conversing, listening, thinking, + Justly may resemble drinking; + For a friend a glass you fill, + What is this but to instil? + To conclude this long essay; + Pardon if I disobey, + Nor against my natural vein, + Treat you in heroic strain. + I, as all the parish knows, + Hardly can be grave in prose: + Still to lash, and lashing smile, + Ill befits a lofty style. + From the planet of my birth + I encounter vice with mirth. + Wicked ministers of state + I can easier scorn than hate; + And I find it answers right: + Scorn torments them more than spight. + All the vices of a court + Do but serve to make me sport. + Were I in some foreign realm, + Which all vices overwhelm; + Should a monkey wear a crown, + Must I tremble at his frown? + Could I not, through all his ermine, + 'Spy the strutting chattering vermin; + Safely write a smart lampoon, + To expose the brisk baboon? + When my Muse officious ventures + On the nation's representers: + Teaching by what golden rules + Into knaves they turn their fools; + How the helm is ruled by Walpole, + At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull; + Let the vessel split on shelves; + With the freight enrich themselves: + Safe within my little wherry, + All their madness makes me merry: + Like the waterman of Thames, + I row by, and call them names; + Like the ever-laughing sage,[2] + In a jest I spend my rage: + (Though it must be understood, + I would hang them if I could;) + If I can but fill my niche, + I attempt no higher pitch; + Leave to d'Anvers and his mate + Maxims wise to rule the state. + Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns, + Scourge the villains with a vengeance; + Let me, though the smell be noisome, + Strip their bums; let Caleb[3] hoise 'em; + Then apply Alecto's[4] whip + Till they wriggle, howl, and skip. + Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean: + What can all this passion mean? + Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet + On corruptions running riot. + End as it befits your station; + Come to use and application; + Nor with senates keep a fuss. + I submit; and answer thus: + If the machinations brewing, + To complete the public ruin, + Never once could have the power + To affect me half an hour; + Sooner would I write in buskins, + Mournful elegies on Blueskins.[5] + If I laugh at Whig and Tory; + I conclude <i>à fortiori</i>, + All your eloquence will scarce + Drive me from my favourite farce. + This I must insist on; for, as + It is well observed by Horace,[6] + Ridicule has greater power + To reform the world than sour. + Horses thus, let jockeys judge else, + Switches better guide than cudgels. + Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse, + Only dulness can produce; + While a little gentle jerking + Sets the spirits all a-working. + Thus, I find it by experiment, + Scolding moves you less than merriment. + I may storm and rage in vain; + It but stupifies your brain. + But with raillery to nettle, + Sets your thoughts upon their mettle; + Gives imagination scope; + Never lets your mind elope; + Drives out brangling and contention. + Brings in reason and invention. + For your sake as well as mine, + I the lofty style decline. + I should make a figure scurvy, + And your head turn topsy-turvy. + I who love to have a fling + Both at senate-house and king: + That they might some better way tread, + To avoid the public hatred; + Thought no method more commodious, + Than to show their vices odious; + Which I chose to make appear, + Not by anger, but by sneer. + As my method of reforming, + Is by laughing, not by storming, + (For my friends have always thought + Tenderness my greatest fault,) + Would you have me change my style? + On your faults no longer smile; + But, to patch up all our quarrels, + Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals, + Or from Solomon produce + Maxims teaching Wisdom's use? + If I treat you like a crown'd head, + You have cheap enough compounded; + Can you put in higher claims, + Than the owners of St. James? + You are not so great a grievance, + As the hirelings of St. Stephen's. + You are of a lower class + Than my friend Sir Robert Brass. + None of these have mercy found: + I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round. + Have you seen a rocket fly? + You would swear it pierced the sky: + It but reach'd the middle air, + Bursting into pieces there; + Thousand sparkles falling down + Light on many a coxcomb's crown. + See what mirth the sport creates! + Singes hair, but breaks no pates. + Thus, should I attempt to climb, + Treat you in a style sublime, + Such a rocket is my Muse: + Should I lofty numbers choose, + Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top, + I should burst, and bursting drop; + All my fire would fall in scraps, + Give your head some gentle raps; + Only make it smart a while; + Then could I forbear to smile, + When I found the tingling pain + Entering warm your frigid brain; + Make you able upon sight + To decide of wrong and right; + Talk with sense whate'er you please on; + Learn to relish truth and reason! + Thus we both shall gain our prize; + I to laugh, and you grow wise. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: + "Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher, + And had read ev'ry Text and Gloss over." + <i>Hudibras</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Democritus, the Greek philosopher, one of the founders of + the atomic theory.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Caleb d'Anvers was the name assumed by Nicholas Amhurst, the + ostensible editor of the celebrated journal, entitled "The Craftsman," + written by Bolingbroke and Pulteney. See "Prose Works," vii, p. + 219.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: One of the three Furies—Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, the + avenging deities.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The famous thief, who, while on his trial at the Old Bailey, + stabbed Jonathan Wild. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild," Book iv, + ch. i.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: + "Ridiculum acri + Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."—<i>Sat</i>. I, x, 14.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sic siti laetantur docti." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With honour thus by Carolina placed, + How are these venerable bustoes graced! + O queen, with more than regal title crown'd, + For love of arts and piety renown'd! + How do the friends of virtue joy to see + Her darling sons exalted thus by thee! + Nought to their fame can now be added more, + Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2] + + [Footnote 1: Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Woolaston.] + + [Footnote 2: Queen Caroline's regard for learned men was chiefly directed + to those who had signalized themselves by philosophical research. Horace + Walpole alludes to this her peculiar taste, in his fable called the + "Funeral of the Lioness," where the royal shade is made to say: + "... where Elysian waters glide, + With Clarke and Newton by my side, + Purrs o'er the metaphysic page, + Or ponders the prophetic rage + Of Merlin, who mysterious sings + Of men and lions, beasts and kings." + <i>Lord Orford's Works</i>, iv, 379.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Louis the living learned fed, + And raised the scientific head; + Our frugal queen, to save her meat, + Exalts the heads that cannot eat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CONCLUSION + </h2> + <h3> + DRAWN FROM THE ABOVE EPIGRAMS, AND SENT TO THE DRAPIER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, + Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: + And since our good queen to the wise is so just, + To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust, + I wonder, good man, that you are not envaulted; + Prithee go, and be dead, and be doubly exalted. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Her majesty never shall be my exalter; + And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT + </h2> + <p> + WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, + 1732.[1] BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; + Small is the present, but sincere the friend. + Think not so poor a book below thy care; + Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear? + Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face, + The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace; + Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat, + A <i>rasa tabula</i> within denote: + Yet, if a venal and corrupted age, + And modern vices should provoke thy rage; + If, warn'd once more by their impending fate, + A sinking country and an injur'd state, + Thy great assistance should again demand, + And call forth reason to defend the land; + Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise, + Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes; + Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense + True force of eloquence, and nervous sense; + Inform the judgment, animate the heart, + And sacred rules of policy impart. + The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore, + Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more; + But lead us inward to those golden mines, + Where all thy soul in native lustre shines. + So when the eye surveys some lovely fair, + With bloom of beauty graced, with shape and air; + How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find + Her form excell'd by her celestial mind! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued + among his friends, of making him a present on his birth-day. Orrery's + "Remarks," p. 202.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, + </h2> + <p> + ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. BY DR. DELANY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hither from Mexico I came, + To serve a proud Iernian dame: + Was long submitted to her will; + At length she lost me at quadrille. + Through various shapes I often pass'd, + Still hoping to have rest at last; + And still ambitious to obtain + Admittance to the patriot Dean; + And sometimes got within his door, + But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1] + Not strolling Idleness to aid, + But honest Industry decay'd. + At length an artist purchased me, + And wrought me to the shape you see. + This done, to Hermes I applied: + "O Hermes! gratify my pride; + Be it my fate to serve a sage, + The greatest genius of his age; + That matchless pen let me supply, + Whose living lines will never die!" + "I grant your suit," the God replied, + And here he left me to reside. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Alluding to sums lent by the Dean, without interest, to + assist poor tradesmen.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A paper book is sent by Boyle, + Too neatly gilt for me to soil. + Delany sends a silver standish, + When I no more a pen can brandish. + Let both around my tomb be placed: + As trophies of a Muse deceased; + And let the friendly lines they writ, + In praise of long-departed wit, + Be graved on either side in columns, + More to my praise than all my volumes, + To burst with envy, spite, and rage, + The Vandals of the present age. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VERSES +SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL, +ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR. DELANY. +BY MRS. PILKINGTON + Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, + And boldly rob me of eternal fame? + To every art my gen'rous aid I lend, + To music, painting, poetry, a friend. + 'Tis I celestial harmony inspire, + When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire.[1] + I to the faithful canvas have consign'd + Each bright idea of the painter's mind; + Behold from Raphael's sky-dipt pencils rise + Such heavenly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes. + O let me now aspire to higher praise! + Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays: + Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse, + Accept me as the servant of your Muse; + Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare, + And all mankind your matchless pen revere. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Quills of the harpsichord.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call, + To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all; + Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care, + For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare. + I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies, + As friend Virgil has it, I've <i>aliud mercedis</i>; + For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale; + And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal; + And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood, + I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good: + Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health: + High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at + London, in 4to, by subscription.] + + [Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her + friends.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who + died in 1733, at the age of 27.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had + ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and + the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of + National Biography."—. <i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, + </h2> + <h3> + ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF2" id="link2H_PREF2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and greater + mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of mankind, than + the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their own talents. I knew + a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter of coffeehouses, who, + when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly seized it first, and + read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a manner as little + intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many pretenders to + learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on those very parts + of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is the same case in + every other qualification. By the multitude of those who deal in rhymes, + from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every minute, there must be at + least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs of London: half as many + coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, forty thousand politicians, + and four thousand five hundred profound scholars; not to mention the wits, + the railers, the smart fellows, and critics; all as illiterate and + impudent as a suburb whore. What are we to think of the fine-dressed + sparks, proud of their own personal deformities, which appear the more + hideous by the contrast of wearing scarlet and gold, with what they call + toupees[1] on their heads, and all the frippery of a modern beau, to make + a figure before women; some of them with hump-backs, others hardly five + feet high, and every feature of their faces distorted: I have seen many of + these insipid pretenders entering into conversation with persons of + learning, constantly making the grossest blunders in every sentence, + without conveying one single idea fit for a rational creature to spend a + thought on; perpetually confounding all chronology, and geography, even of + present times. I compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau + and puppy kind, for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours + transplanted thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown + capital exceeds ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what + is more to our farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool + of Irish birth or education, who makes any noise in that famous + metropolis, unless the London prints be very partial or defective; whereas + London is seldom without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the + vogue for half a winter together, and are never heard of more, but give + place to a new set. This has been the constant progress for at least + thirty years past, only allowing for the change of breed and fashion. + </p> + <p> + The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking + their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his own species, + almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, he is too + partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as low as he well + could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the ass, the swine, and the + ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes them in the + article of cunning: so great is the pride of man! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When beasts could speak, (the learned say + They still can do so every day,) + It seems, they had religion then, + As much as now we find in men. + It happen'd, when a plague broke out, + (Which therefore made them more devout,) + The king of brutes (to make it plain, + Of quadrupeds I only mean) + By proclamation gave command, + That every subject in the land + Should to the priest confess their sins; + And thus the pious Wolf begins: + Good father, I must own with shame, + That often I have been to blame: + I must confess, on Friday last, + Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: + But I defy the basest tongue + To prove I did my neighbour wrong; + Or ever went to seek my food, + By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. + The Ass approaching next, confess'd, + That in his heart he loved a jest: + A wag he was, he needs must own, + And could not let a dunce alone: + Sometimes his friend he would not spare, + And might perhaps be too severe: + But yet the worst that could be said, + He was a wit both born and bred; + And, if it be a sin and shame, + Nature alone must bear the blame: + One fault he has, is sorry for't, + His ears are half a foot too short; + Which could he to the standard bring, + He'd show his face before the king: + Then for his voice, there's none disputes + That he's the nightingale of brutes. + The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, + His shape and beauty made him proud: + In diet was perhaps too nice, + But gluttony was ne'er his vice: + In every turn of life content, + And meekly took what fortune sent: + Inquire through all the parish round, + A better neighbour ne'er was found; + His vigilance might some displease; + 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + The mimic Ape began his chatter, + How evil tongues his life bespatter; + Much of the censuring world complain'd, + Who said, his gravity was feign'd: + Indeed, the strictness of his morals + Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: + He saw, and he was grieved to see't, + His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: + He found his virtues too severe + For our corrupted times to bear; + Yet such a lewd licentious age + Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + The Goat advanced with decent pace, + And first excused his youthful face; + Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd + ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. + 'Tis true, he was not much inclined + To fondness for the female kind: + Not, as his enemies object, + From chance, or natural defect; + Not by his frigid constitution; + But through a pious resolution: + For he had made a holy vow + Of Chastity, as monks do now: + Which he resolved to keep for ever hence + And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2] + Apply the tale, and you shall find, + How just it suits with human kind. + Some faults we own; but can you guess? + —Why, virtue's carried to excess, + Wherewith our vanity endows us, + Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) + He never squeezed a needy client; + And this he makes his constant rule, + For which his brethren call him fool; + His conscience always was so nice, + He freely gave the poor advice; + By which he lost, he may affirm, + A hundred fees last Easter term; + While others of the learned robe, + Would break the patience of a Job. + No pleader at the bar could match + His diligence and quick dispatch; + Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, + Above a term or two at most. + The cringing knave, who seeks a place + Without success, thus tells his case: + Why should he longer mince the matter? + He fail'd, because he could not flatter; + He had not learn'd to turn his coat, + Nor for a party give his vote: + His crime he quickly understood; + Too zealous for the nation's good: + He found the ministers resent it, + Yet could not for his heart repent it. + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, + Though it would raise him to the lawn: + He pass'd his hours among his books; + You find it in his meagre looks: + He might, if he were worldly wise, + Preferment get, and spare his eyes; + But owns he had a stubborn spirit. + That made him trust alone to merit; + Would rise by merit to promotion; + Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + The Doctor, if you will believe him, + Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) + Call'd up at midnight, ran to save + A blind old beggar from the grave: + But see how Satan spreads his snares; + He quite forgot to say his prayers. + He cannot help it, for his heart, + Sometimes to act the parson's part: + Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, + That moves his patients to repentance; + And, when his medicines do no good, + Supports their minds with heavenly food: + At which, however well intended, + He hears the clergy are offended; + And grown so bold behind his back, + To call him hypocrite and quack. + In his own church he keeps a seat; + Says grace before and after meat; + And calls, without affecting airs, + His household twice a-day to prayers. + He shuns apothecaries' shops, + And hates to cram the sick with slops: + He scorns to make his art a trade; + Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. + Old nurse-keepers would never hire, + To recommend him to the squire; + Which others, whom he will not name, + Have often practised to their shame. + The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, + His fault is to be too sincere; + And having no sinister ends, + Is apt to disoblige his friends. + The nation's good, his master's glory, + Without regard to Whig or Tory, + Were all the schemes he had in view, + Yet he was seconded by few: + Though some had spread a thousand lies, + 'Twas he defeated the excise.[3] + 'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, + That standing troops were his aversion: + His practice was, in every station: + To serve the king, and please the nation. + Though hard to find in every case + The fittest man to fill a place: + His promises he ne'er forgot, + But took memorials on the spot; + His enemies, for want of charity, + Said, he affected popularity: + 'Tis true, the people understood, + That all he did was for their good; + Their kind affections he has tried; + No love is lost on either side. + He came to court with fortune clear, + Which now he runs out every year; + Must, at the rate that he goes on, + Inevitably be undone: + O! if his majesty would please + To give him but a writ of ease, + Would grant him license to retire, + As it has long been his desire, + By fair accounts it would be found, + He's poorer by ten thousand pound. + He owns, and hopes it is no sin, + He ne'er was partial to his kin; + He thought it base for men in stations, + To crowd the court with their relations: + His country was his dearest mother, + And every virtuous man his brother; + Through modesty or awkward shame, + (For which he owns himself to blame,) + He found the wisest man he could, + Without respect to friends or blood; + Nor ever acts on private views, + When he has liberty to choose. + The Sharper swore he hated play, + Except to pass an hour away: + And well he might; for, to his cost, + By want of skill, he always lost; + He heard there was a club of cheats, + Who had contrived a thousand feats; + Could change the stock, or cog a die, + And thus deceive the sharpest eye: + Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, + His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. + I own the moral not exact, + Besides, the tale is false, in fact; + And so absurd, that could I raise up, + From fields Elysian, fabling Æsop, + I would accuse him to his face, + For libelling the four-foot race. + Creatures of every kind but ours + Well comprehend their natural powers, + While we, whom reason ought to sway, + Mistake our talents every day. + The Ass was never known so stupid, + To act the part of Tray or Cupid; + Nor leaps upon his master's lap, + There to be stroked, and fed with pap, + As Æsop would the world persuade; + He better understands his trade: + Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, + But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. + Our author's meaning, I presume, is + A creature <i>bipes et implumis;</i> + Wherein the moralist design'd + A compliment on human kind; + For here he owns, that now and then + Beasts may degenerate into men.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in + fashion. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same + name.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in + March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent + was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second + reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months, + and thus it was dropped.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the + Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PARSON'S CASE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, + Can wish to die in strains heroic, + No real fortitude implies: + Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise. + Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, + Thy busy, drudging scene of life, + Thy insolent, illiterate vicar, + Thy want of all-consoling liquor, + Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent, + Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, + Thy week made up of fasting-days, + Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, + And to complete thy other curses, + The quarterly demands of nurses, + Are ills you wisely wish to leave, + And fly for refuge to the grave; + And, O, what virtue you express, + In wishing such afflictions less! + But, now, should Fortune shift the scene, + And make thy curateship a dean: + Or some rich benefice provide, + To pamper luxury and pride; + With labour small, and income great; + With chariot less for use than state; + With swelling scarf, and glossy gown, + And license to reside in town: + To shine where all the gay resort, + At concerts, coffee-house, or court: + And weekly persecute his grace + With visits, or to beg a place: + With underlings thy flock to teach, + With no desire to pray or preach; + With haughty spouse in vesture fine, + With plenteous meals and generous wine; + Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, + Thy years as numerous as thy days? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES + </h2> + <h3> + 1733 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poor ladies! though their business be to play, + 'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: + Why should they want the privilege of men, + Nor take some small diversions now and then? + Had women been the makers of our laws, + (And why they were not, I can see no cause,) + The men should slave at cards from morn to night + And female pleasures be to read and write. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, + Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: + I a slave in thy dominions; + Nature must give way to art. + + Mild Arcadians, ever blooming + Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, + See my weary days consuming + All beneath yon flowery rocks. + + Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping + Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; + Him the boar, in silence creeping, + Gored with unrelenting tooth. + + Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; + Fair Discretion, string the lyre; + Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: + Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. + + Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, + Arm'd in adamantine chains, + Lead me to the crystal mirrors, + Watering soft Elysian plains. + + Mournful cypress, verdant willow, + Gilding my Aurelia's brows, + Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, + Hear me pay my dying vows. + + Melancholy smooth Meander, + Swiftly purling in a round, + On thy margin lovers wander, + With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. + + Thus when Philomela drooping + Softly seeks her silent mate, + See the bird of Juno stooping; + Melody resigns to fate. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORM + </h2> + <h3> + MINERVA'S PETITION + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise + Descending lately from the skies, + To Neptune went, and begg'd in form + He'd give his orders for a storm; + A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1] + And she would kindly thank him for't: + A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her, + Had lately honour'd with a mitre. + The god, who favour'd her request, + Assured her he would do his best: + But Venus had been there before, + Pleaded the bishop loved a whore, + And had enlarged her empire wide; + He own'd no deity beside. + At sea or land, if e'er you found him + Without a mistress, hang or drown him. + Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench, + Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench; + If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it, + She'll not have left one single prelate: + For, to say truth, she did intend him, + Elect of Cyprus <i>in commendam.</i> + And, since her birth the ocean gave her, + She could not doubt her uncle's favour. + Then Proteus urged the same request, + But half in earnest, half in jest; + Said he—"Great sovereign of the main, + To drown him all attempts are vain. + Hort can assume more forms than I, + A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy; + Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim; + All motions are alike to him: + Turn him adrift, and you shall find + He knows to sail with every wind; + Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride + As well against as with the tide. + But, Pallas, you've applied too late; + For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate, + That Ireland must be soon destroy'd, + And who but Hort can be employ'd? + You need not then have been so pert, + In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert. + I found you did it, by your grinning; + Your business is to mind your spinning. + But how you came to interpose + In making bishops, no one knows; + Or who regarded your report; + For never were you seen at court. + And if you must have your petition, + There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition; + Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just, + If one must drown, the other must; + But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas, + We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4] + Now, if 'twill gratify your spight, + To put him in a plaguy fright, + Although 'tis hardly worth the cost, + You soon shall see him soundly tost. + You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn + (And every moment take a dram) + His ghastly visage with an air + Of reprobation and despair; + Or else some hiding-hole he seeks, + For fear the rest should say he squeaks; + Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before, + Resolve to perish with his whore; + Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, + And, but for shame, would say his prayers. + Or, would you see his spirits sink? + Relaxing downwards in a stink? + If such a sight as this can please ye, + Good madam Pallas, pray be easy. + To Neptune speak, and he'll consent; + But he'll come back the knave he went." + The goddess, who conceived a hope + That Hort was destined to a rope, + Believed it best to condescend + To spare a foe, to save a friend; + But, fearing Berkeley might be scared, + She left him virtue for a guard. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a + Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, + and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as + chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in + 1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He + died in 1751.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of + Cashell.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, + Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.] + + [Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the + propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, <i>ut supra.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats + in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE ON SCIENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, heavenly born! in deepest dells + If fairest science ever dwells + Beneath the mossy cave; + Indulge the verdure of the woods, + With azure beauty gild the floods, + And flowery carpets lave. + + For, Melancholy ever reigns + Delighted in the sylvan scenes + With scientific light; + While Dian, huntress of the vales, + Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales, + Though wrapt from mortal sight. + + Yet, goddess, yet the way explore + With magic rites and heathen lore + Obstructed and depress'd; + Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, + Untaught, not uninspired, to shine, + By Reason's power redress'd. + + When Solon and Lycurgus taught + To moralize the human thought + Of mad opinion's maze, + To erring zeal they gave new laws, + Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause + That blends congenial rays. + + Bid bright Astræa gild the morn, + Or bid a hundred suns be born, + To hecatomb the year; + Without thy aid, in vain the poles, + In vain the zodiac system rolls, + In vain the lunar sphere. + + Come, fairest princess of the throng, + Bring sweet philosophy along, + In metaphysic dreams; + While raptured bards no more behold + A vernal age of purer gold, + In Heliconian streams. + + Drive Thraldom with malignant hand, + To curse some other destined land, + By Folly led astray: + Iërne bear on azure wing; + Energic let her soar, and sing + Thy universal sway. + + So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre + To more majestic sound aspire, + Behold the madding throng, + In wonder and oblivion drown'd, + To sculpture turn'd by magic sound + And petrifying song. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical + power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building + of the city.—Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] + </h2> + <h3> + FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; + Gently fill the swelling sails. + Neptune, with thy trident long, + Trident three-fork'd, trident strong: + And ye Nereids fair and gay, + Fairer than the rose in May, + Nereids living in deep caves, + Gently wash'd with gentle waves; + Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep + Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep; + All around, in pompous state, + On this richer Argo wait: + Argo, bring my golden fleece, + Argo, bring him to his Greece. + Will Cadenus longer stay? + Come, Cadenus, come away; + Come with all the haste of love, + Come unto thy turtle-dove. + The ripen'd cherry on the tree + Hangs, and only hangs for thee, + Luscious peaches, mellow pears, + Ceres, with her yellow ears, + And the grape, both red and white, + Grape inspiring just delight; + All are ripe, and courting sue, + To be pluck'd and press'd by you. + Pinks have lost their blooming red, + Mourning hang their drooping head, + Every flower languid seems, + Wants the colour of thy beams, + Beams of wondrous force and power, + Beams reviving every flower. + Come, Cadenus, bless once more, + Bless again thy native shore, + Bless again this drooping isle, + Make its weeping beauties smile, + Beauties that thine absence mourn, + Beauties wishing thy return: + Come, Cadenus, come with haste, + Come before the winter's blast; + Swifter than the lightning fly, + Or I, like Vanessa, die. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and + the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of + poetry.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans + l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, + qui ne nous déplait pas." + + This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those + suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published + by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it + commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, + 1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by + Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew + From nature, I believe 'em true: + They argue no corrupted mind + In him; the fault is in mankind. + This maxim more than all the rest + Is thought too base for human breast: + "In all distresses of our friends, + We first consult our private ends; + While nature, kindly bent to ease us, + Points out some circumstance to please us." + If this perhaps your patience move, + Let reason and experience prove. + We all behold with envious eyes + Our <i>equal</i> raised above our <i>size.</i> + Who would not at a crowded show + Stand high himself, keep others low? + I love my friend as well as you: + [2]But why should he obstruct my view? + Then let me have the higher post: + [3]Suppose it but an inch at most. + If in battle you should find + One whom you love of all mankind, + Had some heroic action done, + A champion kill'd, or trophy won; + Rather than thus be overtopt, + Would you not wish his laurels cropt? + Dear honest Ned is in the gout, + Lies rackt with pain, and you without: + How patiently you hear him groan! + How glad the case is not your own! + What poet would not grieve to see + His breth'ren write as well as he? + But rather than they should excel, + He'd wish his rivals all in hell. + Her end when Emulation misses, + She turns to Envy, stings and hisses: + The strongest friendship yields to pride, + Unless the odds be on our side. + Vain human kind! fantastic race! + Thy various follies who can trace? + Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, + Their empire in our hearts divide. + Give others riches, power, and station, + 'Tis all on me an usurpation. + I have no title to aspire; + Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. + In Pope I cannot read a line, + But with a sigh I wish it mine; + When he can in one couplet fix + More sense than I can do in six; + It gives me such a jealous fit, + I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" + [4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay + In my own hum'rous biting way. + Arbuthnot is no more my friend, + Who dares to irony pretend, + Which I was born to introduce, + Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use. + St. John, as well as Pultney, knows + That I had some repute for prose; + And, till they drove me out of date + Could maul a minister of state. + If they have mortify'd my pride, + And made me throw my pen aside; + If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, + Have I not reason to detest 'em? + To all my foes, dear Fortune, send + Thy gifts; but never to my friend: + I tamely can endure the first; + But this with envy makes me burst. + Thus much may serve by way of proem: + Proceed we therefore to our poem. + The time is not remote, when I + Must by the course of nature die; + When, I foresee, my special friends + Will try to find their private ends: + Tho' it is hardly understood + Which way my death can do them good, + Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: + "See, how the Dean begins to break! + Poor gentleman, he droops apace! + You plainly find it in his face. + That old vertigo in his head + Will never leave him till he's dead. + Besides, his memory decays: + He recollects not what he says; + He cannot call his friends to mind: + Forgets the place where last he din'd; + Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er; + He told them fifty times before. + How does he fancy we can sit + To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? + But he takes up with younger folks, + Who for his wine will bear his jokes. + Faith! he must make his stories shorter, + Or change his comrades once a quarter: + In half the time he talks them round, + There must another set be found. + "For poetry he's past his prime: + He takes an hour to find a rhyme; + His fire is out, his wit decay'd, + His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. + I'd have him throw away his pen;— + But there's no talking to some men!" + And then their tenderness appears, + By adding largely to my years; + "He's older than he would be reckon'd, + And well remembers Charles the Second. + He hardly drinks a pint of wine; + And that, I doubt, is no good sign. + His stomach too begins to fail: + Last year we thought him strong and hale; + But now he's quite another thing: + I wish he may hold out till spring!" + Then hug themselves, and reason thus: + "It is not yet so bad with us!" + In such a case, they talk in tropes, + And by their fears express their hopes: + Some great misfortune to portend, + No enemy can match a friend. + With all the kindness they profess, + The merit of a lucky guess + (When daily how d'ye's come of course, + And servants answer, "<i>Worse and worse!</i>") + Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, + That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." + Then he, who prophecy'd the best, + Approves his foresight to the rest: + "You know I always fear'd the worst, + And often told you so at first." + He'd rather chuse that I should die, + Than his prediction prove a lie. + Not one foretells I shall recover; + But all agree to give me over. + Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain + Just in the parts where I complain; + How many a message would he send! + What hearty prayers that I should mend! + Inquire what regimen I kept; + What gave me ease, and how I slept? + And more lament when I was dead, + Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. + My good companions, never fear; + For though you may mistake a year, + Though your prognostics run too fast, + They must be verify'd at last. + Behold the fatal day arrive! + "How is the Dean?"—"He's just alive." + Now the departing prayer is read; + "He hardly breathes."—"The Dean is dead." + Before the Passing-bell begun, + The news thro' half the town has run. + "O! may we all for death prepare! + What has he left? and who's his heir?"— + "I know no more than what the news is; + 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."— + "To public use! a perfect whim! + What had the public done for him? + Mere envy, avarice, and pride: + He gave it all—but first he died. + And had the Dean, in all the nation, + No worthy friend, no poor relation? + So ready to do strangers good, + Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" + Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; + With elegies the town is cloy'd: + Some paragraph in ev'ry paper + To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5] + The doctors, tender of their fame, + Wisely on me lay all the blame: + "We must confess, his case was nice; + But he would never take advice. + Had he been ruled, for aught appears, + He might have lived these twenty years; + For, when we open'd him, we found, + That all his vital parts were sound." + From Dublin soon to London spread, + 'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead." + Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, + Runs laughing up to tell the queen. + The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, + Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. + He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: + I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot. + I promised him, I own; but when? + I only was a princess then; + But now, as consort of a king, + You know, 'tis quite a different thing." + Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, + Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: + "Why, is he dead without his shoes," + Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: + O, were the wretch but living still, + And in his place my good friend Will![11] + Or had a mitre on his head, + Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!" + Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: + Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! + And then, to make them pass the glibber, + Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14] + He'll treat me as he does my betters, + Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15] + Revive the libels born to die; + Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + Here shift the scene, to represent + How those I love my death lament. + Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay + A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + St. John himself will scarce forbear + To bite his pen, and drop a tear. + The rest will give a shrug, and cry, + "I'm sorry—but we all must die!" + Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, + All fortitude of mind supplies: + For how can stony bowels melt + In those who never pity felt! + When <i>we</i> are lash'd, <i>they</i> kiss the rod, + Resigning to the will of God. + The fools, my juniors by a year, + Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; + Who wisely thought my age a screen, + When death approach'd, to stand between: + The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; + They mourn for me without dissembling. + My female friends, whose tender hearts + Have better learn'd to act their parts, + Receive the news in doleful dumps: + "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) + Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! + (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16] + Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: + (I wish I knew what king to call.) + Madam, your husband will attend + The funeral of so good a friend. + No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: + And he's engaged to-morrow night: + My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, + If he shou'd fail her at quadrille. + He loved the Dean—(I lead a heart,) + But dearest friends, they say, must part. + His time was come: he ran his race; + We hope he's in a better place." + Why do we grieve that friends should die? + No loss more easy to supply. + One year is past; a different scene! + No further mention of the Dean; + Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, + Than if he never did exist. + Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! + Departed:—and his works must follow; + Must undergo the common fate; + His kind of wit is out of date. + Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, + Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." + Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; + He died a year ago."—"The same." + He searches all the shop in vain. + "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18] + I sent them with a load of books, + Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. + To fancy they could live a year! + I find you're but a stranger here. + The Dean was famous in his time, + And had a kind of knack at rhyme. + His way of writing now is past; + The town has got a better taste; + I keep no antiquated stuff, + But spick and span I have enough. + Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; + Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. + This ode you never yet have seen, + By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen. + Then here's a letter finely penned + Against the Craftsman and his friend: + It clearly shows that all reflection + On ministers is disaffection. + Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20] + And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21] + The hawkers have not got them yet: + Your honour please to buy a set? + "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; + 'Tis read by every politician: + The country members, when in town, + To all their boroughs send them down; + You never met a thing so smart; + The courtiers have them all by heart: + Those maids of honour (who can read), + Are taught to use them for their creed.[23] + The rev'rend author's good intention + Has been rewarded with a pension. + He does an honour to his gown, + By bravely running priestcraft down: + He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, + That Moses was a grand impostor; + That all his miracles were cheats, + Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: + The church had never such a writer; + A shame he has not got a mitre!" + Suppose me dead; and then suppose + A club assembled at the Rose; + Where, from discourse of this and that, + I grow the subject of their chat. + And while they toss my name about, + With favour some, and some without, + One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, + My character impartial draws: + The Dean, if we believe report, + Was never ill receiv'd at court. + As for his works in verse and prose + I own myself no judge of those; + Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: + But this I know, all people bought 'em. + As with a moral view design'd + To cure the vices of mankind: + And, if he often miss'd his aim, + The world must own it, to their shame, + The praise is his, and theirs the blame. + "Sir, I have heard another story: + He was a most confounded Tory, + And grew, or he is much belied, + Extremely dull, before he died." + Can we the Drapier then forget? + Is not our nation in his debt? + 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!— + "He should have left them for his betters, + We had a hundred abler men, + Nor need depend upon his pen.— + Say what you will about his reading, + You never can defend his breeding; + Who in his satires running riot, + Could never leave the world in quiet; + Attacking, when he took the whim, + Court, city, camp—all one to him.— + "But why should he, except he slobber't, + Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, + Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power + To save the nation every hour? + What scenes of evil he unravels + In satires, libels, lying travels! + Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, + But eats into it, like a moth!" + His vein, ironically grave, + Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave. + To steal a hint was never known, + But what he writ was all his own.[24] + "He never thought an honour done him, + Because a duke was proud to own him, + Would rather slip aside and chuse + To talk with wits in dirty shoes; + Despised the fools with stars and garters, + So often seen caressing Chartres.[25] + He never courted men in station, + <i>Nor persons held in admiration;</i> + Of no man's greatness was afraid, + Because he sought for no man's aid. + Though trusted long in great affairs + He gave himself no haughty airs: + Without regarding private ends, + Spent all his credit for his friends; + And only chose the wise and good; + No flatterers; no allies in blood: + But succour'd virtue in distress, + And seldom fail'd of good success; + As numbers in their hearts must own, + Who, but for him, had been unknown. + "With princes kept a due decorum, + But never stood in awe before 'em. + He follow'd David's lesson just; + <i>In princes never put thy trust:</i> + And would you make him truly sour, + Provoke him with a slave in power. + The Irish senate if you named, + With what impatience he declaim'd! + Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, + For her he stood prepared to die; + For her he boldly stood alone; + For her he oft exposed his own. + Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led, + Had set a price upon his head; + But not a traitor could be found, + To sell him for six hundred pound. + "Had he but spared his tongue and pen + He might have rose like other men: + But power was never in his thought, + And wealth he valued not a groat: + Ingratitude he often found, + And pitied those who meant the wound: + But kept the tenor of his mind, + To merit well of human kind: + Nor made a sacrifice of those + Who still were true, to please his foes. + He labour'd many a fruitless hour, + To reconcile his friends in power; + Saw mischief by a faction brewing, + While they pursued each other's ruin. + But finding vain was all his care, + He left the court in mere despair.[27] + "And, oh! how short are human schemes! + Here ended all our golden dreams. + What St. John's skill in state affairs, + What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, + To save their sinking country lent, + Was all destroy'd by one event. + Too soon that precious life was ended, + On which alone our weal depended.[28] + When up a dangerous faction starts,[29] + With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; + <i>By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,</i> + To ruin, slaughter, and confound; + To turn religion to a fable, + And make the government a Babel; + Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, + Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; + To sacrifice old England's glory, + And make her infamous in story: + When such a tempest shook the land, + How could unguarded Virtue stand! + With horror, grief, despair, the Dean + Beheld the dire destructive scene: + His friends in exile, or the tower, + Himself[30] within the frown of power, + Pursued by base envenom'd pens, + Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31] + A servile race in folly nursed, + Who truckle most, when treated worst. + "By innocence and resolution, + He bore continual persecution; + While numbers to preferment rose, + Whose merits were, to be his foes; + When <i>ev'n his own familiar friends</i>, + Intent upon their private ends, + Like renegadoes now he feels, + <i>Against him lifting up their heels.</i> + "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat + An infamous destructive cheat;[32] + Taught fools their int'rest how to know, + And gave them arms to ward the blow. + Envy has own'd it was his doing, + To save that hapless land from ruin; + While they who at the steerage stood, + And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. + "To save them from their evil fate, + In him was held a crime of state, + A wicked monster on the bench,[33] + Whose fury blood could never quench; + As vile and profligate a villain, + As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34] + Who long all justice had discarded, + <i>Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;</i> + Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, + And make him of his zeal repent: + But Heaven his innocence defends, + The grateful people stand his friends; + Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, + Nor topics brought to please the crown, + Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, + Prevail to bring him in convict. + "In exile,[35] with a steady heart, + He spent his life's declining part; + Where folly, pride, and faction sway, + Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. + Alas, poor Dean! his only scope + Was to be held a misanthrope. + This into gen'ral odium drew him, + Which if he liked, much good may't do him. + His zeal was not to lash our crimes, + But discontent against the times: + For had we made him timely offers + To raise his post, or fill his coffers, + Perhaps he might have truckled down, + Like other brethren of his gown. + For party he would scarce have bled: + I say no more—because he's dead. + What writings has he left behind? + I hear, they're of a different kind; + A few in verse; but most in prose— + Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;— + All scribbled in the worst of times, + To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, + To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, + As never fav'ring the Pretender; + Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, + Against the court to show his spite; + Perhaps his travels, part the third; + A lie at every second word— + Offensive to a loyal ear: + But not one sermon, you may swear." + His friendships there, to few confined + Were always of the middling kind;[36] + No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, + Who fain would pass for lords indeed: + Where titles give no right or power,[37] + And peerage is a wither'd flower; + He would have held it a disgrace, + If such a wretch had known his face. + On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, + He vented oft his wrath in vain; + [Biennial[38]] squires to market brought; + Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought; + The [nation stripped,] go joyful back, + To *** the church, their tenants rack, + Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39] + And keep the peace to pick up fees; + In every job to have a share, + A gaol or barrack to repair; + And turn the tax for public roads, + Commodious to their own abodes.[40] + "Perhaps I may allow the Dean, + Had too much satire in his vein; + And seem'd determined not to starve it, + Because no age could more deserve it. + Yet malice never was his aim; + He lash'd the vice, but spared the name; + No individual could resent, + Where thousands equally were meant; + His satire points at no defect, + But what all mortals may correct; + For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe + Who call it humour when they gibe: + He spared a hump, or crooked nose, + Whose owners set not up for beaux. + True genuine dulness moved his pity, + Unless it offer'd to be witty. + Those who their ignorance confest, + He ne'er offended with a jest; + But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote + A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. + "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, + Must be or ridiculed or lash'd. + If you resent it, who's to blame? + He neither knew you nor your name. + Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, + Because its owner is a duke? + "He knew an hundred pleasant stories, + With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: + Was cheerful to his dying day; + And friends would let him have his way. + "He gave the little wealth he had + To build a house for fools and mad; + And show'd by one satiric touch, + No nation wanted it so much. + That kingdom he hath left his debtor, + I wish it soon may have a better." + And, since you dread no farther lashes + Methinks you may forgive his ashes. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This poem was first written about 1731 but was not then + intended to be published; and having been shown by Swift to all his + "common acquaintance indifferently," some "friend," probably + Pilkington, remembered enough of it to concoct the poem called "The Life + and Character of Dr. Swift, written by himself," which was published in + London in 1733, and reprinted in Dublin. In a letter to Pope, dated 1 + May, that year, the Dean complained seriously about the imposture, + saying, "it shall not provoke me to print the true one, which indeed is + not proper to be seen till I can be seen no more." See Swift to Pope, + in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 307. The poem was + subsequently published by Faulkner with the Dean's permission. It is now + printed from a copy of the original edition, with corrections in Swift's + hand, which I found in the Forster collection.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: <i>Var</i>. "But would not have him stop my view."] + + [Footnote 3: <i>Var</i>. "I ask but for an inch at most."] + + [Footnote 4: <i>Var</i>. "Why must I be outdone by Gay."] + + [Footnote 5: The author supposes that the scribblers of the prevailing + party, which he always opposed, will libel him after his death; but that + others will remember the service he had done to Ireland, under the name + of M. B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project of Wood's + halfpence, in five letters to the people of Ireland, at that time read + universally, and convincing every reader.] + + [Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.] + + [Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the + bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen, + then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her + commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his + friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very + graciously. He taxed her with a present worth £10, which she promised + before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals + were not ready. + + A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out + this note.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but + she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent + Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing + took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as + would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of + it; he did the former, it cost £35, but he said he would have nothing + except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as + usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in + England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her + intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her + Majesty's displeasure.] + + [Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a + footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland. + He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every + change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy + for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He + is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was + writ in.—<i>Dublin Edition,</i> and see <i>ante</i>, p. 191.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the + Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, + with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with + him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great + friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would + see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert, + on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited + him again.] + + [Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate + friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined + with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the + Craftsman, which is still continued.] + + [Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to + Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius + in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously + working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said + lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.] + + [Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or + country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He + published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three + pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile + a manner.] + + [Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the + shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was + made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore, + whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of + Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."] + + [Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, + letters, and last wills and testaments of the nobility and ministers of + state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath + been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the + letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their + journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published, + without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.] + + [Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the + tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 17: See <i>post</i>, p. 267.] + + [Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.] + + [Footnote 19: See <i>ante</i> "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet," + p. 192.] + + [Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but + write in his defence.] + + [Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to + get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, + formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set + times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his + associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling + each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported + crazy.] + + [Footnote 22: See <i>ante</i>, p. 188.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 23: See <i>ante</i>, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt + Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated," + was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Bethell in + Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix, + p. 149.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley: + "To him no author was unknown, + Yet what he wrote was all his own."] + + [Footnote 25: See <i>ante</i>, pp. 192 and 252.] + + [Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an + address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation, + promising £300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet + called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year + 1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was + prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward + of £300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet, + called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive + project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the + Dean discovered.] + + [Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year + after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord + Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford, + for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher + every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that + endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired + to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned + to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new + people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.] + + [Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the + queen died.] + + [Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to + power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached + and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all + their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was + never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments + in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men. + Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved, + only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and + are likely to remain so.] + + [Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin + at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in + England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was + forced to be attended by his servants armed.] + + [Footnote 31: Ireland.] + + [Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for + coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of £108,000, which, in + the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The + Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before + prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the + people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury + down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to + bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer + of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or + swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part, + except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was + celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most + streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several + country towns. This note was written in 1734.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His + judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from + Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years + ago.] + + [Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile; + to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, + who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the Duchess of + Somerset.] + + [Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single + lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of + the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.] + + [Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single + act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the + least resentment or remonstrance.] + + [Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once + in two years, and after having given five times more than they can + afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and + oppressions of which some few are mentioned.] + + [Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there, + usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers + who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.] + + [Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building + and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to + that unhappy kingdom.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON POETRY, A RHAPSODY. 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All human race would fain be wits, + And millions miss for one that hits. + Young's universal passion, pride,[1] + Was never known to spread so wide. + Say, Britain, could you ever boast + Three poets in an age at most? + Our chilling climate hardly bears + A sprig of bays in fifty years; + While every fool his claim alleges, + As if it grew in common hedges. + What reason can there be assign'd + For this perverseness in the mind? + Brutes find out where their talents lie: + A bear will not attempt to fly; + A founder'd horse will oft debate, + Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; + A dog by instinct turns aside, + Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. + But man we find the only creature + Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; + Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, + With obstinacy fixes there; + And, where his genius least inclines, + Absurdly bends his whole designs. + Not empire to the rising sun + By valour, conduct, fortune won; + Not highest wisdom in debates, + For framing laws to govern states; + Not skill in sciences profound + So large to grasp the circle round, + Such heavenly influence require, + As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; + Not bastard of a pedler Scot; + Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, + The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews; + Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges + Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; + Are so disqualified by fate + To rise in church, or law, or state, + As he whom Phoebus in his ire + Has blasted with poetic fire. + What hope of custom in the fair, + While not a soul demands your ware? + Where you have nothing to produce + For private life, or public use? + Court, city, country, want you not; + You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. + For poets, law makes no provision; + The wealthy have you in derision: + Of state affairs you cannot smatter; + Are awkward when you try to flatter; + Your portion, taking Britain round, + Was just one annual hundred pound; + Now not so much as in remainder, + Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; + For ever fix'd by right divine + (A monarch's right) on Grub Street line. + Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! + How unproportion'd to thy pains! + And here a simile comes pat in: + Though chickens take a month to fatten, + The guests in less than half an hour + Will more than half a score devour. + So, after toiling twenty days + To earn a stock of pence and praise, + Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, + Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; + Gone to be never heard of more, + Gone where the chickens went before. + How shall a new attempter learn + Of different spirits to discern, + And how distinguish which is which, + The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? + Then hear an old experienced sinner, + Instructing thus a young beginner. + Consult yourself; and if you find + A powerful impulse urge your mind, + Impartial judge within your breast + What subject you can manage best; + Whether your genius most inclines + To satire, praise, or humorous lines, + To elegies in mournful tone, + Or prologue sent from hand unknown. + Then, rising with Aurora's light, + The Muse invoked, sit down to write; + Blot out, correct, insert, refine, + Enlarge, diminish, interline; + Be mindful, when invention fails, + To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + Your poem finish'd, next your care + Is needful to transcribe it fair. + In modern wit all printed trash is + Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + To statesmen would you give a wipe, + You print it in <i>Italic</i> type. + When letters are in vulgar shapes, + 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: + But, when in capitals express'd, + The dullest reader smokes the jest: + Or else perhaps he may invent + A better than the poet meant; + As learned commentators view + In Homer more than Homer knew. + Your poem in its modish dress, + Correctly fitted for the press, + Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4] + But let no friend alive look into't. + If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, + You need not fear your labour lost: + And how agreeably surprised + Are you to see it advertised! + The hawker shows you one in print, + As fresh as farthings from the mint: + The product of your toil and sweating; + A bastard of your own begetting. + Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, + Lie snug, and hear what critics say; + And, if you find the general vogue + Pronounces you a stupid rogue, + Damns all your thoughts as low and little, + Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; + Be silent as a politician, + For talking may beget suspicion; + Or praise the judgment of the town, + And help yourself to run it down. + Give up your fond paternal pride, + Nor argue on the weaker side: + For, poems read without a name + We justly praise, or justly blame; + And critics have no partial views, + Except they know whom they abuse: + And since you ne'er provoke their spite, + Depend upon't their judgment's right. + But if you blab, you are undone: + Consider what a risk you run: + You lose your credit all at once; + The town will mark you for a dunce; + The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, + Will pass for yours with foes and friends; + And you must bear the whole disgrace, + Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + Your secret kept, your poem sunk, + And sent in quires to line a trunk, + If still you be disposed to rhyme, + Go try your hand a second time. + Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; + Take courage and attempt a third. + But first with care employ your thoughts + Where critics mark'd your former faults; + The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, + The similes that nothing fit; + The cant which every fool repeats, + Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, + Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, + And introduced the Lord knows why: + Or where we find your fury set + Against the harmless alphabet; + On A's and B's your malice vent, + While readers wonder whom you meant: + A public or a private robber, + A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; + A prelate, who no God believes; + A parliament, or den of thieves; + A pickpurse at the bar or bench, + A duchess, or a suburb wench: + Or oft, when epithets you link, + In gaping lines to fill a chink; + Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, + In streets where kennels are too wide; + Or like a heel-piece, to support + A cripple with one foot too short; + Or like a bridge, that joins a marish + To moorlands of a different parish. + So have I seen ill-coupled hounds + Drag different ways in miry grounds. + So geographers, in Afric maps, + With savage pictures fill their gaps, + And o'er unhabitable downs + Place elephants for want of towns. + But, though you miss your third essay, + You need not throw your pen away. + Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, + To spring more profitable game. + From party merit seek support; + The vilest verse thrives best at court. + And may you ever have the luck + To rhyme almost as ill as Duck;[6] + And, though you never learn'd to scan verse + Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. + A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence + Will never fail to bring in pence: + Nor be concern'd about the sale, + He pays his workmen on the nail.[7] + Display the blessings of the nation, + And praise the whole administration. + Extol the bench of bishops round, + Who at them rail, bid —— confound; + To bishop-haters answer thus: + (The only logic used by us) + What though they don't believe in —— + Deny them Protestants—thou lyest. + A prince, the moment he is crown'd, + Inherits every virtue round, + As emblems of the sovereign power, + Like other baubles in the Tower; + Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, + And so continues till he dies: + His humble senate this professes, + In all their speeches, votes, addresses. + But once you fix him in a tomb, + His virtues fade, his vices bloom; + And each perfection, wrong imputed, + Is fully at his death confuted. + The loads of poems in his praise, + Ascending, make one funeral blaze: + His panegyrics then are ceased, + He grows a tyrant, dunce, or beast. + As soon as you can hear his knell, + This god on earth turns devil in hell: + And lo! his ministers of state, + Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; + Where in the scenes of endless woe, + They ply their former arts below; + And as they sail in Charon's boat, + Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; + To Cerberus they give a sop, + His triple barking mouth to stop; + Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8] + Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes; + Or hire their party pamphleteers + To set Elysium by the ears. + Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, + Employ your muse on kings alive; + With prudence gathering up a cluster + Of all the virtues you can muster, + Which, form'd into a garland sweet, + Lay humbly at your monarch's feet: + Who, as the odours reach his throne, + Will smile, and think them all his own; + For law and gospel both determine + All virtues lodge in royal ermine: + I mean the oracles of both, + Who shall depose it upon oath. + Your garland, in the following reign, + Change but the names, will do again. + But, if you think this trade too base, + (Which seldom is the dunce's case) + Put on the critic's brow, and sit + At Will's, the puny judge of wit. + A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, + With caution used, may serve a while. + Proceed no further in your part, + Before you learn the terms of art; + For you can never be too far gone + In all our modern critics' jargon: + Then talk with more authentic face + Of unities, in time and place: + Get scraps of Horace from your friends, + And have them at your fingers' ends; + Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, + And at all hazards boldly quote; + Judicious Rymer[10] oft review, + Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12] + Read all the prefaces of Dryden, + For these our critics much confide in; + Though merely writ at first for filling, + To raise the volume's price a shilling. + A forward critic often dupes us + With sham quotations <i>peri hupsous</i>: + And if we have not read Longinus, + Will magisterially outshine us. + Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, + Procure the book for love or money, + Translated from Boileau's translation,[13] + And quote quotation on quotation. + At Will's you hear a poem read, + Where Battus[14] from the table head, + Reclining on his elbow-chair, + Gives judgment with decisive air; + To whom the tribe of circling wits + As to an oracle submits. + He gives directions to the town, + To cry it up, or run it down; + Like courtiers, when they send a note, + Instructing members how to vote. + He sets the stamp of bad and good, + Though not a word be understood. + Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure + To get the name of connoisseur: + And, when your merits once are known, + Procure disciples of your own. + For poets (you can never want 'em) + Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15] + Computing by their pecks of coals, + Amount to just nine thousand souls: + These o'er their proper districts govern, + Of wit and humour judges sovereign. + In every street a city bard + Rules, like an alderman, his ward; + His undisputed rights extend + Through all the lane, from end to end; + The neighbours round admire his shrewdness + For songs of loyalty and lewdness; + Outdone by none in rhyming well, + Although he never learn'd to spell. + Two bordering wits contend for glory; + And one is Whig, and one is Tory: + And this, for epics claims the bays, + And that, for elegiac lays: + Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, + By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; + And some as justly fame extols + For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. + Bavius[16] in Wapping gains renown, + And Mævius[16] reigns o'er Kentish town: + Tigellius[17] placed in Phooebus' car + From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: + Harmonious Cibber entertains + The court with annual birth-day strains; + Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;[18] + Where Pope will never show his face; + Where Young must torture his invention + To flatter knaves or lose his pension.[19] + But these are not a thousandth part + Of jobbers in the poet's art, + Attending each his proper station, + And all in due subordination, + Through every alley to be found, + In garrets high, or under ground; + And when they join their pericranies, + Out skips a book of miscellanies. + Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature + Lives in a state of war by nature.[20] + The greater for the smaller watch, + But meddle seldom with their match. + A whale of moderate size will draw + A shoal of herrings down his maw; + A fox with geese his belly crams; + A wolf destroys a thousand lambs; + But search among the rhyming race, + The brave are worried by the base. + If on Parnassus' top you sit, + You rarely bite, are always bit: + Each poet of inferior size + On you shall rail and criticise, + And strive to tear you limb from limb; + While others do as much for him. + The vermin only teaze and pinch + Their foes superior by an inch. + So, naturalists observe, a flea + Has smaller fleas that on him prey; + And these have smaller still to bite 'em, + And so proceed <i>ad infinitum</i>. + Thus every poet, in his kind, + Is bit by him that comes behind: + Who, though too little to be seen, + Can teaze, and gall, and give the spleen; + Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores, + Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; + Extol the Greek and Roman masters, + And curse our modern poetasters; + Complain, as many an ancient bard did, + How genius is no more rewarded; + How wrong a taste prevails among us; + How much our ancestors outsung us: + Can personate an awkward scorn + For those who are not poets born; + And all their brother dunces lash, + Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, + Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! + Their filial piety forgot, + Deny their country, like a Scot; + Though by their idiom and grimace, + They soon betray their native place: + Yet thou hast greater cause to be + Ashamed of them, than they of thee, + Degenerate from their ancient brood + Since first the court allow'd them food. + Remains a difficulty still, + To purchase fame by writing ill. + From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard's[22] time, + How few have reach'd the low sublime! + For when our high-born Howard died, + Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied: + And lest a chasm should intervene, + When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign, + The leaden crown devolved to thee, + Great poet[24] of the "Hollow Tree." + But ah! how unsecure thy throne! + A thousand bards thy right disown: + They plot to turn, in factious zeal, + Duncenia to a common weal; + And with rebellious arms pretend + An equal privilege to descend. + In bulk there are not more degrees + From elephants to mites in cheese, + Than what a curious eye may trace + In creatures of the rhyming race. + From bad to worse, and worse they fall; + But who can reach the worst of all? + For though, in nature, depth and height + Are equally held infinite: + In poetry, the height we know; + 'Tis only infinite below. + For instance: when you rashly think, + No rhymer can like Welsted sink, + His merits balanced, you shall find + The Laureate leaves him far behind. + Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard, + Soars downward deeper by a yard. + Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops; + The rest pursue as thick as hops: + With heads to point the gulf they enter, + Link'd perpendicular to the centre; + And as their heels elated rise, + Their heads attempt the nether skies. + O, what indignity and shame, + To prostitute the Muses' name! + By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd + The plagues and scourges of mankind; + Bred up in ignorance and sloth, + And every vice that nurses both. + Perhaps you say, Augustus shines, + Immortal made in Virgil's lines, + And Horace brought the tuneful quire, + To sing his virtues on the lyre; + Without reproach for flattery, true, + Because their praises were his due. + For in those ages kings, we find, + Were animals of human kind. + But now, go search all <i>Europe</i> round + Among the <i>savage monsters</i> —— + With vice polluting every <i>throne</i>, + (I mean all thrones except our own;) + In vain you make the strictest view + To find a —— in all the crew, + With whom a footman out of place + Would not conceive a high disgrace, + A burning shame, a crying sin, + To take his morning's cup of gin. + Thus all are destined to obey + Some beast of burthen or of prey. + 'Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man, + Through all the brutal species ran, + Each proper quality to find + Adapted to a human mind; + A mingled mass of good and bad, + The best and worst that could be had; + Then from a clay of mixture base + He shaped a —— to rule the race, + Endow'd with gifts from every brute + That best the * * nature suit. + Thus think on ——s: the name denotes + Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats. + To represent in figure just, + Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust; + Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers, + What herds of ——s would turn to grazers! + Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, + Whose virtues bear the strictest test; + Whom never faction could bespatter, + Nor minister nor poet flatter; + What justice in rewarding merit! + What magnanimity of spirit! + What lineaments divine we trace + Through all his figure, mien, and face! + Though peace with olive binds his hands, + Confess'd the conquering hero stands. + Hydaspes,[28] Indus, and the Ganges, + Dread from his hand impending changes. + From him the Tartar and Chinese, + Short by the knees,[29] entreat for peace. + The consort of his throne and bed, + A perfect goddess born and bred, + Appointed sovereign judge to sit + On learning, eloquence, and wit. + Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,[30] + (Late, very late, O may he rule us!) + What early manhood has he shown, + Before his downy beard was grown, + Then think, what wonders will be done + By going on as he begun, + An heir for Britain to secure + As long as sun and moon endure. + The remnant of the royal blood + Comes pouring on me like a flood. + Bright goddesses, in number five; + Duke William, sweetest prince alive. + Now sing the minister of state, + Who shines alone without a mate. + Observe with what majestic port + This Atlas stands to prop the court: + Intent the public debts to pay, + Like prudent Fabius,[31] by delay. + Thou great vicegerent of the king, + Thy praises every Muse shall sing! + In all affairs thou sole director; + Of wit and learning chief protector, + Though small the time thou hast to spare, + The church is thy peculiar care. + Of pious prelates what a stock + You choose to rule the sable flock! + You raise the honour of the peerage, + Proud to attend you at the steerage. + You dignify the noble race, + Content yourself with humbler place. + Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, + To titles give the sole pretence. + St. George beheld thee with delight, + Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, + When on thy breast and sides Herculean, + He fix'd the star and string cerulean. + Say, poet, in what other nation + Shone ever such a constellation! + Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, + And tune your harps, and strew your bays: + Your panegyrics here provide; + You cannot err on flattery's side. + Above the stars exalt your style, + You still are low ten thousand mile. + On Lewis all his bards bestow'd + Of incense many a thousand load; + But Europe mortified his pride, + And swore the fawning rascals lied. + Yet what the world refused to Lewis, + Applied to George, exactly true is. + Exactly true! invidious poet! + 'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + Translate me now some lines, if you can, + From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. + They could all power in Heaven divide, + And do no wrong on either side; + They teach you how to split a hair, + Give George and Jove an equal share.[32] + Yet why should we be laced so strait? + I'll give my monarch butter-weight. + And reason good; for many a year + Jove never intermeddled here: + Nor, though his priests be duly paid, + Did ever we desire his aid: + We now can better do without him, + Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. + <i>Caetera desiderantur</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See Young's "Satires," and "Life" by + Johnson.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The prison or house of correction to which harlots were + often consigned. See Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress," and "A beautiful + young Nymph," <i>ante</i>, p. 201.—<i>W. R. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Colley Cibber, born in 1671, died in 1757; famous as a + comedian and dramatist, and immortalized by Pope as the hero of the + "Dunciad"; appointed Laureate in December, 1730, in succession to Eusden, + who died in September that year. See Cibber's "Apology for his Life"; + Disraeli's "Quarrels of Authors," edit. 1859.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Barnaby Bernard Lintot, publisher and bookseller, noted for + adorning his shop with titles in red letters. In the Prologue to the + "Satires" Pope says: "What though my name stood rubric on the walls"; and + in the "Dunciad," book i, "Lintot's rubric post." He made a handsome + fortune, and died High Sheriff of Sussex in 1736, aged + sixty-one.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The coffee-house most frequented by the wits and poets of + that time.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: See <i>ante</i>, p. 192, "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher + Poet."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Allusion to the large sums paid by Walpole to scribblers in + support of his party.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: + "Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur + Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus Vmbris: + Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto; + Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes." + VIRG., <i>Aen.</i>, vi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: See the "South Sea Project," <i>ante</i>, p. 120.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: Thomas Rymer, archaeologist and critic. The allusion is to + his "Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age," on which see Johnson's + "Life of Dryden" and Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 173. Rymer is best known by + his work entitled "Foedera," consisting of leagues, treaties, etc., made + between England and other kingdoms.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 11: John Dennis, born 1657, died 1734. He is best remembered as + "The Critic." See Swift's "Thoughts on various subjects," "Prose Works," + i, 284; Disraeli, "Calamities of Authors: Influence of a bad Temper in + Criticism"; Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, + <i>passim.</i>—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 12: Highly esteemed as a French critic by Dryden and + Pope.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 13: By Leonard Welsted, who, in 1712, published the work of + "Longinus on the Sublime," stated to be "translated from the Greek." He + is better known through his quarrel with Pope. See the "Prologue to the + Satires."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 14: Dryden, whose armed chair at Will's was in the winter + placed by the fire, and in the summer in the balcony. Malone's "Life of + Dryden," p. 485. Why Battus? Battus was a herdsman who, because he + Betrayed Mercury's theft of some cattle, was changed by the god into a + Stone Index. Ovid, "Metam.," ii, 685.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 15: The ancient name of London, also called Troynovant. See + Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 249; and Cunningham's "Handbook of + London," introduction.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 16: The two bad Roman poets, hateful and inimical to Virgil and + Horace: Virg., "Ecl." iii, 90; Horat., "Epod." x. The names have been + well applied in our time by Gifford in his satire entitled "The Baviad + and Maeviad."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 17: A musician, also a censurer of Horace. See "Satirae," lib. + 1. iii, 4.—<i>—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 18: In consequence of "Polly," the supplement to the "Beggar's + Opera," but which obtained him the friendship of the Duke and Duchess of + Queensberry.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 19: The grant of two hundred a year, which he obtained from the + Crown, and retained till his death in 1765.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 20: See "Leviathan," Part I, chap, xiii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 21: Richard Flecknoe, poet and dramatist, died 1678, of whom it + has been written that "whatever may become of his own pieces, his name + will continue, whilst Dryden's satire, called 'Mac Flecknoe,' shall + remain in vogue." Dryden's Poetical Works, edit. Warton, ii, + 169.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 22: Hon. Edward Howard, author of some indifferent plays and + poems. See "Dict. Nat. Biog."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 23: Richard Blackmore, physician and very voluminous writer in + prose and verse. In 1697 he was appointed physician to William III, when + he was knighted. See Pope, "Imitations of Horace," book ii, epist. 1, + 387.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by + his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow + Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's + malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works, + edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of + miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299, + 304, <i>ut supra.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate + assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto, + Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 27: + "Fertur Prometheus, addere principi + Limo coactus particulam undique + Desectam, et insani leonis + Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro." + HORAT., <i>Carm.</i> I, xvi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 28: + "—— super et Garamantas et Indos, + Proferet imperium; —— + —— jam nunc et Caspia regna + Responsis horrent divom." + Virg., <i>Aen.</i>, vi.] + + [Footnote 29: + "—— genibus minor."] + + [Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of + Wales, father of George III.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 31: + "Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem." + Virg., <i>Aen.</i>, vi, 847.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN + </h2> + <p> + ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND. BY DR. J. SICAN[1] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Horace speaking.) + + You've read, sir, in poetic strain, + How Varus and the Mantuan swain + Have on my birth-day been invited, + (But I was forced in verse to write it,) + Upon a plain repast to dine, + And taste my old Campanian wine; + But I, who all punctilios hate, + Though long familiar with the great, + Nor glory in my reputation, + Am come without an invitation; + And, though I'm used to right Falernian, + I'll deign for once to taste Iërnian; + But fearing that you might dispute + (Had I put on my common suit) + My breeding and my politesse, + I visit in my birth-day dress: + My coat of purest Turkey red, + With gold embroidery richly spread; + To which I've sure as good pretensions, + As Irish lords who starve on pensions. + What though proud ministers of state + Did at your antichamber wait; + What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns, + Have at your levee paid attendance, + And Peterborough and great Ormond, + With many chiefs who now are dormant, + Have laid aside the general's staff, + And public cares, with you to laugh; + Yet I some friends as good can name, + Nor less the darling sons of fame; + For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas + Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as + Either your Bolingbroke or Harley, + Though they made Lewis beg a parley; + And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero, + I'll match him with my Drusus Nero. + You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope; + But Virgil is as good, I hope. + I own indeed I can't get any + To equal Helsham and Delany; + Since Athens brought forth Socrates, + A Grecian isle, Hippocrates; + Since Tully lived before my time, + And Galen bless'd another clime. + You'll plead, perhaps, at my request, + To be admitted as a guest, + "Your hearing's bad!"—But why such fears? + I speak to eyes, and not to ears; + And for that reason wisely took + The form you see me in, a book. + Attack'd by slow devouring moths, + By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths; + By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, + By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose; + I found my boasted wit and fire + In their rude hands almost expire: + Yet still they but in vain assail'd; + For, had their violence prevail'd, + And in a blast destroy'd my frame, + They would have partly miss'd their aim; + Since all my spirit in thy page + Defies the Vandals of this age. + 'Tis yours to save these small remains + From future pedant's muddy brains, + And fix my long uncertain fate, + You best know how—"which way?"—TRANSLATE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in + Italy.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, <i>ante</i>, + p. 48.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and + Horace.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace, + done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with + the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by + the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote: + "O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain, + And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain." + <i>Dict. Nat. Biog.—W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + </h2> + <h3> + INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, + How vice and folly have debased mankind; + Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; + Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: + While bold and free the glowing colours strike; + Blame not the picture, if the picture's like." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON PSYCHE[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, + Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: + So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; + Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? + Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, + Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. + She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; + But ever with prudence takes care of the main. + To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; + For her taste is almost as refined as her wit. + To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, + It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. + Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, + She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of + the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and + Stella.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN AND DUKE + </h2> + <h3> + 1734 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; + James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: + But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke, + For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke. + Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks, + Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2] + His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain + With bands of fiddlers to extend his train. + Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel, + The duke and dean seem near upon a level. + O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, + From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free. + A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown: + Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown. + Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king: + O! would his majesty but add a string! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and + built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in + his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the + building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers' + edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second + Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house + he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance + hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his <i>Canonical</i> + pillars.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure + of his speculative investments.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.—<i>N</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; + Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, + Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, + Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures. +</pre> + <h3> + THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. +ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. +DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. +ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. + Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, + You may have company enough. +DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, + Than if it rang out for my knell. +ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. +DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, + Than at the rumbling of a cart. +ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f—t. +DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! + No more I hear a woman's clack. +ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, + Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; + But louder than a bell, or thunder: + That does, I own, increase my wonder. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On rainy days alone I dine + Upon a chick and pint of wine. + On rainy days I dine alone, + And pick my chicken to the bone; + But this my servants much enrages, + No scraps remain to save board-wages. + In weather fine I nothing spend, + But often spunge upon a friend; + Yet, where he's not so rich as I, + I pay my club, and so good b'ye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, + Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. + Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: + Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. + Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; + Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN + </h2> + <h3> + APPLES + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come buy my fine wares, + Plums, apples, and pears. + A hundred a penny, + In conscience too many: + Come, will you have any? + My children are seven, + I wish them in Heaven; + My husband a sot, + With his pipe and his pot, + Not a farthing will gain them, + And I must maintain them. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASPARAGUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ripe 'sparagrass + Fit for lad or lass, + To make their water pass: + O, 'tis pretty picking + With a tender chicken! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONIONS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, follow me by the smell, + Here are delicate onions to sell; + I promise to use you well. + They make the blood warmer, + You'll feed like a farmer; + For this is every cook's opinion, + No savoury dish without an onion; + But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, + Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: + Or else you may spare + Your mistress a share, + The secret will never be known: + She cannot discover + The breath of her lover, + But think it as sweet as her own. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OYSTERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Charming oysters I cry: + My masters, come buy, + So plump and so fresh, + So sweet is their flesh, + No Colchester oyster + Is sweeter and moister: + Your stomach they settle, + And rouse up your mettle: + They'll make you a dad + Of a lass or a lad; + And madam your wife + They'll please to the life; + Be she barren, be she old, + Be she slut, or be she scold, + Eat my oysters, and lie near her, + She'll be fruitful, never fear her. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HERRINGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be not sparing, + Leave off swearing. + Buy my herring + Fresh from Malahide,[1] + Better never was tried. + Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, + Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. + Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, + Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. + + [Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for + oysters.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ORANGES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, + And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; + Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup, + They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL + </h2> + <h3> + INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Happiest of the spaniel race, + Painter, with thy colours grace: + Draw his forehead large and high, + Draw his blue and humid eye; + Draw his neck so smooth and round, + Little neck with ribbons bound! + And the muscly swelling breast, + Where the Loves and Graces rest; + And the spreading even back, + Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; + And the tail that gently twines, + Like the tendrils of the vines; + And the silky twisted hair, + Shadowing thick the velvet ear; + Velvet ears, which, hanging low, + O'er the veiny temples flow. + With a proper light and shade, + Let the winding hoop be laid; + And within that arching bower, + (Secret circle, mystic power,) + In a downy slumber place + Happiest of the spaniel race; + While the soft respiring dame, + Glowing with the softest flame, + On the ravish'd favourite pours + Balmy dews, ambrosial showers. + With thy utmost skill express + Nature in her richest dress, + Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, + Orchards by those rivers blowing; + Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, + And the gay enamell'd mead; + Where the linnets sit and sing, + Little sportlings of the spring; + Where the breathing field and grove + Soothe the heart and kindle love. + Here for me, and for the Muse, + Colours of resemblance choose, + Make of lineaments divine, + Daply female spaniels shine, + Pretty fondlings of the fair, + Gentle damsels' gentle care; + But to one alone impart + All the flattery of thy art. + Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, + Which complete the desperate face; + Let the spotted wanton dame + Feel a new resistless flame! + Let the happiest of his race + Win the fair to his embrace. + But in shade the rest conceal, + Nor to sight their joys reveal, + Lest the pencil and the Muse + Loose desires and thoughts infuse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret, + daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop + Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one + Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of + Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS + </h2> + <h3> + SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN + + We fly from luxury and wealth, + To hardships, in pursuit of health; + From generous wines, and costly fare, + And dozing in an easy-chair; + Pursue the goddess Health in vain, + To find her in a country scene, + And every where her footsteps trace, + And see her marks in every face; + And still her favourites we meet, + Crowding the roads with naked feet. + But, oh! so faintly we pursue, + We ne'er can have her full in view. +</pre> + <h3> + II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, + Dims and obscures our sight; + So, when our passions Love has stirr'd, + It darkens Reason's light. +</pre> + <p> + III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, + WARWICKSHIRE + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, + Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four. +</pre> + <h3> + IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The church and clergy here, no doubt, + Are very near a-kin; + Both weather-beaten are without, + And empty both within. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + + My landlord is civil, + But dear as the d—l: + Your pockets grow empty + With nothing to tempt ye; + The wine is so sour, + 'Twill give you a scour, + The beer and the ale + Are mingled with stale. + The veal is such carrion, + A dog would be weary on. + All this I have felt, + For I live on a smelt. +</pre> + <h3> + VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The walls of this town + Are full of renown, + And strangers delight to walk round 'em: + But as for the dwellers, + Both buyers and sellers, + For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em. +</pre> + <p> + VII. ANOTHER WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thanks to my stars, I once can see + A window here from scribbling free! + Here no conceited coxcombs pass, + To scratch their paltry drabs on glass; + Nor party fool is calling names, + Or dealing crowns to George and James. +</pre> + <h3> + VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sage, who said he should be proud + Of windows in his breast,[1] + Because he ne'er a thought allow'd + That might not be confest; + His window scrawl'd by every rake, + His breast again would cover, + And fairly bid the devil take + The diamond and the lover. + + [Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii, + 497.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <h3> + IX. ANOTHER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By Satan taught, all conjurors know + Your mistress in a glass to show, + And you can do as much: + In this the devil and you agree; + None e'er made verses worse than he, + And thine, I swear, are such. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. ANOTHER + + That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; + Those rhymers abundantly show it: + They swear that they all by love are inspired, + And the devil's a damnable poet. +</pre> + <h3> + XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Neptune! Neptune! must I still + Be here detain'd against my will? + Is this your justice, when I'm come + Above two hundred miles from home; + O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains, + Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains, + Only your godship to implore, + To let me kiss your other shore? + A boon so small! but I may weep, + While you're like Baal, fast asleep. + + [Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's + enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's + Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works," + vol. xi.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! + Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; + To oblige your crony Swift, + Bring our dame a new year's gift; + She has got but half a face; + Janus, since thou hast a brace, + To my lady once be kind; + Give her half thy face behind. + God of Time, if you be wise, + Look not with your future eyes; + What imports thy forward sight? + Well, if you could lose it quite. + Can you take delight in viewing + This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin, + When thy retrospection vast + Sees the glorious ages past? + Happy nation, were we blind, + Or had only eyes behind! + Drown your morals, madam cries, + I'll have none but forward eyes; + Prudes decay'd about may tack, + Strain their necks with looking back. + Give me time when coming on; + Who regards him when he's gone? + By the Dean though gravely told, + New-years help to make me old; + Yet I find a new-year's lace + Burnishes an old-year's face. + Give me velvet and quadrille, + I'll have youth and beauty still. + + [Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis + Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores + Instituunt."—HOR., <i>Sat</i>., ii, vi, 20.] + + [Footnote 2: Ireland.—<i>H</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD + </h2> + <h3> + WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, + From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece; + We comb the wool, refine the stuff, + For modern Jasons, that's enough. + Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1] + Old Jason would have less to brag on. + + [Footnote 1: England.—<i>H</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + TO A FRIEND WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night + And fortune help the murderer in his flight; + The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, + Yet safe from injured innocence escape; + And calumny, by working under ground, + Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. + What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose + To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? + By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road, + Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd? + Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, + And buy distinction at the dearest rate. + + [Footnote 1: See <i>ante</i>, p. 160, the poem entitled "On + Censure."—<i>W. E. B.</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lesbia for ever on me rails, + To talk of me she never fails. + Now, hang me, but for all her art, + I find that I have gain'd her heart. + My proof is this: I plainly see, + The case is just the same with me; + I curse her every hour sincerely, + Yet, hang me but I love her dearly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam + De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. + Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam + Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo." + <i>Catulli Carmina, xcii.—W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I marched three miles through scorching sand, + With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; + I rode four more to Great St. Mary, + Using four legs, when two were weary: + To three fair virgins I did tie men, + In the close bands of pleasing Hymen; + I dipp'd two babes in holy water, + And purified their mother after. + Within an hour and eke a half, + I preach'd three congregations deaf; + Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded, + I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded. + My emblem, the laborious sun, + Saw all these mighty labours done + Before one race of his was run. + All this perform'd by Robert Hewit: + What mortal else could e'er go through it! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, + Never may the Muse forget ye, + How thy face charms every shepherd, + Spotted over like a leopard! + And thy freckled neck, display'd, + Envy breeds in every maid; + Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, + Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; + Or a tawny speckled pippin, + Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping. + And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, + Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd. + Sets of phrases, cut and dry, + Evermore thy tongue supply; + And thy memory is loaded + With old scraps from plays exploded; + Stock'd with repartees and jokes, + Suited to all Christian folks: + Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, + Blunder'd out a thousand times; + Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, + Which can ne'er be worse for wearing. + Picking wit among collegians, + In the playhouse upper regions; + Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, + Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery. + But thy merit is thy failing, + And thy raillery is railing. + Thus with talents well endued + To be scurrilous and rude; + When you pertly raise your snout, + Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; + This among Hibernian asses + For sheer wit and humour passes. + Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, + Swears you have a world of wit. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who can believe with common sense, + A bacon slice gives God offence; + Or, how a herring has a charm + Almighty vengeance to disarm? + Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, + Does he regard on what we dine? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, + called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved + him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which + are translated above: + "Peut-on croire avec bon sens + Qu'un lardon le mil en colère, + Ou, que manger un hareng, + C'est un secret pour lui plaire? + En sa gloire envelopé, + Songe-t-il bien de nos soupés?"—<i>H</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, + He took to the street, and fled for his life: + Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, + And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; + Then ventured to give him some sober advice— + But Tom is a person of honour so nice, + Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, + That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. + Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; + Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. + + [Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by + Stella.—<i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Margery chastises Ned, + She calls it combing of his head; + A kinder wife was never born: + She combs his head, and finds him horn. + + [Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's + volume.—<i>Forster.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOAN CUDGELS NED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; + Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. + Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, + She dares not say her life's her own. + Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, + And every day she combs his head. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise + With lofty branches to the skies, + Have large proportion'd roots that grow + With equal longitude below: + Two bards that now in fashion reign, + Most aptly this device explain: + If this to clouds and stars will venture, + That creeps as far to reach the centre; + Or, more to show the thing I mean, + Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen + A skill'd mechanic, that has stood + High on a length of prostrate wood, + Who hired a subterraneous friend + To take his iron by the end; + But which excell'd was never found, + The man above or under ground. + The moral is so plain to hit, + That, had I been the god of wit, + Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, + Should Young and Philips drudge together. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0138" id="link2H_4_0138"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. + Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; + For Dick without Doll thought living a folly. + + Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: + But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; + A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear. + + Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; + Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; + The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most. + + Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried: + To live without both full three days he tried; + But liked neither loss, and so quietly died. + + Dick left a pattern few will copy after: + Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; + For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter. + Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; + The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; + And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate. + + Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, + Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, + And here rest——<i>sic transit gloria mundi</i>! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married + to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived + her but two days.—<i>F</i>. + The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in + his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy + Stopford's Chair." See <i>ante</i>, p.85.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest + daughter.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0139" id="link2H_4_0139"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My latest tribute here I send, + With this let your collection end. + Thus I consign you down to fame + A character to praise or blame: + And if the whole may pass for true, + Contented rest, you have your due. + Give future time the satisfaction, + To leave one handle for detraction. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0140" id="link2H_4_0140"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, + That you, who know music no more than an ass, + That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, + Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? + To act such an opera once in a year, + So offensive to every true Protestant ear, + With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, + Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, + No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, + Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: + How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, + To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets! + + [The rest is wanting.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0141" id="link2H_4_0141"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The furniture that best doth please + St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: + The knife and fork with which I eat; + And next the pot that boils the meat; + The next to be preferr'd, I think, + Is the glass in which I drink; + The shelves on which my books I keep + And the bed on which I sleep; + An antique elbow-chair between, + Big enough to hold the Dean; + And the stove that gives delight + In the cold bleak wintry night: + To these we add a thing below, + More for use reserved than show: + These are what the Dean do please; + All superfluous are but these. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0142" id="link2H_4_0142"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH + </h2> + <h3> + INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + H. S. E. + + [*text centered] +CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, + Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE, + Et BRUCE, è nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques, + Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis + Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus; + Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus. + Siquidem a GULIELMO III° ad ordines foederati Belgii + Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius + Rebus, non Britanniae tantùm, sed totius fere Europae + (Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit, + Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata, + Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre, + In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit. + Fuit à sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae + E proregibus Hiberniae secundus, + Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens, + Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus + Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus + Forestae de Dean. + Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem + Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset, + Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias + Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo. + Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera, + Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius + Quòd veritatem evangelicam seriò amplexus; + Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus, + Adversùs omnes aequus et benevolus, + In Christo jam placidè obdormit + Cum eodem olim regnaturus unà . + Natus VIII° April. MDCXLIX. denatus +XXIV° Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0143" id="link2H_4_0143"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH + </h2> + <h3> + ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*text centered] + Hic infra situm est corpus +FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. + ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690. +DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam + atque etiam petierunt, +UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum + In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent: + Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos, + diu ac saepè orando nil profecêre; + Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt, + Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes, + Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres + delitescunt + "Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos, + Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos." + A.D. 1731. + + [Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne, + July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and + chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own + expense.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph + were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellulâ tanti + ductoris cineres delitescunt."—<i>N.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0144" id="link2H_4_0144"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals + against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from + his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to + himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier + Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the + Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High + Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The + task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of + Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was + equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux + esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of + a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. + These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here + thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.—<i>Scott.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A lady, wise as well as fair, + Whose conscience always was her care, + Thoughtful upon a point of moment, + Would have the text as well as comment: + So hearing of a grave divine, + She sent to bid him come to dine. + But, you must know he was not quite + So grave as to be unpolite: + Thought human learning would not lessen + The dignity of his profession: + And if you'd heard the man discourse, + Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. + He long had bid the court farewell, + Retreating silent to his cell; + Suspected for the love he bore + To one who sway'd some time before; + Which made it more surprising how + He should be sent for thither now. + The message told, he gapes, and stares, + And scarce believes his eyes or ears: + Could not conceive what it should mean, + And fain would hear it told again. + But then the squire so trim and nice, + 'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; + So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; + And would not fail to wait upon her. + His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, + Away he trudges into town; + Passes the lower castle yard, + And now advancing to the guard, + He trembles at the thoughts of state; + For, conscious of his sheepish gait, + His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; + He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. + What was the message I received? + Why certainly the captain raved? + To dine with her! and come at three! + Impossible! it can't be me. + Or maybe I mistook the word; + My lady—it must be my lord. + My lord 's abroad; my lady too: + What must the unhappy doctor do? + "Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"—"No." + "Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." + Am I awake, or do I dream? + I'm sure he call'd me by my name; + Named me as plain as he could speak; + And yet there must be some mistake. + Why, what a jest should I have been, + Had now my lady been within! + What could I've said? I'm mighty glad + She went abroad—she'd thought me mad. + The hour of dining now is past: + Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: + And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff, + I think I'm very fairly off. + My lady now returning home, + Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" + He had not heard of him—"Pray see, + 'Tis now a quarter after three." + The captain walks about, and searches + Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; + Examines all the servants round, + In vain—no doctor's to be found. + My lady could not choose but wonder; + "Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; + But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; + I'll try his manners once again; + If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, + My son shall never see a college." + The captain was a man of reading, + And much good sense, as well as breeding; + Who, loath to blame, or to incense, + Said little in his own defence. + Next day another message brought; + The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, + Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, + Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, + Panting—and faltering—humm'd and ha'd, + "Her ladyship was gone abroad: + The captain too—he did not know + Whether he ought to stay or go;" + Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, + My lady, pitying his confusion, + Call'd her good nature to relieve him; + Told him, she thought she might believe him; + And would not only grant his suit, + But visit him, and eat some fruit, + Provided, at a proper time, + He told the real truth in rhyme; + 'Twas to no purpose to oppose, + She'd hear of no excuse in prose. + The Doctor stood not to debate, + Glad to compound at any rate; + So, bowing, seemingly complied; + Though, if he durst, he had denied. + But first, resolved to show his taste, + Was too refined to give a feast; + He'd treat with nothing that was rare, + But winding walks and purer air; + Would entertain without expense, + Or pride or vain magnificence: + For well he knew, to such a guest + The plainest meals must be the best. + To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare + Simplicity alone is rare; + While high, and nice, and curious meats + Are really but vulgar treats. + Instead of spoils of Persian looms, + The costly boast of regal rooms, + Thought it more courtly and discreet + To scatter roses at her feet; + Roses of richest dye, that shone + With native lustre, like her own; + Beauty that needs no aid of art + Through every sense to reach the heart. + The gracious dame, though well she knew + All this was much beneath her due, + Liked everything—at least thought fit + To praise it <i>par manière d'acquit</i>. + Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear + The scorching sun, or chilling air; + Disturb'd alike at both extremes, + Whether he shows or hides his beams: + Though seeming pleased at all she sees, + Starts at the ruffling of the trees, + And scarce can speak for want of breath, + In half a walk fatigued to death. + The Doctor takes his hint from hence, + T' apologize his late offence: + "Madam, the mighty power of use + Now strangely pleads in my excuse; + If you unused have scarcely strength + To gain this walk's untoward length; + If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, + Through long disuse of solitude; + If, long confined to fires and screens, + You dread the waving of these greens; + If you, who long have breathed the fumes + Of city fogs and crowded rooms, + Do now solicitously shun + The cooler air and dazzling sun; + If his majestic eye you flee, + Learn hence t' excuse and pity me. + Consider what it is to bear + The powder'd courtier's witty sneer; + To see th' important man of dress + Scoffing my college awkwardness; + To be the strutting cornet's sport, + To run the gauntlet of the court, + Winning my way by slow approaches, + Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches, + From the first fierce cockaded sentry, + Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry; + To pass so many crowded stages, + And stand the staring of your pages: + And after all, to crown my spleen, + Be told—'You are not to be seen:' + Or, if you are, be forced to bear + The awe of your majestic air. + And can I then be faulty found, + In dreading this vexatious round? + Can it be strange, if I eschew + A scene so glorious and so new? + Or is he criminal that flies + The living lustre of your eyes?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0146" id="link2H_4_0146"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1] + 1724 + + Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.—VIRG., <i>Aen.</i>, v, 344. + + Once on a time, a righteous sage, + Grieved with the vices of the age, + Applied to Jove with fervent prayer— + "O Jove, if Virtue be so fair + As it was deem'd in former days, + By Plato and by Socrates, + Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, + Only for want of outward shape; + Make then its real excellence, + For once the theme of human sense; + So shall the eye, by form confined, + Direct and fix the wandering mind, + And long-deluded mortals see, + With rapture, what they used to flee!" + Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, + And bids him bless and mend the earth. + Behold him blooming fresh and fair, + Now made—ye gods—a son and heir; + An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, + An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2] + But prodigies are wrought to prove + Nothing impossible to Jove. + Virtue was for this sex design'd, + In mild reproof to womankind; + In manly form to let them see + The loveliness of modesty, + The thousand decencies that shone + With lessen'd lustre in their own; + Which few had learn'd enough to prize, + And some thought modish to despise. + To make his merit more discern'd, + He goes to school—he reads—is learn'd; + Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, + He shines distinguish'd in a college; + Resolved nor honour, nor estate, + Himself alone should make him great. + Here soon for every art renown'd, + His influence is diffused around; + The inferior youth to learning led, + Less to be famed than to be fed, + Behold the glory he has won, + And blush to see themselves outdone; + And now, inflamed with rival rage, + In scientific strife engage, + Engage; and, in the glorious strife + The arts new kindle into life. + Here would our hero ever dwell, + Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: + Contented to be truly great, + In Virtue's best beloved retreat; + Contented he—but Fate ordains, + He now shall shine in nobler scenes, + Raised high, like some celestial fire, + To shine the more, still rising higher; + Completely form'd in every part, + To win the soul, and glad the heart. + The powerful voice, the graceful mien, + Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; + The outward form and inward vie, + His soul bright beaming from his eye, + Ennobling every act and air, + With just, and generous, and sincere. + Accomplish'd thus, his next resort + Is to the council and the court, + Where Virtue is in least repute, + And interest the one pursuit; + Where right and wrong are bought and sold, + Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; + Here Manly Virtue, even here, + Pleased in the person of a peer, + A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, + Who talk'd of justice and of truth, + Of innocence the surest guard, + Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; + That he alone deserved esteem, + Who was the man he wish'd to seem; + Call'd it unmanly and unwise, + To lurk behind a mean disguise; + (Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, + 'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) + Call'd want of shame a want of sense, + And found, in blushes, eloquence. + Thus acting what he taught so well, + He drew dumb merit from her cell, + Led with amazing art along + The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; + And, while he made her value known, + Yet more display'd and raised his own. + Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, + He rises to the highest stations; + For where high honour is the prize, + True Virtue has a right to rise: + Let courtly slaves low bend the knee + To Wealth and Vice in high degree: + Exalted Worth disdains to owe + Its grandeur to its greatest foe. + Now raised on high, see Virtue shows + The godlike ends for which he rose; + For him, let proud Ambition know + The height of glory here below, + Grandeur, by goodness made complete! + To bless, is truly to be great! + He taught how men to honour rise, + Like gilded vapours to the skies, + Which, howsoever they display + Their glory from the god of day, + Their noblest use is to abate + His dangerous excess of heat, + To shield the infant fruits and flowers, + And bless the earth with genial showers. + Now change the scene; a nobler care + Demands him in a higher sphere:[3] + Distress of nations calls him hence, + Permitted so by Providence; + For models, made to mend our kind, + To no one clime should be confined; + And Manly Virtue, like the sun, + His course of glorious toils should run: + Alike diffusing in his flight + Congenial joy, and life, and light. + Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, + And Discord in his presence dies; + Oppression hides with guilty dread, + And Merit rears her drooping head; + The arts revive, the valleys sing, + And winter softens into spring: + The wondering world, where'er he moves, + With new delight looks up, and loves; + One sex consenting to admire, + Nor less the other to desire; + While he, though seated on a throne, + Confines his love to one alone; + The rest condemn'd with rival voice + Repining, do applaud his choice. + Fame now reports, the Western isle + Is made his mansion for a while, + Whose anxious natives, night and day, + (Happy beneath his righteous sway,) + Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer, + To bless him, and to keep him there; + And claim it as a debt from Fate, + Too lately found, to lose him late. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works," + vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of + Lord Chesterfield."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord + Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of + age.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, + with Denmark, and with the Czar.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0147" id="link2H_4_0147"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, + Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, + Above the door, at country fair, + Betokens entertainment there; + So bays on poets' brows have been + Set, for a sign of wit within. + And as ill neighbours in the night + Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; + The laurel so, by poets worn, + Is by the teeth of Envy torn; + Envy, a canker-worm, which tears + Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. + And now, t'exemplify this moral: + Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, + (Which, measured on his head, was found + Not long enough to reach half round, + But, like a girl's cockade, was tied, + A trophy, on his temple-side,) + Paddy repined to see him wear + This badge of honour in his hair; + And, thinking this cockade of wit + Would his own temples better fit, + Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, + Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, + Pelts him by turns with verse and prose + Hums like a hornet at his nose. + At length presumes to vent his satire on + The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron. + The eagle in the tale, ye know, + Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, + Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest + Securely in the thunderer's breast: + In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, + The spiteful insect stung the god. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, + Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems + To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even + from Delany. Hence this poem.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0148" id="link2H_4_0148"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET + </h2> + <h3> + BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, + Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat. +MART., <i>Epig.</i>, lib. ix, 22. + + Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, + Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; + When next your generous soul shall condescend + T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; + Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, + On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; + Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, + How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: + Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, + Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; + When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, + Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine: + Nor with less praise the conversation guide, + Than in the public councils you decide: + Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, + Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; + You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) + With soft concessions shortening the dispute; + Then close with kind inquiries of my state, + "How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? + Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, + There are not many better in the nation! + This, with your other things, must yield you clear + Some six—at least five hundred pounds a-year." + Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom + To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; + You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, + And, if you please, my lady shall decide. + "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, + And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; + But you'll forgive me, if I own the event + Is short, is very short, of your intent: + At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, + My income less, and my expenses more." + "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector! + A dignitary! with a city lecture! + What glebes—what dues—what tithes—what fines—what rent! + Why, doctor!—will you never be content?" + "Would my good Lord but cast up the account, + And see to what my revenues amount;[2] + My titles ample; but my gain so small, + That one good vicarage is worth them all: + And very wretched, sure, is he that's double + In nothing but his titles and his trouble. + And to this crying grievance, if you please, + My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; + Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, + Where every step endangers every bone; + And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, + Two churches—twelve Hibernian miles asunder: + With complicated cures, I labour hard in, + Beside whole summers absent from—my garden! + But that the world would think I play'd the fool, + I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3] + What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, + Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake! + There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, + Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4] + There's not a better steerer in the realm; + I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."— + "Doctor—a glorious scheme to ease your grief! + When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief. + You cannot fail of being happy there, + The lake will be the Lethe of your care: + The scheme is for your honour and your ease: + And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please. + Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, + Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; + Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, + And you've enough to gratify them all: + You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: + And what would a philosopher have more? + You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks—" + "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books— + Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, + Are there no wants I should regard beside? + Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, + Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? + Who can be happy—who should wish to live, + And want the godlike happiness to give? + That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: + I had it once—and I'm debarr'd it now. + Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, + Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!" + "'Tis true—but, doctor, let us wave all that— + Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?" + "Excuse me, good my lord—I won't be sounded, + Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. + My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, + Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. + Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, + (Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)— + My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe— + I'd wish besides—to build and to bestow." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through + the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of + Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship + of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of + which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the + Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge + was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory + divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation + in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following + verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who + thought he was too amply provided for.—<i>Scott.</i> See the "Vindication," + "Prose Works," vii, p. 244.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication + of Lord Carteret," amounted only to £300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, + p. 245.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, + Esq.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of + Erin.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man + should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the + incumbent.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0149" id="link2H_4_0149"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE + </h2> + <p> + FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR + DR. DELANY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Jove will not attend on less, + When things of more importance press: + You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, + That you, a low Hibernian bard, + Should cool your heels a while, and wait + Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; + And would my lord vouchsafe to grant + This one poor humble boon I want, + Free leave to play his secretary, + As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] + I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, + Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." + And, after several readings over, + It shines most in the marble cover. + How could so fine a taste dispense + With mean degrees of wit and sense? + Nor will my lord so far beguile + The wise and learned of our isle; + To make it pass upon the nation, + By dint of his sole approbation. + The task is arduous, patrons find, + To warp the sense of all mankind: + Who think your Muse must first aspire, + Ere he advance the doctor higher. + You've cause to say he meant you well: + That you are thankful, who can tell? + For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) + Of his intent: you mean your merit. + Ah! <i>quanto rectius, tu adepte, + Qui nil moliris tarn inepte</i>?[2] + Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, + "When thou thy humble lay dost offer + To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, + Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: + Content with what his bounty gave, + No larger income dost thou crave." + But you must have cascades, and all + Iërne's lake, for your canal, + Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on + All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] + It's pity that he can't bestow you + Twelve commoners in caps to row you. + Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] + Held monarchs labouring at the oar; + And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, + Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. + How different is this from Smedley! + (His name is up, he may in bed lie) + "Who only asks some pretty cure, + In wholesome soil and ether pure: + The garden stored with artless flowers, + In either angle shady bowers: + No gay parterre with costly green + Must in the ambient hedge be seen; + But Nature freely takes her course, + Nor fears from him ungrateful force: + No shears to check her sprouting vigour, + Or shape the yews to antic figure." + But you, forsooth, your all must squander + On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; + And when you've been at vast expenses + In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, + Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; + Nor farther buildings, farther planting: + No wonder, when you raise and level, + Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. + Here a convenient box you found, + Which you demolish'd to the ground: + Then built, then took up with your arbour, + And set the house to Rupert Barber. + You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy + Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. + You change a circle to a square, + Then to a circle as you were: + Who can imagine whence the fund is, + That you <i>quadrata</i> change <i>rotundis</i>? + To Fame a temple you erect, + A Flora does the dome protect; + Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow + You place the Muses and Apollo; + There shining 'midst his train, to grace + Your whimsical poetic place. + These stories were of old design'd + As fables: but you have refined + The poets mythologic dreams, + To real Muses, gods, and streams. + Who would not swear, when you contrive thus, + That you're Don Quixote redivivus? + Beneath, a dry canal there lies, + Which only Winter's rain supplies. + O! couldst thou, by some magic spell, + Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6] + Here may it reassume its stream, + And take a greater Patrick's name! + If your expenses rise so high; + What income can your wants supply? + Yet still you fancy you inherit + A fund of such superior merit, + That you can't fail of more provision, + All by my lady's kind decision. + For, the more livings you can fish up, + You think you'll sooner be a bishop: + That could not be my lord's intent, + Nor can it answer the event. + Most think what has been heap'd on you + To other sort of folk was due: + Rewards too great for your flim-flams, + Epistles, riddles, epigrams. + Though now your depth must not be sounded, + The time was, when you'd have compounded + For less than Charley Grattan's school! + Five hundred pound a-year's no fool! + Take this advice then from your friend, + To your ambition put an end, + Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe, + Before you build and you bestow. + Be modest, nor address your betters + With begging, vain, familiar letters. + A passage may be found,[7] I've heard, + In some old Greek or Latian bard, + Which says, "Would crows in silence eat + Their offals, or their better meat, + Their generous feeders not provoking + By loud and inharmonious croaking, + They might, unhurt by Envy's claws, + Live on, and stuff to boot their maws." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth," Part I, Act ii, + Scene 4.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Adapted from Hor., "Epist. ad Pisones," 140.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See the "Petition to the Duke of Grafton," <i>post</i>, + p. 345.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Alluding to Dr. Delany's ambitious choice of fixing in the + island of the Lake of Erin, where Sir Ralph Gore had a villa.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: When residing at Chester, he obliged eight of his tributary + princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. Hume's "History of England," + vol. i, p. 106.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Which had suddenly dried up. See <i>post</i>, vol. ii, "Verses on + the sudden drying up of St. Patrick's Well, near Trinity College, + Dublin."—<i>W.E.B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Hor., "Epist.," lib. I, xvii, 50. + "Sed tacitus pasci si corvus posset, haberet + Plus dapis, et rixae multo minus invidiaeque." + I append the original, for the sake of Swift's very free + rendering.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0150" id="link2H_4_0150"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LIBEL ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET + </h2> + <h3> + 1729 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Deluded mortals, whom the great + Choose for companions <i>tête-à -tête</i>; + Who at their dinners, <i>en famille</i>, + Get leave to sit whene'er you will; + Then boasting tell us where you dined, + And how his lordship was so kind; + How many pleasant things he spoke; + And how you laugh'd at every joke: + Swear he's a most facetious man; + That you and he are cup and can; + You travel with a heavy load, + And quite mistake preferment's road. + Suppose my lord and you alone; + Hint the least interest of your own, + His visage drops, he knits his brow, + He cannot talk of business now: + Or, mention but a vacant post, + He'll turn it off with "Name your toast:" + Nor could the nicest artist paint + A countenance with more constraint. + For, as their appetites to quench, + Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench; + So men of wit are but a kind + Of panders to a vicious mind + Who proper objects must provide + To gratify their lust of pride, + When, wearied with intrigues of state, + They find an idle hour to prate. + Then, shall you dare to ask a place, + You forfeit all your patron's grace, + And disappoint the sole design, + For which he summon'd you to dine. + Thus Congreve spent in writing plays, + And one poor office, half his days: + While Montague,[1] who claim'd the station + To be Mæcenas of the nation, + For poets open table kept, + But ne'er consider'd where they slept: + Himself as rich as fifty Jews, + Was easy, though they wanted shoes; + And crazy Congreve scarce could spare + A shilling to discharge his chair: + Till prudence taught him to appeal + From Pæan's fire to party zeal; + Not owing to his happy vein + The fortunes of his later scene, + Took proper principles to thrive: + And so might every dunce alive.[2] + Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ, + And flourish'd by imputed wit, + From perils of a hundred jails, + Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales. + Thus Gay, the hare with many friends, + Twice seven long years the court attends: + Who, under tales conveying truth, + To virtue form'd a princely youth:[3] + Who paid his courtship with the crowd, + As far as modest pride allow'd; + Rejects a servile usher's place, + And leaves St. James's in disgrace.[4] + Thus Addison, by lords carest, + Was left in foreign lands distrest; + Forgot at home, became for hire + A travelling tutor to a squire: + But wisely left the Muses' hill, + To business shaped the poet's quill, + Let all his barren laurels fade, + Took up himself the courtier's trade, + And, grown a minister of state, + Saw poets at his levee wait.[5] + Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind + Detesting all the statesman kind, + Contemning courts, at courts unseen, + Refused the visits of a queen. + A soul with every virtue fraught, + By sages, priests, or poets taught; + Whose filial piety excels + Whatever Grecian story tells;[6] + A genius for all stations fit, + Whose meanest talent is his wit: + His heart too great, though fortune little, + To lick a rascal statesman's spittle: + Appealing to the nation's taste, + Above the reach of want is placed: + By Homer dead was taught to thrive, + Which Homer never could alive; + And sits aloft on Pindus' head, + Despising slaves that cringe for bread. + True politicians only pay + For solid work, but not for play: + Nor ever choose to work with tools + Forged up in colleges and schools, + Consider how much more is due + To all their journeymen than you: + At table you can Horace quote; + They at a pinch can bribe a vote: + You show your skill in Grecian story; + But they can manage Whig and Tory; + You, as a critic, are so curious + To find a verse in Virgil spurious; + But they can smoke the deep designs, + When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines. + Besides, your patron may upbraid ye, + That you have got a place already; + An office for your talents fit, + To flatter, carve, and show your wit; + To snuff the lights and stir the fire, + And get a dinner for your hire. + What claim have you to place or pension? + He overpays in condescension. + But, reverend doctor, you we know + Could never condescend so low; + The viceroy, whom you now attend, + Would, if he durst, be more your friend; + Nor will in you those gifts despise, + By which himself was taught to rise: + When he has virtue to retire, + He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, + And place you in a better station, + Although it might have pleased the nation. + This may be true—submitting still + To Walpole's more than royal will; + And what condition can be worse? + He comes to drain a beggar's purse; + He comes to tie our chains on faster, + And show us England is our master: + Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing, + To make them work their own undoing. + What has he else to bait his traps, + Or bring his vermin in, but scraps? + The offals of a church distrest; + A hungry vicarage at best; + Or some remote inferior post, + With forty pounds a-year at most? + But here again you interpose— + Your favourite lord is none of those + Who owe their virtues to their stations, + And characters to dedications: + For, keep him in, or turn him out, + His learning none will call in doubt; + His learning, though a poet said it + Before a play, would lose no credit; + Nor Pope would dare deny him wit, + Although to praise it Philips writ. + I own he hates an action base, + His virtues battling with his place: + Nor wants a nice discerning spirit + Betwixt a true and spurious merit; + Can sometimes drop a voter's claim, + And give up party to his fame. + I do the most that friendship can; + I hate the viceroy, love the man. + But you, who, till your fortune's made, + Must be a sweetener by your trade, + Should swear he never meant us ill; + We suffer sore against his will; + That, if we could but see his heart, + He would have chose a milder part: + We rather should lament his case, + Who must obey, or lose his place. + Since this reflection slipt your pen, + Insert it when you write again; + And, to illustrate it, produce + This simile for his excuse: + "So, to destroy a guilty land + An [7]angel sent by Heaven's command, + While he obeys Almighty will, + Perhaps may feel compassion still; + And wish the task had been assign'd + To spirits of less gentle kind." + But I, in politics grown old, + Whose thoughts are of a different mould, + Who from my soul sincerely hate + Both kings and ministers of state; + Who look on courts with stricter eyes + To see the seeds of vice arise; + Can lend you an allusion fitter, + Though flattering knaves may call it bitter; + Which, if you durst but give it place, + Would show you many a statesman's face: + Fresh from the tripod of Apollo, + I had it in the words that follow: + Take notice to avoid offence, + I here except his excellence: + "So, to effect his monarch's ends, + From hell a viceroy devil ascends; + His budget with corruptions cramm'd, + The contributions of the damn'd; + Which with unsparing hand he strews + Through courts and senates as he goes; + And then at Beelzebub's black hall, + Complains his budget was too small." + Your simile may better shine + In verse, but there is truth in mine. + For no imaginable things + Can differ more than gods and kings: + And statesmen, by ten thousand odds, + Are angels just as kings are gods. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Earl of Halifax; see Johnson's "Life of + Montague."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The whole of this paragraph is unjust both to Halifax and + Congreve; for immediately after the production of Congreve's first play, + "The Old Bachelor," Halifax gave him a place in the Pipe Office, and + another in the Customs, of £600 a year. Ultimately he had at least four + sinecure appointments which together afforded him some £1,200 a year. See + Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," edit. Cunningham.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: William, Duke of Cumberland, son to George II, "The + Butcher."] + + [Footnote 4: See <i>ante</i>, p. 215, note.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc. +ADDISON'S <i>Campaign</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0151" id="link2H_4_0151"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DR. DELANY + </h2> + <h3> + ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM. 1729 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —Tanti tibi non sit opaci + Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.—<i>Juv.</i> iii, 54. + + As some raw youth in country bred, + To arms by thirst of honour led, + When at a skirmish first he hears + The bullets whistling round his ears, + Will duck his head aside, will start, + And feel a trembling at his heart, + Till 'scaping oft without a wound + Lessens the terror of the sound; + Fly bullets now as thick as hops, + He runs into a cannon's chops. + An author thus, who pants for fame, + Begins the world with fear and shame; + When first in print you see him dread + Each pop-gun levell'd at his head: + The lead yon critic's quill contains, + Is destined to beat out his brains: + As if he heard loud thunders roll, + Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul! + Concluding that another shot + Will strike him dead upon the spot. + But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping, + He cannot see one creature dropping; + That, missing fire, or missing aim, + His life is safe, I mean his fame; + The danger past, takes heart of grace, + And looks a critic in the face. + Though splendour gives the fairest mark + To poison'd arrows in the dark, + Yet, in yourself when smooth and round, + They glance aside without a wound. + 'Tis said, the gods tried all their art, + How pain they might from pleasure part: + But little could their strength avail; + Both still are fasten'd by the tail; + Thus fame and censure with a tether + By fate are always link'd together. + Why will you aim to be preferr'd + In wit before the common herd; + And yet grow mortified and vex'd, + To pay the penalty annex'd? + 'Tis eminence makes envy rise; + As fairest fruits attract the flies. + Should stupid libels grieve your mind, + You soon a remedy may find; + Lie down obscure like other folks + Below the lash of snarlers' jokes. + Their faction is five hundred odds, + For every coxcomb lends them rods, + And sneers as learnedly as they, + Like females o'er their morning tea. + You say the Muse will not contain + And write you must, or break a vein. + Then, if you find the terms too hard, + No longer my advice regard: + But raise your fancy on the wing; + The Irish senate's praises sing; + How jealous of the nation's freedom, + And for corruptions how they weed 'em; + How each the public good pursues, + How far their hearts from private views; + Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys, + Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1] + Thus grown a member of the club, + No longer dread the rage of Grub. + How oft am I for rhyme to seek! + To dress a thought I toil a week: + And then how thankful to the town, + If all my pains will earn a crown! + While every critic can devour + My work and me in half an hour. + Would men of genius cease to write, + The rogues must die for want and spite; + Must die for want of food and raiment, + If scandal did not find them payment. + How cheerfully the hawkers cry + A satire, and the gentry buy! + While my hard-labour'd poem pines + Unsold upon the printer's lines. + A genius in the reverend gown + Must ever keep its owner down; + 'Tis an unnatural conjunction, + And spoils the credit of the function. + Round all your brethren cast your eyes, + Point out the surest men to rise; + That club of candidates in black, + The least deserving of the pack, + Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud, + With grace and learning unendow'd, + Can turn their hands to every job, + The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2] + Will sooner coin a thousand lies, + Than suffer men of parts to rise; + They crowd about preferment's gate, + And press you down with all their weight; + For as of old mathematicians + Were by the vulgar thought magicians; + So academic dull ale-drinkers + Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers. + Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, + Disdains to serve ignoble ends. + Observe what loads of stupid rhymes + Oppress us in corrupted times; + What pamphlets in a court's defence + Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense? + For though the Muse delights in fiction, + She ne'er inspires against conviction. + Then keep your virtue still unmixt, + And let not faction come betwixt: + By party-steps no grandeur climb at, + Though it would make you England's primate; + First learn the science to be dull, + You then may soon your conscience lull; + If not, however seated high, + Your genius in your face will fly. + When Jove was from his teeming head + Of Wit's fair goddess[3] brought to bed, + There follow'd at his lying-in + For after-birth a sooterkin; + Which, as the nurse pursued to kill, + Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill, + There in the soil began to root, + And litter'd at Parnassus' foot. + From hence the critic vermin sprung, + With harpy claws and poisonous tongue: + Who fatten on poetic scraps, + Too cunning to be caught in traps. + Dame Nature, as the learned show, + Provides each animal its foe: + Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox + Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks + Thus Envy pleads a natural claim + To persecute the Muse's fame; + On poets in all times abusive, + From Homer down to Pope inclusive. + Yet what avails it to complain? + You try to take revenge in vain. + A rat your utmost rage defies, + That safe behind the wainscot lies. + Say, did you ever know by sight + In cheese an individual mite! + Show me the same numeric flea, + That bit your neck but yesterday: + You then may boldly go in quest + To find the Grub Street poet's nest; + What spunging-house, in dread of jail, + Receives them, while they wait for bail; + What alley are they nestled in, + To flourish o'er a cup of gin; + Find the last garret where they lay, + Or cellar where they starve to-day. + Suppose you have them all trepann'd, + With each a libel in his hand, + What punishment would you inflict? + Or call them rogues, or get them kickt? + These they have often tried before; + You but oblige them so much more: + Themselves would be the first to tell, + To make their trash the better sell. + You have been libell'd—Let us know, + What fool officious told you so? + Will you regard the hawker's cries, + Who in his titles always lies? + Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, + It might be something in your praise; + And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, + Would vex one more a thousand times. + Till critics blame, and judges praise, + The poet cannot claim his bays. + On me when dunces are satiric, + I take it for a panegyric. + Hated by fools, and fools to hate, + Be that my motto, and my fate. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while + the new Parliament-house was building.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.] + + [Footnote 3: Pallas.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0152" id="link2H_4_0152"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To form a just and finish'd piece, + Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, + Whose godships are in chief request, + And fit your present subject best; + And, should it be your hero's case, + To have both male and female race, + Your business must be to provide + A score of goddesses beside. + Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, + For which they bring a modern pattern; + Because they might have heard of one,[1] + Who often long'd to eat his son; + But this I think will not go down, + For here the father kept his crown. + Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, + Who met his mother in a grove; + To this we freely shall consent, + Well knowing what the poets meant; + And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, + It may be literally true.[2] + Next, as the laws of verse require, + He must be greater than his sire; + For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, + Was able Saturn to depose; + And sure no Christian poet breathing + Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; + Or, if to blasphemy it tends. + That's but a trifle among friends. + Your hero now another Mars is, + Makes mighty armies turn their a—s: + Behold his glittering falchion mow + Whole squadrons at a single blow; + While Victory, with wings outspread, + Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; + His milk-white steed upon its haunches, + Or pawing into dead men's paunches; + As Overton has drawn his sire, + Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire. + Then from his arm hoarse thunder rolls, + As loud as fifty mustard bowls; + For thunder still his arm supplies, + And lightning always in his eyes. + They both are cheap enough in conscience, + And serve to echo rattling nonsense. + The rumbling words march fierce along, + Made trebly dreadful in your song. + Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, + To sing of wars, choose peaceful times. + What though, for fifteen years and more, + Janus has lock'd his temple-door; + Though not a coffeehouse we read in + Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; + Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, + Though fond of warlike lies as most men; + Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: + For, must thy hero not be dreadful? + Dismissing Mars, it next must follow + Your conqueror is become Apollo: + That he's Apollo is as plain as + That Robin Walpole is Mæcenas; + But that he struts, and that he squints, + You'd know him by Apollo's prints. + Old Phoebus is but half as bright, + For yours can shine both day and night. + The first, perhaps, may once an age + Inspire you with poetic rage; + Your Phoebus Royal, every day, + Not only can inspire, but pay. + Then make this new Apollo sit + Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. + "How from his altitude he stoops + To raise up Virtue when she droops; + On Learning how his bounty flows, + And with what justice he bestows; + Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam! + Be witness if I tell a flam, + What prodigies in arts we drain, + From both your streams, in George's reign. + As from the flowery bed of Nile"— + But here's enough to show your style. + Broad innuendoes, such as this, + If well applied, can hardly miss: + For, when you bring your song in print, + He'll get it read, and take the hint; + (It must be read before 'tis warbled, + The paper gilt and cover marbled.) + And will be so much more your debtor, + Because he never knew a letter. + And, as he hears his wit and sense + (To which he never made pretence) + Set out in hyperbolic strains, + A guinea shall reward your pains; + For patrons never pay so well, + As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. + Next call him Neptune: with his trident + He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; + And, if provoked, he soundly firks his + Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes. + He would have seized the Spanish plate, + Had not the fleet gone out too late; + And in their very ports besiege them, + But that he would not disoblige them; + And make the rascals pay him dearly + For those affronts they give him yearly. + 'Tis not denied, that, when we write, + Our ink is black, our paper white: + And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, + We blacken what was white before: + I think this practice only fit + For dealers in satiric wit. + But you some white-lead ink must get + And write on paper black as jet; + Your interest lies to learn the knack + Of whitening what before was black. + Thus your encomium, to be strong, + Must be applied directly wrong. + A tyrant for his mercy praise, + And crown a royal dunce with bays: + A squinting monkey load with charms, + And paint a coward fierce in arms. + Is he to avarice inclined? + Extol him for his generous mind: + And, when we starve for want of corn, + Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3] + For all experience this evinces + The only art of pleasing princes: + For princes' love you should descant + On virtues which they know they want. + One compliment I had forgot, + But songsters must omit it not; + I freely grant the thought is old: + Why, then, your hero must be told, + In him such virtues lie inherent, + To qualify him God's vicegerent; + That with no title to inherit, + He must have been a king by merit. + Yet, be the fancy old or new, + Tis partly false, and partly true: + And, take it right, it means no more + Than George and William claim'd before. + Should some obscure inferior fellow, + Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4] + When all your list of Gods is out, + Presume to show his mortal snout, + And as a Deity intrude, + Because he had the world subdued; + O, let him not debase your thoughts, + Or name him but to tell his faults.— + Of Gods I only quote the best, + But you may hook in all the rest. + Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed + To praise your empress and her breed; + First of the first, to vouch your lies, + Bring all the females of the skies; + The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, + Must venture down to entertain us: + With bended knees when they adore her, + What dowdies they appear before her! + Nor shall we think you talk at random, + For Venus might be her great-grandam: + Six thousand years has lived the Goddess, + Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; + Besides, your songsters oft have shown + That she has Graces of her own: + Three Graces by Lucina brought her, + Just three, and every Grace a daughter; + Here many a king his heart and crown + Shall at their snowy feet lay down: + In royal robes, they come by dozens + To court their English German cousins: + Beside a pair of princely babies, + That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. + Now see her seated in her throne + With genuine lustre, all her own: + Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, + Her splendour is but borrow'd light; + And only with her brother linkt + Can shine, without him is extinct. + But Carolina shines the clearer + With neither spouse nor brother near her: + And darts her beams o'er both our isles, + Though George is gone a thousand miles. + Thus Berecynthia takes her place, + Attended by her heavenly race; + And sees a son in every God, + Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod. + Now sing his little highness Freddy + Who struts like any king already: + With so much beauty, show me any maid + That could resist this charming Ganymede! + Where majesty with sweetness vies, + And, like his father, early wise. + Then cut him out a world of work, + To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: + Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, + And golden times, and halcyon days; + And swear his line shall rule the nation + For ever—till the conflagration. + But, now it comes into my mind, + We left a little duke behind; + A Cupid in his face and size, + And only wants, to want his eyes. + Make some provision for the younker, + Find him a kingdom out to conquer; + Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, + Make Gulliver his commodore; + Into whose pocket valiant Willy put, + Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. + A skilful critic justly blames + Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names + The sense can ne'er be too jejune, + But smooth your words to fit the tune. + Hanover may do well enough, + But George and Brunswick are too rough; + Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, + And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. + In vain are all attempts from Germany + To find out proper words for harmony: + And yet I must except the Rhine, + Because it clinks to Caroline. + Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes! + Be sung ten hundred thousand times; + Too happy were the poets' crew, + If their own happiness they knew: + Three syllables did never meet + So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: + Nine other tuneful words like that + Would prove even Homer's numbers flat. + Behold three beauteous vowels stand, + With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; + In concord here for ever fix'd, + No jarring consonant betwixt. + May Caroline continue long, + For ever fair and young!—in song. + What though the royal carcass must, + Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust? + Those elements her name compose, + Like atoms, are exempt from blows. + Though Caroline may fill your gaps, + Yet still you must consult your maps; + Find rivers with harmonious names, + Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, + Britannia long will wear like steel, + But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; + And Patience can endure no more + To hear the Belgic lion roar. + Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, + But proud Iberia soundly maul: + Restore the ships by Philip taken, + And make him crouch to save his bacon. + Nassau, who got the name of Glorious, + Because he never was victorious, + A hanger-on has always been; + For old acquaintance bring him in. + To Walpole you might lend a line, + But much I fear he's in decline; + And if you chance to come too late, + When he goes out, you share his fate, + And bear the new successor's frown; + Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. + Reject with scorn that stupid notion, + To praise your hero for devotion; + Nor entertain a thought so odd, + That princes should believe in God; + But follow the securest rule, + And turn it all to ridicule: + 'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, + And gives the maids of honour sport; + For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5] + They now can venture in the dark: + That sound divine the truth has spoke all, + And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local. + This will not give them half the trouble + Of bargains sold, or meanings double. + Supposing now your song is done, + To Mynheer Handel next you run, + Who artfully will pare and prune + Your words to some Italian tune: + Then print it in the largest letter, + With capitals, the more the better. + Present it boldly on your knee, + And take a guinea for your fee. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, + while the latter was Prince of Wales.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to + have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and + one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or + Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander + the Great.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, + distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St. + James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not + considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, + "Moral Essays," Epist. iv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0153" id="link2H_4_0153"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK, A FABLE BY DR. DELANY + </h2> + <h3> + 1730 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —quis iniquae + Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?—<i>-Juv.</i> i, 30. + + In ancient times, as bards indite, + (If clerks have conn'd the records right.) + A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway + His subjects with delight obey: + His tail was beauteous to behold, + Replete with goodly eyes and gold; + Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, + Whose train at once is rich and wise; + And princely ruled he many regions, + And statesmen wise, and valiant legions. + A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, + With every grace and talent blest, + Was sent to sway, with all his skill, + The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2] + No science was to him unknown, + For all the arts were all his own: + In all the living learned read, + Though more delighted with the dead: + For birds, if ancient tales say true, + Had then their Popes and Homers too; + Could read and write in prose and verse, + And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3] + He knew their voices, and their wings, + Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; + Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, + And who attain'd the true sublime. + Their merits he could well descry, + He had so exquisite an eye; + And when that fail'd to show them clear, + He had as exquisite an ear; + It chanced as on a day he stray'd + Beneath an academic shade, + He liked, amidst a thousand throats, + The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, + And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, + And took him home, and made him tame; + Found him on trial true and able, + So cheer'd and fed him at his table. + Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, + And cries out, "Better fed than taught"—Then + jests on game and tame, and reads, + And jests, and so my tale proceeds. + Long had he studied in the wood, + Conversing with the wise and good: + His soul with harmony inspired, + With love of truth and virtue fired: + His brethren's good and Maker's praise + Were all the study of his lays; + Were all his study in retreat, + And now employ'd him with the great. + His friendship was the sure resort + Of all the wretched at the court; + But chiefly merit in distress + His greatest blessing was to bless.— + This fix'd him in his patron's breast, + But fired with envy all the rest: + I mean that noisy, craving crew, + Who round the court incessant flew, + And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, + To fill the maws of sons and cousins: + "Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood + To every thought of common good, + Confining every hope and care, + To their own low, contracted sphere." + These ran him down with ceaseless cry, + But found it hard to tell you why, + Till his own worth and wit supplied + Sufficient matter to deride: + "'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, + To hide her rage in ridicule: + The vulgar eye she best beguiles, + When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: + Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised! + Tormented most when seeming pleased!" + Their spite had more than half expired, + Had he not wrote what all admired; + What morsels had their malice wanted, + But that he built, and plann'd, and planted! + How had his sense and learning grieved them, + But that his charity relieved them! + "At highest worth dull malice reaches, + As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: + Envy defames, as harpies vile + Devour the food they first defile." + Now ask the fruit of all his favour— + "He was not hitherto a saver."— + What then could make their rage run mad? + "Why, what he hoped, not what he had." + "What tyrant e'er invented ropes, + Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes? + Th' inheritance of hope and fame + Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; + Or, if it were, is not so small, + But there is room enough for all." + If he but chance to breathe a song, + (He seldom sang, and never long,) + The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, + Where it was high, pronounced it loud: + Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, + Easy and Friendly was Familiar. + Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, + With solemn air to Virtue's praise, + Alike abusive and erroneous, + They call'd it hoarse and inharmonious. + Yet so it was to souls like theirs, + Tuneless as Abel to the bears! + A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw + Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6] + (Though some, who would be thought to know, + Are positive it was a crow:) + Jack Daw was seconded by Tit, + Tom Tit[7] could write, and so he writ; + A tribe of tuneless praters follow, + The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; + And twenty more their throats let loose, + Down to the witless, waddling Goose. + Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, + Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: + The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, + The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: + The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, + Swore all his singing was but croaking. + Some thought they meant to show their wit, + Might think so still—"but that they writ"— + Could it be spite or envy?—"No— + Who did no ill could have no foe."— + So wise Simplicity esteem'd; + Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; + This question rightly understood, + "What more provokes than doing good? + A soul ennobled and refined + Reproaches every baser mind: + As strains exalted and melodious + Make every meaner music odious."— + At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, + For voice and wisdom long revered, + Esteem'd of all the wise and good, + The Guardian Genius of the wood: + He long in discontent retired, + Yet not obscured, but more admired: + His brethren's servile souls disdaining, + He lived indignant and complaining: + They now afresh provoke his choler, + (It seems the Lark had been his scholar, + A favourite scholar always near him, + And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) + Enraged he canvasses the matter, + Exposes all their senseless chatter, + Shows him and them in such a light, + As more inflames, yet quells their spite. + They hear his voice, and frighted fly, + For rage had raised it very high: + Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, + They hide their heads, and hush their throats. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Ireland.—<i>F</i>] + + [Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in + Dublin.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Dr. T——r.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: Dean Swift.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0154" id="link2H_4_0154"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK. + </h2> + <h3> + 1730 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In ancient times, the wise were able + In proper terms to write a fable: + Their tales would always justly suit + The characters of every brute. + The ass was dull, the lion brave, + The stag was swift, the fox a knave; + The daw a thief, the ape a droll, + The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: + A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop, + Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up. + Far otherwise a great divine + Has learnt his fables to refine; + He jumbles men and birds together, + As if they all were of a feather: + You see him first the Peacock bring, + Against all rules, to be a king; + That in his tail he wore his eyes, + By which he grew both rich and wise. + Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, + A Peacock chose for flight and voice; + Did ever mortal see a peacock + Attempt a flight above a haycock? + And for his singing, doctor, you know + Himself complain'd of it to Juno. + He squalls in such a hellish noise, + He frightens all the village boys. + This Peacock kept a standing force, + In regiments of foot and horse: + Had statesmen too of every kind, + Who waited on his eyes behind; + And this was thought the highest post; + For, rule the rump, you rule the roast. + The doctor names but one at present, + And he of all birds was a Pheasant. + This Pheasant was a man of wit, + Could read all books were ever writ; + And, when among companions privy, + Could quote you Cicero and Livy. + Birds, as he says, and I allow, + Were scholars then, as we are now; + Could read all volumes up to folios, + And feed on fricassees and olios: + This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will, + Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; + And, as he wander'd in his park, + He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; + Was taken with his person outward, + So prettily he pick'd a cow-t—d: + Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, + And in his palace fed and taught him. + The moral of the tale is pleasant, + Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: + A lark he is, and such a lark + As never came from Noah's ark: + And though he had no other notion, + But building, planning, and devotion; + Though 'tis a maxim you must know, + "Who does no ill can have no foe;" + Yet how can I express in words + The strange stupidity of birds? + This Lark was hated in the wood, + Because he did his brethren good. + At last the Nightingale comes in, + To hold the doctor by the chin: + We all can find out what he means, + The worst of disaffected deans: + Whose wit at best was next to none, + And now that little next is gone; + Against the court is always blabbing, + And calls the senate-house a cabin; + So dull, that but for spleen and spite, + We ne'er should know that he could write + Who thinks the nation always err'd, + Because himself is not preferr'd; + His heart is through his libel seen, + Nor could his malice spare the queen; + Who, had she known his vile behaviour, + Would ne'er have shown him so much favour. + A noble lord[1] has told his pranks, + And well deserves the nation's thanks. + O! would the senate deign to show + Resentment on this public foe, + Our Nightingale might fit a cage; + There let him starve, and vent his rage: + Or would they but in fetters bind + This enemy of human kind! + Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, + Thou champion for the commonweal: + Nor on a theme like this repine, + For once to wet thy pen divine: + Bestow that libeller a lash, + Who daily vends seditious trash: + Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, + But in the praise of virtue is dumb: + That scribbler lash, who neither knows + The turn of verse, nor style of prose; + Whose malice, for the worst of ends, + Would have us lose our English friends:[3] + Who never had one public thought, + Nor ever gave the poor a groat. + One clincher more, and I have done, + I end my labours with a pun. + Jove send this Nightingale may fall, + Who spends his day and night in gall! + So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; + I see the greatest owls in you + That ever screech'd, or ever flew. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0155" id="link2H_4_0155"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.—HOR. + <i>Epist.</i>, I, ii, 47. + + It was, my lord, the dexterous shift + Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, + But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, + With silver verge, and surplice clean, + Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, + In looser rhyme to beg a place. + A place he got, yclept a stall, + And eke a thousand pounds withal; + And were he less a witty writer, + He might as well have got a mitre. + Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, + In humble lays my thanks to offer, + Approach your grace with grateful heart, + My thanks and verse both void of art, + Content with what your bounty gave, + No larger income do I crave: + Rejoicing that, in better times, + Grafton requires my loyal lines. + Proud! while my patron is polite, + I likewise to the patriot write! + Proud! that at once I can commend + King George's and the Muses' friend! + Endear'd to Britain; and to thee + (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) + Endear'd by twice three anxious years, + Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; + By love, by wisdom, and by skill; + For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will. + But where shall Smedley make his nest, + And lay his wandering head to rest? + Where shall he find a decent house, + To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? + O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, + In wholesome soil, and ether pure; + The garden stored with artless flowers, + In either angle shady bowers. + No gay parterre, with costly green, + Within the ambient hedge be seen: + Let Nature freely take her course, + Nor fear from me ungrateful force; + No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, + Nor shape the yews to antic figure: + A limpid brook shall trout supply, + In May, to take the mimic fly; + Round a small orchard may it run, + Whose apples redden to the sun. + Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; + For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, + A little Euston[2] may it be, + Euston I'll carve on every tree. + But then, to keep it in repair, + My lord—twice fifty pounds a-year + Will barely do; but if your grace + Could make them hundreds—charming place! + Thou then wouldst show another face. + Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, + 'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: + One shivers with the arctic wind, + One hears the polar axis grind. + Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, + Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. + He has a purse to keep a table, + And eke a soul as hospitable. + My heart is good; but assets fail, + To fight with storms of snow and hail. + Besides, the country's thin of people, + Who seldom meet but at the steeple: + The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, + Ne'er named the thing without a frown, + When, much fatigued with sermon study, + He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; + No fit companion could be found, + To push the lazy bottle round: + Sure then, for want of better folks + To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. + Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, + Where beaux and belles in parties meet; + Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, + And jostle as they troll along; + Where tea and coffee hourly flow, + And gape-seed does in plenty grow; + And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, + Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!" + There Lady Luna in her sphere + Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; + But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, + Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. + There—but 'tis endless to write down + All the amusements of the town; + And spouse will think herself quite undone, + To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; + And care we must our wives to please, + Or else—we shall be ill at ease. + You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, + 'Tis only some convenient tack, + Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, + To be my late, my last retreat; + A decent church, close by its side, + There, preaching, praying, to reside; + And as my time securely rolls, + To save my own and other souls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to + in the preceding poems.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.—<i>N.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there + are two deans.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0156" id="link2H_4_0156"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DUKE'S ANSWER + </h2> + <h3> + BY DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, + Where wit in all its glory shines; + Where compliments, with all their pride, + Are by their numbers dignified: + I hope to make you yet as clean + As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. + I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, + And may be something else withal; + And, were you not so good a writer, + I should present you with a mitre. + Write worse, then, if you can—be wise- + Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. + Talk not of making of thy nest: + Ah! never lay thy head to rest! + That head so well with wisdom fraught, + That writes without the toil of thought! + While others rack their busy brains, + You are not in the least at pains. + Down to your dean'ry now repair, + And build a castle in the air. + I'm sure a man of your fine sense + Can do it with a small expense. + There your dear spouse and you together + May breathe your bellies full of ether, + When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, + She'll help your wife when she's in labour, + Well skill'd in midwife artifices, + For she herself oft falls in pieces. + There you shall see a raree show + Will make you scorn this world below, + When you behold the milky-way, + As white as snow, as bright as day; + The glittering constellations roll + About the grinding arctic pole; + The lovely tingling in your ears, + Wrought by the music of the spheres— + Your spouse shall then no longer hector, + You need not fear a curtain-lecture; + Nor shall she think that she is undone + For quitting her beloved London. + When she's exalted in the skies, + She'll never think of mutton-pies; + When you're advanced above Dean Viz, + You'll never think of Goody Griz; + But ever, ever live at ease, + And strive, and strive your wife to please; + In her you'll centre all your joys, + And get ten thousand girls and boys; + Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, + And they like stars shall rise and set. + While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon + Be a new sun and a new moon: + Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, + For then your horns shall be your pride. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the + text.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0157" id="link2H_4_0157"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The very reverend Dean Smedley, + Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, + Was equally allow'd to shine + As poet, scholar, and divine; + With godliness could well dispense, + Would be a rake, but wanted sense; + Would strictly after Truth inquire, + Because he dreaded to come nigh her. + For Liberty no champion bolder, + He hated bailiffs at his shoulder. + To half the world a standing jest, + A perfect nuisance to the rest; + From many (and we may believe him) + Had the best wishes they could give him. + To all mankind a constant friend, + Provided they had cash to lend. + One thing he did before he went hence, + He left us a laconic sentence, + By cutting of his phrase, and trimming + To prove that bishops were old women. + Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, + She was so terrified at his. + He waded, without any shame, + Through thick and thin to get a name, + Tried every sharping trick for bread, + And after all he seldom sped. + When Fortune favour'd, he was nice; + He never once would cog the dice; + But, if she turn'd against his play, + He knew to stop <i>à quatre trois</i>. + Now sound in mind, and sound in <i>corpus</i>, + (Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise, + He hies from hence at forty-four + (But by his leave he sinks a score) + To the East Indies, there to cheat, + Till he can purchase an estate; + Where, after he has fill'd his chest, + He'll mount his tub, and preach his best, + And plainly prove, by dint of text, + This world is his, and theirs the next. + Lest that the reader should not know + The bank where last he set his toe, + 'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship, + And gave his creditors the slip. + But lest chronology should vary, + Upon the ides of February, + In seventeen hundred eight-and-twenty, + To Fort St. George, a pedler went he. + Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent, +RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: INSCRIPTION, +BY DEAN SMEDLEY, 1729. + + [*text centered] + Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY, + Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus, + Politioribus excultus literis; + Parce pius, impius minime; + Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor; + Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam, + Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus, + Auctor hujus sententiae, PATRES SUNT VETULAE. + Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam; + Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus, + Mente Sana, sano corpore, volens, laetusque, + Lustris plus quam XI numeratis, + Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque, + Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales praedicandum, + <i>Grevae</i>, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, + Arcemque <i>Sancti</i> petens <i>Georgii</i>, vernale per aequinoxium, + Anno Aerae Christianae MDCCXXVIII, + Transfretavit. + Fata vocant—revocentque precamur.] +</pre> + <h3> + END OF VOL. I + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14353 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..67753b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14353 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14353) diff --git a/old/14353-8.txt b/old/14353-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3270b4f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14353-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15884 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume I +(of 2), by Jonathan Swift, Edited by William Ernst Browning + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume I (of 2) + +Author: Jonathan Swift + +Release Date: December 14, 2004 [eBook #14353] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., +VOLUME I (OF 2)*** + + +E-text prepared by Clare Boothby, G. Graustein, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., VOLUME I + +Edited by + +WILLIAM ERNST BROWNING + +Barrister, Inner Temple +Author of "The Life of Lord Chesterfield" + +London +G. Bell and Sons, Ltd. + +1910 + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Jonathan Swift +From the bust by Cunningham in St. Patrick's Cathedral] + + + + +PREFACE + +The works of Jonathan Swift in prose and verse so mutually illustrate +each other, that it was deemed indispensable, as a complement to the +standard edition of the Prose Works, to issue a revised edition of the +Poems, freed from the errors which had been allowed to creep into the +text, and illustrated with fuller explanatory notes. My first care, +therefore, in preparing the Poems for publication, was to collate them +with the earliest and best editions available, and this I have done. + +But, thanks to the diligence of the late John Forster, to whom every +lover of Swift must confess the very greatest obligation, I have been +able to do much more. I have been able to enrich this edition with some +pieces not hitherto brought to light--notably, the original version of +"Baucis and Philemon," in addition to the version hitherto printed; the +original version of the poem on "Vanbrugh's House"; the verses entitled +"May Fair"; and numerous variations and corrections of the texts of +nearly all the principal poems, due to Forster's collation of them with +the transcripts made by Stella, which were found by him at Narford +formerly the seat of Swift's friend, Sir Andrew Fountaine--see Forster's +"Life of Swift," of which, unfortunately, he lived to publish only the +first volume. From Swift's own copy of the "Miscellanies in Prose and +Verse," 1727-32, with notes in his own handwriting, sold at auction last +year, I was able to make several corrections of the poems contained in +those four volumes, which serve to show how Swift laboured his works, and +revised and improved them whenever he had an opportunity of doing so. It +is a mistake to suppose that he was indifferent to literary fame: on the +contrary, he kept some of his works in manuscript for years in order to +perfect them for publication, of which "The Tale of a Tub," "Gulliver's +Travels," and the "Verses on his own Death" are examples. + +I am indebted to Miss Wilmot-Chetwode, of Wordbrooke, for the loan of a +manuscript volume, from which I obtained some various readings. By the +advice of Mr. Elrington Ball, I applied to the librarians of Trinity +College and of the National Library, and from the latter I received a +number of pieces; but I found that the harvest had already been reaped so +fully, that there was nothing left to glean which could with certainty be +ascribed to Swift. On the whole, I believe that this edition of the Poems +will be found as complete as it is now possible to make it. + +In the arrangement of the poems, I have adopted nearly the same order as +in the Aldine edition, for the pieces seem to fall naturally into those +divisions; but with this difference, that I have placed the pieces in +their chronological order in each division. With regard to the notes in +illustration of the text, many of them in the Dublin editions were +evidently written by Swift, especially the notes to the "Verses on his +own Death." And as to the notes of previous editors, I have retained them +so far as they were useful and correct: but to many of them I have made +additions or alterations wherever, on reference to the authorities cited, +or to other works, correction became necessary. For my own notes, I can +only say that I have sought to make them concise, appropriate to the +text, and, above all, accurate. + +Swift and the educated men of his time thought in the classics, and his +poems, as well as those of his friends, abound with allusions to the +Greek and Roman authors, especially to the latter. I have given all the +references, and except in the imitations and paraphrases of so familiar a +writer as Horace, I have appended the Latin text. Moreover, Swift was, +like Sterne, very fond of curious and recondite reading, in which it is +not always easy to track him without some research; but I believe that I +have not failed to illustrate any matter that required elucidation. + +W. E. B. + +May 1910. + + +CONTENTS OF VOLUME I + + +Introduction xv + +Ode to Doctor William Sancroft +Ode to Sir William Temple +Ode to King William +Ode to The Athenian Society +To Mr. Congreve +Occasioned by Sir William Temple's late illness and recovery +Written in a Lady's Ivory Table Book +Mrs. Frances Harris's Petition +A Ballad on the game of Traffic +A Ballad to the tune of the Cutpurse +The Discovery +The Problem +The Description of a Salamander +To Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough +On the Union +On Mrs. Biddy Floyd +The Reverse +Apollo Outwitted +Answer to Lines from May Fair +Vanbrugh's House +Vanbrugh's House +Baucis and Philemon +Baucis and Philemon +The History of Vanbrugh's House +A Grub Street Elegy +The Epitaph +A Description of the Morning +A Description of a City Shower +On the Little House +A Town Eclogue +A Conference +To Lord Harley on his Marriage +Phyllis +Horace, Book IV, Ode ix +To Mr. Delany +An Elegy +To Mrs. Houghton +Verses written on a Window +On another Window +Apollo to the Dean +News from Parnassus +Apollo's Edict +The Description of an Irish Feast +The Progress of Beauty +The Progress of Marriage +The Progress of Poetry +The South Sea Project +Fabula Canis et Umbrae +A Prologue +Epilogue +Prologue +Epilogue +Answer to Prologue and Epilogue +On Gaulstown House +The Country Life +Dr. Delany's Villa +On one of the Windows at Delville +Carberiae Rupes +Carbery Rocks +Copy of the Birthday Verses on Mr. Ford +On Dreams +Dr. Delany to Dr. Swift +The Answer +A Quiet Life and a Good Name +Advice +A Pastoral Dialogue +Desire and Possession +On Censure +The Furniture of a Woman's Mind +Clever Tom Clinch +Dr. Swift to Mr. Pope +A Love Poem +Bouts Rimez +Helter Skelter +The Puppet Show +The Journal of a Modern Lady +The Logicians Refuted +The Elephant; or the Parliament Man +Paulus; an Epigram +The Answer +A Dialogue +On burning a dull Poem +An excellent new Ballad +On Stephen Duck +The Lady's Dressing Room +The Power of Time +Cassinus and Peter +A Beautiful young Nymph +Strephon and Chloe +Apollo; or a Problem solved +The Place of the Damned +The Day of Judgment +Judas +An Epistle to Mr. Gay +To a Lady +Epigram on Busts in Richmond Hermitage +Another +A Conclusion from above Epigrams +Swift's Answer +To Swift on his Birthday with a Paper Book from the Earl of Orrery +Verses on Swift's Birthday with a Silver Standish +Verses occasioned by foregoing Presents +Verses sent to the Dean with an Eagle quill +An Invitation, by Dr. Delany +The Beasts' Confession +The Parson's Case +The hardship upon the Ladies +A Love Song +The Storm +Ode on Science +A Young Lady's Complaint +On the Death of Dr. Swift +On Poetry, a Rhapsody +Verses sent to the Dean on his Birthday +Epigram by Mr. Bowyer +On Psyche +The Dean and Duke +Written by Swift on his own Deafness +The Dean's Complaint +The Dean's manner of living +Epigram by Mr. Bowyer +Verses made for Fruit Women +On Rover, a Lady's Spaniel +Epigrams on Windows +To Janus, on New Year's Day +A Motto for Mr. Jason Hasard +To a Friend +Catullus de Lesbia +On a Curate's complaint of hard duty +To Betty, the Grisette +Epigram from the French +Epigram +Epigram added by Stella +Joan cudgels Ned +Verses on two modern Poets +Epitaph on General Gorges and Lady Meath +Verses on I know not what +Dr. Swift to himself +An Answer to a Friend's question +Epitaph +Epitaph +Verses written during Lord Carteret's administration +An Apology to Lady Carteret +The Birth of Manly Virtue +On Paddy's Character of the "Intelligencer" +An Epistle to Lord Carteret by Delany +An Epistle upon an Epistle +A Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret +To Dr. Delany +Directions for a Birthday Song +The Pheasant and the Lark by Delany +Answer to Delany's Fable +Dean Smedley's Petition to the Duke of Grafton +The Duke's Answer by Swift +Parody on a character of Dean Smedley + + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Dr. Johnson, in his "Life of Swift," after citing with approval Delany's +character of him, as he describes him to Lord Orrery, proceeds to say: +"In the poetical works there is not much upon which the critic can +exercise his powers. They are often humorous, almost always light, and +have the qualities which recommend such compositions, easiness and +gaiety. They are, for the most part, what their author intended. The +diction is correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There +seldom occurs a hard laboured expression or a redundant epithet; all his +verses exemplify his own definition of a good style--they consist of +'proper words in proper places.'" + +Of his earliest poems it is needless to say more than that if nothing +better had been written by him than those Pindaric Pieces, after the +manner of Cowley--then so much in vogue--the remark of Dryden, "Cousin +Swift, you will never be a Poet," would have been fully justified. But +conventional praise and compliments were foreign to his nature, for his +strongest characteristic was his intense sincerity. He says of himself +that about that time he had writ and burnt and writ again upon all manner +of subjects more than perhaps any man in England; and it is certainly +remarkable that in so doing his true genius was not sooner developed, for +it was not till he became chaplain in Lord Berkeley's household that his +satirical humour was first displayed--at least in verse--in "Mrs. Frances +Harris' Petition."--His great prose satires, "The Tale of a Tub," and +"Gulliver's Travels," though planned, were reserved to a later time.--In +other forms of poetry he soon afterwards greatly excelled, and the title +of poet cannot be refused to the author of "Baucis and Philemon"; the +verses on "The Death of Dr. Swift"; the "Rhapsody on Poetry"; "Cadenus +and Vanessa"; "The Legion Club"; and most of the poems addressed to +Stella, all of which pieces exhibit harmony, invention, and imagination. + +Swift has been unduly censured for the coarseness of his language upon +Certain topics; but very little of this appears in his earlier poems, and +what there is, was in accordance with the taste of the period, which +never hesitated to call a spade a spade, due in part to the reaction from +the Puritanism of the preceding age, and in part to the outspeaking +frankness which disdained hypocrisy. It is shown in Dryden, Pope, Prior, +of the last of whom Johnson said that no lady objected to have his poems +in her library; still more in the dramatists of that time, whom Charles +Lamb has so humorously defended, and in the plays of Mrs. Aphra Behn, +who, as Pope says, "fairly puts all characters to bed." But whatever +coarseness there may be in some of Swift's poems, such as "The Lady's +Dressing Room," and a few other pieces, there is nothing licentious, +nothing which excites to lewdness; on the contrary, such pieces create +simply a feeling of repulsion. No one, after reading the "Beautiful young +Nymph going to bed," or "Strephon and Chloe," would desire any personal +acquaintance with the ladies, but there is a moral in these pieces, and +the latter poem concludes with excellent matrimonial advice. The +coarseness of some of his later writings must be ascribed to his +misanthropical hatred of the "animal called man," as expressed in his +famous letter to Pope of September 1725, aggravated as it was by his +exile from the friends he loved to a land he hated, and by the reception +he met with there, about which he speaks very freely in his notes to the +"Verses on his own Death." + +On the morning of Swift's installation as Dean, the following scurrilous +lines by Smedley, Dean of Clogher, were affixed to the doors of St. +Patrick's Cathedral: + +To-day this Temple gets a Dean + Of parts and fame uncommon, +Us'd both to pray and to prophane, + To serve both God and mammon. +When Wharton reign'd a Whig he was; + When Pembroke--that's dispute, Sir; +In Oxford's time, what Oxford pleased, + Non-con, or Jack, or Neuter. +This place he got by wit and rhime, + And many ways most odd, +And might a Bishop be in time, + Did he believe in God. +Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray, + On thine own church and steeple; +Convert thy Dean on this great day, + Or else God help the people. +And now, whene'er his Deanship dies, + Upon his stone be graven, +A man of God here buried lies, + Who never thought of heaven. + +It was by these lines that Smedley earned for himself a niche in "The +Dunciad." For Swift's retaliation, see the poems relating to Smedley at +the end of the first volume, and in volume ii, at p. 124, note. + +This bitterness of spirit reached its height in "Gulliver's Travels," +surely the severest of all satires upon humanity, and writ, as he tells +us, not to divert, but to vex the world; and ultimately, in the fierce +attack upon the Irish Parliament in the poem entitled "The Legion Club," +dictated by his hatred of tyranny and oppression, and his consequent +passion for exhibiting human nature in its most degraded aspect. + +But, notwithstanding his misanthropical feelings towards mankind in +general, and his "scorn of fools by fools mistook for pride," there never +existed a warmer or sincerer friend to those whom he loved--witness the +regard in which he was held by Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, +and Congreve, and his readiness to assist those who needed his help, +without thought of party or politics. Although, in some of his poems, +Swift rather severely exposed the follies and frailties of the fair sex, +as in "The Furniture of a Woman's Mind," and "The Journal of a Modern +Lady," he loved the companionship of beautiful and accomplished women, +amongst whom he could count some of his dearest and truest friends; but + He loved to be bitter at + A lady illiterate; +and therefore delighted in giving them literary instruction, most notably +in the cases of Stella and Vanessa, whose relations with him arose +entirely from the tuition in letters which they received from him. Again, +when on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, he insisted upon making Lady +Acheson read such books as he thought fit to advise, and in the doggerel +verses entitled "My Lady's Lamentation," she is supposed to resent his +"very imperious" manner of instruction: + +No book for delight +Must come in my sight; +But instead of new plays, +Dull Bacon's Essays, +And pore every day on +That nasty Pantheon. + +As a contrast to his imperiousness, there is an affectionate simplicity +in the fancy names he used to bestow upon his female friends. Sir William +Temple's wife, Dorothea, became Dorinda; Esther Johnson, Stella; Hester +Vanhomrigh, Vanessa; Lady Winchelsea, Ardelia; while to Lady Acheson he +gave the nicknames of Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean. But all was taken by +them in good part; for his rather dictatorial ways were softened by the +fascinating geniality and humour which he knew so well how to employ when +he used to "deafen them with puns and rhyme." + +Into the vexed question of the relations between Swift and Stella I do +not purpose to enter further than to record my conviction that she was +never more to him than "the dearest friend that ever man had." The +suggestion of a concealed marriage is so inconsistent with their whole +conduct to each other from first to last, that if there had been such a +marriage, instead of Swift having been, as he was, a man of _intense +sincerity_, he must be held to have been a most consummate hypocrite. +In my opinion, Churton Collins settled this question in his essays on +Swift, first published in the "Quarterly Review," 1881 and 1882. Swift's +relation with Vanessa is the saddest episode in his life. The story is +amply told in his poem, "Cadenus and Vanessa," and in the letters which +passed between them: how the pupil became infatuated with her tutor; how +the tutor endeavoured to dispel her passion, but in vain, by reason; and +how, at last, she died from love for the man who was unable to give love +in return. That Swift ought, as soon as Hester disclosed her passion for +him, at once to have broken off the intimacy, must be conceded; but how +many men possessed of his kindness of heart would have had the courage to +have acted otherwise than he did? Swift seems, in fact, to have been +constitutionally incapable of the _passion_ of love, for he says, +himself, that he had never met the woman he wished to marry. His annual +tributes to Stella on her birthdays express the strongest regard and +esteem, but he "ne'er admitted love a guest," and he had been so long +used to this Platonic affection, that he had come to regard women as +friends, but never as lovers. Stella, on her part, had the same feeling, +for she never expressed the least discontent at her position, or ever +regarded Swift otherwise than as her tutor, her counsellor, her friend. +In her verses to him on his birthday, 1721, she says: + + Long be the day that gave you birth +Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth; +Late dying may you cast a shred +Of your rich mantle o'er my head; +To bear with dignity my sorrow +One day alone, then die tomorrow. + +Stella naturally expected to survive Swift, but it was not to be. She +died in the evening of the 28th January 1727-8; and on the same night he +began the affecting piece, "On the Death of Mrs. Johnson." (See "Prose +Works," vol. xi.) + +With the death of Stella, Swift's real happiness ended, and he became +more and more possessed by the melancholy which too often accompanies the +broadest humour, and which, in his case, was constitutional. It was, no +doubt, to relieve it, that he resorted to the composition of the doggerel +verses, epigrams, riddles, and trifles exchanged betwixt himself and +Sheridan, which induced Orrery's remark that "Swift composing Riddles is +Titian painting draught-boards;" on which Delany observes that "a Riddle +may be as fine painting as any other in the world. It requires as strong +an imagination, as fine colouring, and as exact a proportion and keeping +as any other historical painting"; and he instances "Pethox the Great," +and should also have alluded to the more learned example--"Louisa to +Strephon." + +On Orrery's seventh Letter, Delany says that if some of the "coin is +base," it is the fine impression and polish which adds value to it, and +cites the saying of another nobleman, that "there is indeed some stuff +in it, but it is Swift's stuff." It has been said that Swift has never +taken a thought from any writer ancient or modern. This is not literally +true, but the instances are not many, and in my notes I have pointed out +the lines snatched from Milton, Denham, Butler--the last evidently a +great favourite. + +It seems necessary to state shortly the causes of Swift not having +obtained higher preferment. Besides that Queen Anne would never be +reconciled to the author of the "Tale of a Tub"--the true purport of +which was so ill-understood by her--he made an irreconcilable enemy of +her friend, the Duchess of Somerset, by his lampoon entitled "The Windsor +Prophecy." But Swift seldom allowed prudence to restrain his wit and +humour, and admits of himself that he "had too much satire in his vein"; +and that "a genius in the reverend gown must ever keep its owner down"; +and says further: + +Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; +He reconciled divinity and wit. + +But that was what his enemies could not do. + +Whatever the excellences and defects of the poems, Swift has erected, not +only by his works, but by his benevolence and his charities, a +_monumentum aere perennius,_ and his writings in prose and verse +will continue to afford instruction and delight when the malevolence of +Jeffrey, the misrepresentations of Macaulay, and the sneers and false +statements of Thackeray shall have been forgotten. + + + + + +#POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT# + +ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] +LATE LORD BISHOP OF CANTERBURY + +WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, +AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY + + +I + +Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven, + Bright effluence of th'immortal ray, +Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven, +Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day; + First of God's darling attributes, + Thou daily seest him face to face, +Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance + Of time or place, +Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance; + How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes? + How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd, + Or a weak argument by force maintain'd? +In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words, +(For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,) + Contrived to tire all patience out, + And not to satisfy the doubt? + + +II + + But where is even thy Image on our earth? + For of the person much I fear, +Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth, +And God himself has said, He shall not find it here. +For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade, +By dark reverted rays from its reflection made; + Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass, + Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass; + Which all the mimic forms express, +Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress; + So when Cartesian artists try + To solve appearances of sight + In its reception to the eye, +And catch the living landscape through a scanty light, + The figures all inverted show, + And colours of a faded hue; + Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads, + And men seem walking on their heads; + There whole herds suspended lie, + Ready to tumble down into the sky; + Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go + To judge of things above by things below. +Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams, + Or images that sink in streams; + No wonder, then, we talk amiss + Of truth, and what, or where it is; + Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st, +Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost? + + +III + +If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be +(High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee, + If a mind fix'd to combat fate +With those two powerful swords, submission and humility, + Sounds truly good, or truly great; +Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest, + In the divinity of retreat, + Be not the brightest pattern earth can show + Of heaven-born Truth below; + But foolish man still judges what is best + In his own balance, false and light, + Following opinion, dark and blind, + That vagrant leader of the mind, +Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight. + + +IV + +And some, to be large ciphers in a state, +Pleased with an empty swelling to be counted great, +Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space, + Rapt through the wide expanse of thought, + And oft in contradiction's vortex caught, +To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place; +Errors like this did old astronomers misguide, +Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride, + Who, like hard masters, taught the sun + Through many a heedless sphere to run, +Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make, + And thousand incoherent journeys take, + Whilst all th'advantage by it got, + Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. +The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state + Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, +Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still; +But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate, + By gazing upward giddy grow, + And think the church itself does so; + Thus fools, for being strong and num'rous known, + Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own; +And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears, + Because 'tis opposite to theirs. + + +V + +In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise, + Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies + In gath'ring follies from the wise; + Rather put on thy anger and thy spite, + And some kind power for once dispense + Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense, +To make them understand, and feel me when I write; + The muse and I no more revenge desire, +Each line shall stab, shall blast, like daggers and like fire; + Ah, Britain, land of angels! which of all thy sins, + (Say, hapless isle, although + It is a bloody list we know,) +Has given thee up a dwelling-place to fiends? + Sin and the plague ever abound +In governments too easy, and too fruitful ground; + Evils which a too gentle king, + Too flourishing a spring, + And too warm summers bring: + Our British soil is over rank, and breeds + Among the noblest flowers a thousand pois'nous weeds, + And every stinking weed so lofty grows, + As if 'twould overshade the Royal Rose; + The Royal Rose, the glory of our morn, + But, ah! too much without a thorn. + + +VI + +Forgive (original mildness) this ill-govern'd zeal, +'Tis all the angry slighted Muse can do + In the pollution of these days; + No province now is left her but to rail, + And poetry has lost the art to praise, + Alas, the occasions are so few: + None e'er but you, + And your Almighty Master, knew + With heavenly peace of mind to bear +(Free from our tyrant passions, anger, scorn, or fear) +The giddy turns of popular rage, +And all the contradictions of a poison'd age; + The Son of God pronounced by the same breath + Which straight pronounced his death; + And though I should but ill be understood, + In wholly equalling our sin and theirs, + And measuring by the scanty thread of wit + What we call holy, and great, and just, and good, +(Methods in talk whereof our pride and ignorance make use,) + And which our wild ambition foolishly compares + With endless and with infinite; + Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say, +Among thy stubborn sons there haunts that spirit of the Jews, + That those forsaken wretches who to-day + Revile his great ambassador, + Seem to discover what they would have done + (Were his humanity on earth once more) +To his undoubted Master, Heaven's Almighty Son. + + +VII + +But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wondrous proud, + Though very turbulent and very loud; + The crazy composition shows, +Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes, + Made up of iron mixt with clay, + This crumbles into dust, + That moulders into rust, + Or melts by the first shower away. +Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know, +Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so; + And those, alas, do show, + Like all transcendent excellence below; + In both, false mediums cheat our sight, +And far exalted objects lessen by their height: + Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high + To be observed by vulgar eye, + And rolls the silent year + On his own secret regular sphere, +And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here. + + +VIII + +Kind star, still may'st thou shed thy sacred influence here, + Or from thy private peaceful orb appear; + For, sure, we want some guide from Heaven, to show + The way which every wand'ring fool below + Pretends so perfectly to know; + And which, for aught I see, and much I fear, + The world has wholly miss'd; + I mean the way which leads to Christ: +Mistaken idiots! see how giddily they run, + Led blindly on by avarice and pride, + What mighty numbers follow them; + Each fond of erring with his guide: + Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son + In Caesar's court, or in Jerusalem: + Others, ignorantly wise, +Among proud doctors and disputing Pharisees: +What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn; + Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said +That Heaven's high Son was in a village born; + That the world's Saviour had been + In a vile manger laid, + And foster'd in a wretched inn? + + +IX + +Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, +Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state; + Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste, + To mend dilapidations in the last? +And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince, + Thinks Heaven has cancell'd all our sins, +And that his subjects share his happy influence; +Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should, +But wicked kings draw more examples than the good: + And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight +Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress'd, + Finding the mitre almost grown + A load as heavy as the crown, + Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest. + + +X + + Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state, + Nor hurricano from the crown, +Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late, + Which, in its dusky march along the plain, + Swept up whole churches as it list, + Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist; +Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, + And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. + Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne; + The mitre, which his sacred head has worn, +Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn. +Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last, + The bitter cup is from him past: + Fortune in both extremes + Though blasts from contrariety of winds, + Yet to firm heavenly minds, +Is but one thing under two different names; +And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seen, + Confesses ignorance to judge between; +And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, +To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude. + + +XI + +Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, + Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat; + Short glimm'rings of the prelate glorified; +Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide. + Why should the Sun, alas! be proud + To lodge behind a golden cloud? +Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay, +'Tis but a low-born vapour kindled by a ray: + At length 'tis overblown and past, + Puff'd by the people's spiteful blast, +The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, + No deflower'd eye can face the naked light: + Yet does this high perfection well proceed + From strength of its own native seed, +This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, + Bears one, and but one branch of gold, + Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove, +And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve, +To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; + For, whate'er theologic levellers dream, + There are degrees above, I know, + As well as here below, + (The goddess Muse herself has told me so), + Where high patrician souls, dress'd heavenly gay, + Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day. +There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given, + In the metropolis of Heaven; +Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, + Translated to archangel there. + + +XII + +Since, happy saint, since it has been of late + Either our blindness or our fate, + To lose the providence of thy cares +Pity a miserable church's tears, + That begs the powerful blessing of thy prayers. + Some angel, say, what were the nation's crimes, + That sent these wild reformers to our times: + Say what their senseless malice meant, + To tear religion's lovely face: + Strip her of every ornament and grace; +In striving to wash off th'imaginary paint? + Religion now does on her death-bed lie, +Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy; +How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill, +And by their college arts methodically kill: +Reformers and physicians differ but in name, + One end in both, and the design the same; +Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean + Is but the patient's death, and gain-- + Check in thy satire, angry Muse, + Or a more worthy subject choose: +Let not the outcasts of an outcast age +Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage, + Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, + Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd-- + +[The rest of the poem is lost.] + +[Footnote 1: Born Jan., 1616-17; died 1693. For his life, see "Dictionary +of National Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + +ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE + +WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689 + + +I + +Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies! + Till its first emperor, rebellious man, + Deposed from off his seat, + It fell, and broke with its own weight +Into small states and principalities, + By many a petty lord possess'd, +But ne'er since seated in one single breast. + 'Tis you who must this land subdue, + The mighty conquest's left for you, + The conquest and discovery too: + Search out this Utopian ground, + Virtue's Terra Incognita, + Where none ever led the way, +Nor ever since but in descriptions found; + Like the philosopher's stone, +With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none. + + +II + + We have too long been led astray; +Too long have our misguided souls been taught + With rules from musty morals brought, + 'Tis you must put us in the way; + Let us (for shame!) no more be fed + With antique relics of the dead, + The gleanings of philosophy; + Philosophy, the lumber of the schools, + The roguery of alchymy; + And we, the bubbled fools, +Spend all our present life, in hopes of golden rules. + + +III + +But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? + We oddly Plato's paradox make good, +Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all; +Remembrance is our treasure and our food; +Nature's fair table-book, our tender souls, +We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, + Stale memorandums of the schools: + For learning's mighty treasures look + Into that deep grave, a book; + Think that she there does all her treasures hide, +And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since she died; +Confine her walks to colleges and schools; + Her priests, her train, and followers, show + As if they all were spectres too! + They purchase knowledge at th'expense + Of common breeding, common sense, + And grow at once scholars and fools; + Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, +Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility, + And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, + Which greedily they swallow down, +Still cast it up, and nauseate company. + + +IV + + Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! + (If it may lawful be + To curse our greatest enemy,) + Who learn'd himself that heresy first, + (Which since has seized on all the rest,) +That knowledge forfeits all humanity; +Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor, + And fling our scraps before our door! +Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest; +Those mighty epithets, learned, good, and great, +Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, +We find in you at last united grown. + You cannot be compared to one: + I must, like him that painted Venus' face, + Borrow from every one a grace; +Virgil and Epicurus will not do, + Their courting a retreat like you, +Unless I put in Caesar's learning too: + Your happy frame at once controls + This great triumvirate of souls. + + +V + +Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate; + He sav'd his country by delays, + But you by peace.[1] + You bought it at a cheaper rate; +Nor has it left the usual bloody scar, + To show it cost its price in war; +War, that mad game the world so loves to play, + And for it does so dearly pay; +For, though with loss, or victory, a while + Fortune the gamesters does beguile, +Yet at the last the box sweeps all away. + + +VI + + Only the laurel got by peace + No thunder e'er can blast: + Th'artillery of the skies + Shoots to the earth and dies: +And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, +Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. + About the head crown'd with these bays, + Like lambent fire, the lightning plays; +Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, + Makes up its solemn train with death; +It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. + + +VII + +The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks, +Which we call deep designs and politics, +(As in a theatre the ignorant fry, + Because the cords escape their eye, + Wonder to see the motions fly,) + Methinks, when you expose the scene, + Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; +Off fly the vizards, and discover all: + How plain I see through the deceit! + How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! + Look where the pulley's tied above! + Great God! (said I) what have I seen! + On what poor engines move +The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states! + What petty motives rule their fates! +How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake! +The mighty mountain labours with its birth, + Away the frighten'd peasants fly, + Scared at the unheard-of prodigy, +Expect some great gigantic son of earth; + Lo! it appears! + See how they tremble! how they quake! +Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears. + + +VIII + + Then tell, dear favourite Muse! + What serpent's that which still resorts, + Still lurks in palaces and courts? + Take thy unwonted flight, + And on the terrace light. + See where she lies! + See how she rears her head, + And rolls about her dreadful eyes, +To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! +'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence, +And though as some ('tis said) for their defence + Have worn a casement o'er their skin, + So wore he his within, +Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; + And though he oft renew'd the fight, +And almost got priority of sight, + He ne'er could overcome her quite, +In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite; + Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease, +Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace. + + +IX + +Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat, +And in some untouch'd virgin strain, +Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; +Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields; + Go, publish o'er the plain + How mighty a proselyte you gain! +How noble a reprisal on the great! + How is the Muse luxuriant grown! + Whene'er she takes this flight, + She soars clear out of sight. +These are the paradises of her own: + Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse, + Though ne'er so gently led, +To the loved pastures where he used to feed, +Runs violent o'er his usual course. + Wake from thy wanton dreams, + Come from thy dear-loved streams, + The crooked paths of wandering Thames. + Fain the fair nymph would stay, + Oft she looks back in vain, + Oft 'gainst her fountain does complain, + And softly steals in many windings down, + As loth to see the hated court and town; +And murmurs as she glides away. + + +X + + In this new happy scene + Are nobler subjects for your learned pen; + Here we expect from you +More than your predecessor Adam knew; +Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport, +Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court; + How that which we a kernel see, +(Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, + Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,) + Shall ere long grow into a tree; +Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, +Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth, + Where all the fruitful atoms lie; + How some go downward to the root, + Some more ambitious upwards fly, + And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. +You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain, +Your garden's better worth your nobler pain, +Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. + + +XI + +Shall I believe a spirit so divine + Was cast in the same mould with mine? +Why then does Nature so unjustly share +Among her elder sons the whole estate, + And all her jewels and her plate? +Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, +Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: + Some she binds 'prentice to the spade, + Some to the drudgery of a trade: +Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, +Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw: + Some she condemns for life to try +To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy: +Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied: +In vain I strive to cross the spacious main, + In vain I tug and pull the oar; + And when I almost reach the shore, +Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again: + And yet, to feed my pride, +Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath, +With promise of a mad reversion after death. + + +XII + +Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, + The tribute of an humble Muse, +'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; + Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, +And kindled first with indolence and ease; + And since too oft debauch'd by praise, +'Tis now grown an incurable disease: +In vain to quench this foolish fire I try + In wisdom and philosophy: + In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, + Where nought but weeds will grow +Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) + By an equivocal birth, + Seeds, and runs up to poetry. + +[Footnote 1: Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Holland, +and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty +of Nimeguen, 1679.] + + + +ODE TO KING WILLIAM + +ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND + + +To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown, + Are arts peculiar to dissembling France; +You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown, + And solid virtue does your name advance. + +Your matchless courage with your prudence joins, + The glorious structure of your fame to raise; +With its own light your dazzling glory shines, + And into adoration turns our praise. + +Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown, + (Cowards are monarchs by that title made,) +Part of your merit Chance would call her own, + And half your virtues had been lost in shade. + +But now your worth its just reward shall have: + What trophies and what triumphs are your due! +Who could so well a dying nation save, + At once deserve a crown, and gain it too. + +You saw how near we were to ruin brought, + You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on; +And timely on the coming danger thought, + Which we could neither obviate nor shun. + +Britannia stripp'd of her sole guard, the laws, + Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice; +You straight stepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws + Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize. + +Nor this is all; as glorious is the care + To preserve conquests, as at first to gain: +In this your virtue claims a double share, + Which, what it bravely won, does well maintain. + +Your arm has now your rightful title show'd, + An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, +To which they look as to some guardian God, + That must their doubtful liberty defend. + +Amazed, thy action at the Boyne we see! + When Schomberg started at the vast design: +The boundless glory all redounds to thee, + The impulse, the fight, th'event, were wholly thine. + +The brave attempt does all our foes disarm; + You need but now give orders and command, +Your name shall the remaining work perform, + And spare the labour of your conquering hand. + +France does in vain her feeble arts apply, + To interrupt the fortune of your course: +Your influence does the vain attacks defy + Of secret malice, or of open force. + +Boldly we hence the brave commencement date + Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ; +William's the pledge and earnest given by fate, + Of England's glory, and her lasting joy. + + + + +ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] + +_Moor Park, Feb._ 14, 1691. + + +I + +As when the deluge first began to fall, + That mighty ebb never to flow again, +When this huge body's moisture was so great, + It quite o'ercame the vital heat; +That mountain which was highest, first of all +Appear'd above the universal main, +To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight; +And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height + It be as great as 'tis in fame, + And nigh to Heaven as is its name; +So, after the inundation of a war, +When learning's little household did embark, +With her world's fruitful system, in her sacred ark, + At the first ebb of noise and fears, +Philosophy's exalted head appears; +And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay, +But plumes her silver wings, and flies away; + And now a laurel wreath she brings from far, + To crown the happy conqueror, + To show the flood begins to cease, +And brings the dear reward of victory and peace. + + +II + +The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline, + When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew, + When the bright sun of peace began to shine, +And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat, + On the high top of peaceful Ararat; +And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew, +The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,) + And thence, with joyful, nimble wing, + Flew dutifully back again, +And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2] + And the Dove-Muse is fled once more, +(Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war,) + And now discovers from afar + A peaceful and a flourishing shore: + No sooner did she land + On the delightful strand, + Than straight she sees the country all around, + Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile, +Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd, + And many a pleasant wood; + As if the universal Nile + Had rather water'd it than drown'd: +It seems some floating piece of Paradise, + Preserved by wonder from the flood, +Long wandering through the deep, as we are told + Famed Delos[3] did of old; + And the transported Muse imagined it +To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit, + Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove; + When, with amazing joy, she hears +An unknown music all around, + Charming her greedy ears + With many a heavenly song +Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love; +While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue. + In vain she catches at the empty sound, +In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, + And courts the wanton echoes as they fly. + + +III + +Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, +The wild excursions of a youthful pen; + Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse, + Whom blind and eager curiosity + (Yet curiosity, they say, +Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse) + Has forced to grope her uncouth way, +After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye: +No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense + For a dear ramble through impertinence; +Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind. +And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, + Though we be of two different factions still, + Both the good-natured and the ill, + Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find +We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit. + In me, who am of the first sect of these, + All merit, that transcends the humble rules + Of my own dazzled scanty sense, +Begets a kinder folly and impertinence + Of admiration and of praise. +And our good brethren of the surly sect, + Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: + For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made +Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; +Yet the same want of brains produces each effect. + And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud + From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd, + Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud, +Who both our follies and impertinences see, +Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me. + + +IV + + But censure's to be understood + Th'authentic mark of the elect, +The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good, + Our shallow search and judgment to direct. + The war, methinks, has made +Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; +Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy +A stock of wisdom and philosophy, + We fondly stay at home, in fear + Of every censuring privateer; +Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale, + And selling basely by retail. + The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, +Who fain would rule the pulpit, as they do the stage, + Wondrous refiners of philosophy, + Of morals and divinity, +By the new modish system of reducing all to sense, + Against all logic, and concluding laws, + Do own th'effects of Providence, + And yet deny the cause. + + +V + +This hopeful sect, now it begins to see +How little, very little, do prevail + Their first and chiefest force + To censure, to cry down, and rail, +Not knowing what, or where, or who you be, + Will quickly take another course: + And, by their never-failing ways + Of solving all appearances they please, +We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall, +And straight deny you to be men, or anything at all. + I laugh at the grave answer they will make, +Which they have always ready, general, and cheap: + 'Tis but to say, that what we daily meet, + And by a fond mistake +Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit, +And think, alas! to be by mortals writ, +Is but a crowd of atoms justling in a heap: + Which, from eternal seeds begun, +Justling some thousand years, till ripen'd by the sun: + They're now, just now, as naturally born, + As from the womb of earth a field of corn. + + +VI + + But as for poor contented me, +Who must my weakness and my ignorance confess, +That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to see; + Methinks I'm satisfied to guess, + That this new, noble, and delightful scene, +Is wonderfully moved by some exalted men, +Who have well studied in the world's disease, +(That epidemic error and depravity, + Or in our judgment or our eye,) +That what surprises us can only please. +We often search contentedly the whole world round, + To make some great discovery, + And scorn it when 'tis found. +Just so the mighty Nile has suffer'd in its fame, + Because 'tis said (and perhaps only said) +We've found a little inconsiderable head, + That feeds the huge unequal stream. +Consider human folly, and you'll quickly own, + That all the praises it can give, +By which some fondly boast they shall for ever live, + Won't pay th'impertinence of being known: + Else why should the famed Lydian king,[4] +(Whom all the charms of an usurped wife and state, +With all that power unfelt, courts mankind to be great, + Did with new unexperienced glories wait,) +Still wear, still dote on his invisible ring? + + +VII + + Were I to form a regular thought of Fame, + Which is, perhaps, as hard t'imagine right, + As to paint Echo to the sight, +I would not draw the idea from an empty name; + Because, alas! when we all die, + Careless and ignorant posterity, + Although they praise the learning and the wit, + And though the title seems to show + The name and man by whom the book was writ, + Yet how shall they be brought to know, +Whether that very name was he, or you, or I? +Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise, + And water-colours of these days: +These days! where e'en th'extravagance of poetry + Is at a loss for figures to express + Men's folly, whimseys, and inconstancy, + And by a faint description makes them less. +Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it? +Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit, + Enthroned with heavenly Wit! + Look where you see + The greatest scorn of learned vanity! + (And then how much a nothing is mankind! +Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air, + Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; + And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, + Which yet whoe'er examines right will find + To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) +And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there, + Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: + And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. + + +VIII + + The juggling sea-god,[5] when by chance trepann'd +By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, + Impatient of all answers, straight became + A stealing brook, and strove to creep away + Into his native sea, + Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; + But disappointed of his fond desire, + Would vanish in a pyramid of fire. + This surly, slippery God, when he design'd + To furnish his escapes, + Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes +Than you, to please and satisfy mankind, +And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, + So well you answer all phenomena there: +Though madmen and the wits, philosophers and fools, +With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream, +And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; + Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame, +Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; +Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night, + The God of learning and of light + Would want a God himself to help him out. + + +IX + + Philosophy, as it before us lies, +Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste + Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, + From every age through which it pass'd, +But always with a stronger relish of the last. + This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd + To be the great original +For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, +In what mock habits have they put her since the fall! + More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages', + She seems a medley of all ages, +With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, + A new commode, a topknot, and a ruff, + Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry, + With a long sweeping train +Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, + All of old cut with a new dye: + How soon have you restored her charms, + And rid her of her lumber and her books, + Drest her again genteel and neat, + And rather tight than great! +How fond we are to court her to our arms! + How much of heaven is in her naked looks! + + +X + +Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, + And ev'n my very thoughts transfers + And changes all to beauty and the praise + Of that proud tyrant sex of hers. + The rebel Muse, alas! takes part, + But with my own rebellious heart, +And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire + To fan th'unhappy fire. + Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? +Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! + Rather forgive what my first transport said: +May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, + Lie upon you and on your children's head! +For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see + The fatal time when that could be!) + Have even increased their pride and cruelty. + Woman seems now above all vanity grown, + Still boasting of her great unknown +Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, + Or the vast charges of a smile; + Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late + You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, +And which they've now the consciences to weigh + In the same balance with our tears, + And with such scanty wages pay + The bondage and the slavery of years. +Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; + And had they common generosity, + They would not use us thus. + Well--though you've raised her to this high degree, + Ourselves are raised as well as she; + And, spite of all that they or you can do, +'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, +Still to be of the same exalted sex with you. + + +XI + + Alas, how fleeting and how vain +Is even the nobler man, our learning and our wit! + I sigh whene'er I think of it: + As at the closing an unhappy scene + Of some great king and conqueror's death, + When the sad melancholy Muse +Stays but to catch his utmost breath. +I grieve, this nobler work, most happily begun, +So quickly and so wonderfully carried on, +May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse. + There is a noontide in our lives, + Which still the sooner it arrives, +Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, +And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, +Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. + No conquest ever yet begun, +And by one mighty hero carried to its height, +E'er flourished under a successor or a son; +It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pass'd, +And vanish'd to an empty title in the last. + For, when the animating mind is fled, + (Which nature never can retain, + Nor e'er call back again,) +The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. + + +XII + + And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare + With what unhappy men shall dare + To be successors to these great unknown, + On learning's high-establish'd throne. + Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, +Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, +Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth + From Ignorance's universal North, +And with blind rage break all this peaceful government: +Yet shall the traces of your wit remain, + Like a just map, to tell the vast extent + Of conquest in your short and happy reign: + And to all future mankind shew + How strange a paradox is true, + That men who lived and died without a name +Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame. + + +[Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses, +said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this +denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to +Dryden."--Johnson in his "Life of Swift."--_W. E. B._ + +In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton, +the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and +Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was +prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became +fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana. +See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which +made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and +mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii, +9.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.--_W. E. B._] + + + +TO MR. CONGREVE + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693 + + +Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, + The Muse was called in a poetic hour, +And insolently thrice the slighted maid +Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; +Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, +Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine. + Once highly honoured! false is the pretence +You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! +Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down +The most ungenerous vices of the town; +Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before +I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, +Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, +So much in mode, so very city-born; +'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, +Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; +But find some new address, some fresh deceit, +Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; +These are the beaten methods of the stews, +Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, +Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, +By prostituting her they first debauch. + Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame +This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; +First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, +Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; +Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, +The greatest compliment she ever made, +And wisely judge, no power beneath divine +Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; +For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd +A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt. + Nor tax the goddess of a mean design +To praise your parts by publishing of mine; +That be my thought when some large bulky writ +Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; +There to surmount what bears me up, and sing +Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing. +This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, +Were my desires but heighten'd to my power. + Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, +Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; +Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride +That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; +A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, +Gets between them and my resentment's weight, +Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, +T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen. + Thus I look down with mercy on the age, +By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: +For never did poetic mind before +Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; +The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind +Serves by retail to furnish half mankind. +With indignation I behold your wit +Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, +By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain +From broken scraps and filings of your brain. +Through native dross your share is hardly known, +And by short views mistook for all their own; +So small the gains those from your wit do reap, +Who blend it into folly's larger heap, +Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass, +When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass. + Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, +Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal. +These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain +With those they rob, by what their trade does gain. +Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds +O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds, +Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam, +As ancient nature's modern masters dream; +This bids some curious praters here below +Call Titan sick, because their sight is so; +And well, methinks, does this allusion fit +To scribblers, and the god of light and wit; +Those who by wild delusions entertain +A lust of rhyming for a poet's vein, +Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night, +But can no more obscure my Congreve's light, +Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray +Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day. + What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit? +Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit? +How would you blush the shameful birth to hear +Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear; +For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since, +Round all the circles of impertinence, +Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie +Before it grew a city butterfly; +I'm sure I found them other kind of things +Than those with backs of silk and golden wings; +A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise +As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies: +For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread, +And court in prologues, all are country bred; +Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins +Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns; +Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux +Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows: +These are the lords of the poetic schools, +Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules; +Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds +O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods; +Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes, +Which worshipp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes; +And can you think the wise forbear to laugh +At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf? + Haply you judge these lines severely writ +Against the proud usurpers of the pit; +Stay while I tell my story, short, and true; +To draw conclusions shall be left to you; +Nor need I ramble far to force a rule, +But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school. + Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent +With other cattle to the city went; +Where having cast his coat, and well pursued +The methods most in fashion to be lewd, +Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down, +Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town; +A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit, +Confounded in that Babel of the pit; +Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild, +Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child; +Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts, +Before the play, or else between the acts; +Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds +Should spring such short and transitory kinds, +Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote, +Last just as long as every cuckoo's note: +What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate! +'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate, +My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed +Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: +When man's ill genius to my presence sent +This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant; +Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace, +Squander'd his noisy talents to my face; +Named every player on his fingers' ends, +Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends; +Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease +Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2] +Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd, +Who heard you meant to write heroics next; +For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite, +And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night. + Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, +Rendering shades things, and substances of names; +Such high companions may delusion keep, +Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep. +As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, +Render'd the topping beauty of the town, +Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, +To boast of favours that he never got; +Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, +Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; +And not the meanest coxcomb you can find, +But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; +Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown +To every lewd pretender of the town. +Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, +You find, to be the fashionable wit; +These are the slaves whom reputation chains, +Whose maintenance requires no help from brains. +For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, +Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; +Whose name must not within my lines be shown, +Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4] +Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, +And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; +I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass, +Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass; +Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, +Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. + Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent +In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; +In how ill season her resentments rule, +What's that to her if mankind be a fool? +Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, +In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5] +Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, +She still is welcome with her innocent song; +Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, +What poor regards would merit all below! +How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, +And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet! + Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave +Gives murmuring passage to a lasting wave: +'Tis the world's watery hour-glass streaming fast, +Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; +Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, +And the young Muse's early favour felt; +Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, +Confessing Albion once her darling seat; +Far in this primitive cell might we pursue +Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; +Here would we sing--But, ah! you think I dream, +And the bad world may well believe the same; +Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, +While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I. + Since thus I wander from my first intent, +Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, +Take this short lesson from the god of bays, +And let my friend apply it as he please: +Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, + But give the vigorous fancy room. + For when, like stupid alchymists, you try + To fix this nimble god, + This volatile mercury, + The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; + Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find +More than _fade_ insipid mixture left behind.[6] + While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, +And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom; +The Muse like some bright country virgin shows +Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; +They, in their lewd and fashionable prate, +Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; +Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, +Current like copper, and as often paid: +She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep +Near better animals, her father's sheep, +Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, +To think what cattle she is got among; +But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, +In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid. + 'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, +The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; +Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, +Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies. + In this descending sheet you'll haply find +Some short refreshment for your weary mind, +Nought it contains is common or unclean, +And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7] + + +[Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an +estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor +Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and _post_, p. 43.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where +the wits of that time used to assemble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and +notes, edit. 1786.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite +multitude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name +mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together +with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.--_S._] + +[Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently +gives the name of Apollo.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it +is lost.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of +"Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY + +WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693 + + +Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike +At distant hours the mind with forms so like! +Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain +Meets, and salutes her sister link again; +Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, +Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; +Or whether dead Imagination's ghost +Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; +Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, +Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; +Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride +O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: + Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, +Where her own Temple was her darling theme; +There first the visionary sound was heard, +When to poetic view the Muse appear'd. +Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray +Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; +Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, +Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; +Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show +Approaching joy at strife with parting woe. + As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, +Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, +Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, +Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; +When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, +A sign God's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: +Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine +Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine. + What mortal change does in thy face appear, +Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here! +With how undecent clouds are overcast +Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past! +Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, +Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: + As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, +Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, +And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear +Late I beheld on every face appear; +Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, +Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; +Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long +Not dared to injure with our lowly song; +Sprung from a better world, and chosen then +The best companion for the best of men: +As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, +Lives pious witness of a better age; +So men may see what once was womankind, +In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind. + You that would grief describe, come here and trace +Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: +Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart +Farther than its own palace in her heart: +Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, +At least confine the tyrant to his cell. +And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen +Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? +Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, +And grief flung sables on each menial look; +The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, +That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; +So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, +Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; +So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread +That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.-- +Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ +The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; +And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, +Who dare revile the integrity of verse: +Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!-- +But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; +Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect +Thy just submission for this bold neglect. + Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use +At the divine appearance of the Muse, +Which to divulge might shake profane belief, +And tell the irreligion of my grief; +Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, +And shaped my passion in such words as these! + Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, +Thou universal cause of all my woes; +Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late +A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; +The malice thou inspirest I never fail +On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; +Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, +Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: +Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, +Deals out to man the planet of his birth: +But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine, +And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: +Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, +That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, +But a wild form dependent on the brain, +Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; +Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, +Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; +Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, +Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: +In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, +A walking vapour, like thy sister fame. +But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, +A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; +Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, +So highly courted by the brisk and gay? +Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look +On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; +Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, +Assign'd for life to unremitting grief; +For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, +If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. +Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, +And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, +That we the wretched, creeping far behind, +Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; +Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born +With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3] +Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, +Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; +But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace +Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face. +Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows +Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: +See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, +These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; +Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, +Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; +March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, +Still scattering desolation where they go. +To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, +Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; +To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, +That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; +From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, +Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; +Such were thy rules to be poetically great: +"Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; +Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; +Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; +Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, +Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4] +And since unhappy distance thus denies +T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; +Since thy few ill-presented graces seem +To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem--" + Madness like this no fancy ever seized, +Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; +Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds +Is all the poor content delusion finds.-- +There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour +I here renounce thy visionary power; +And since thy essence on my breath depends +Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends. + + +[Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter +Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to +Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at +Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died +in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and +amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his +wife.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "--when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main." +POPE, _Essay on Criticism_, 372-3.] + +[Footnote 4: "Hic murus aheneus esto, + Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa." +HOR., _Epist. 1_, I, 60.] + + + +WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 + + +Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, +And think thou seest my owner's heart, +Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite +As hard, as senseless, and as light; +Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes, +But hid with caution from the wise. +Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;" +Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:" +Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;" +There, in her own, "For an el breth:" +Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" +There, "A safe way to use perfume:" +Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; +On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"-- +"Madam, I die without your grace"-- +"Item, for half a yard of lace." +Who that had wit would place it here, +For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer? +To think that your brains' issue is +Exposed to th'excrement of his, +In pow'r of spittle and a clout, +Whene'er he please, to blot it out; +And then, to heighten the disgrace, +Clap his own nonsense in the place. +Whoe'er expects to hold his part +In such a book, and such a heart, +If he be wealthy, and a fool, +Is in all points the fittest tool; +Of whom it may be justly said, +He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. + + + + +MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 + + +This, the most humorous example of _vers de société_ in the English +language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of +distinction at that period.--_W. E. B._ + + +To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1] + The humble petition of Frances Harris, +Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; +Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber, + because I was cold; +And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, + (besides farthings) in money and gold; +So because I had been buying things for my lady last night, +I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right. +Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, +Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock, +I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock. +So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was + unript, +And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; +Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; +And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead. +So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light; +But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have + sunk outright. +"Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"--"Indeed," says I, "never worse: +But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?" +"Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!" +"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case." +So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: +However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. +So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, +But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. +So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round, +And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was + found. +So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing: +Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing. +"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have + had?" +"Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad: +For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail." +"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." +Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years + come spring, +And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." +"Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord + Shrewsbury's, +Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of _gooseberries_." +So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief: +(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:) +However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: +"Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out: +'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10] +But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. +'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole + in my wages: +Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. +Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands, +That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands." +"The _devil_ take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!" +So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught. +So, you know, what could I say to her any more? +I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. +Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: +"No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon." +So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, +Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. +So, as the _devil_ would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, +"_Parson_" said I, "can you cast a _nativity_, when a body's plunder'd?" +(Now you must know, he hates to be called _Parson_, like the _devil!_) +"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; +If your money be gone, as a learned _Divine_ says,[12] d'ye see, +You are no _text_ for my handling; so take that from me: +I was never taken for a _Conjurer_ before, I'd have you to know." +"Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; +You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife; +I never took one in _your coat_ for a conjurer in all my life." +With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, +"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. +Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do? +I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" +Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry; +I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will + I." +Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to? +For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. + The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' + protection, +And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; +And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, +With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: +And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, +Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his _trade_,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever + _pray_. + + +[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.] + +[Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.] + +[Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.] + +[Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.] + +[Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.] + +[Footnote 6: Galway.] + +[Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed +the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.] + +[Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.] + +[Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st +Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p. +79--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 11: Swift.] + +[Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.] + +[Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a _trade_. See his +letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver, +"Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC + +WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699 + + +My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, + Delivers cards about, +But the first knave does seldom fail + To find the doctor out. + +But then his honour cried, Gadzooks! + And seem'd to knit his brow: +For on a knave he never looks + But he thinks upon Jack How.[2] + +My lady, though she is no player, + Some bungling partner takes, +And, wedged in corner of a chair, + Takes snuff, and holds the stakes. + +Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense + For pair royals and sequents; +But, wisely cautious of her pence, + The castle seldom frequents. + +Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases, + I'd won it, on my word, +If I had but a pair of aces, + And could pick up a third. + +But Weston has a new-cast gown + On Sundays to be fine in, +And, if she can but win a crown, + 'Twill just new dye the lining. + +"With these is Parson Swift,[5] + Not knowing how to spend his time, +Does make a wretched shift, + To deafen them with puns and rhyme." + + + +[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.] + +[Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.] + +[Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her, +_post_, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially +with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works," +ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.] + +[Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John +Germaine.] + + + + +A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] + +WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702 + + +I + +Once on a time, as old stories rehearse, + A friar would need show his talent in Latin; +But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse, + Because he could find no word to come pat in; + Then all in the place + He left a void space, + And so went to bed in a desperate case: +When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! +He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle. + CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; + Who would not write verses with such an assistant? + + +II + +This put me the friar into an amazement; + For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; +That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; + And it needs must be one that could both read and write; + Yet he did not know, + If it were friend or foe, + Or whether it came from above or below; +Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf, +For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. + + +III + +Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains + In making a ballad, but was at a stand; +He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, + When he found a new help from invisible hand. + Then, good Doctor Swift + Pay thanks for the gift, + For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; +And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, +You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. + + +[Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the +author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which +gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit +hand, as if a third person had done it.--_Swift_. + +The _Cut-Purse_ is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in +Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the +ballad is: + "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse + Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE DISCOVERY + +When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] + Statesmen and mob expected wonders, +Nor thought to find so great a peer + Ere a week past committing blunders. +Till on a day cut out by fate, + When folks came thick to make their court, +Out slipt a mystery of state + To give the town and country sport. +Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, + His lordship's premier minister; +And who in all profound affairs, + Is held as needful as his clyster.[2] +With head reclining on his shoulder, + He deals and hears mysterious chat, +While every ignorant beholder + Asks of his neighbour, who is that? +With this he put up to my lord, + The courtiers kept their distance due, +He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; + Then to a corner both withdrew. +Imagine now my lord and Bush + Whispering in junto most profound, +Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3] + While all the rest stood gaping round. +At length a spark, not too well bred, + Of forward face and ear acute, +Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, + To overhear the grand dispute; +To learn what Northern kings design, + Or from Whitehall some new express, +Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; + For sure (thought he) it can't be less. +My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, + Disguised in two old threadbare coats, +Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy + How markets went for hay and oats. +With that he draws two handfuls out, + The one was oats, the other hay; +Puts this to's excellency's snout, + And begs he would the other weigh. +My lord seems pleased, but still directs + By all means to bring down the rates; +Then, with a congee circumflex, + Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. +Our listener stood awhile confused, + But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, +Enraged to see the world abused, + By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: To Ireland, as one of the Lords Justices.] + +[Footnote 2: Who, by insinuating that the post of secretary was +unsuitable for a clergyman, obtained it for himself, though it had been +promised to Swift; and when Swift claimed the Deanery of Derry, in virtue +of Lord Berkeley's promise of the "first good preferment that should fall +in his gift," the earl referred him to Bush, who told him that it was +promised to another, but that if he would lay down a thousand pounds for +it he should have the preference. Swift, enraged at the insult, +immediately left the castle; but was ultimately pacified by being +presented with the Rectory of Agher and the Vicarages of Laracor and +Rathbeggan. See Forster's "Life of Swift," p. 111; Birkbeck Hill's +"Letters of Swift," and "Prose Works," vol. xi, 380.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Always taken before my lord went to council.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 3: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal"; the celebrated farce +written by the Duke of Buckingham, in conjunction with Martin Clifford, +Butler, Sprat, and others, in ridicule of the rhyming tragedies then in +vogue, and especially of Dryden in the character of Bayes.--See Malone's +"Life of Dryden," p. 95.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal," Act I, Sc. 1; Act II, +Sc. 1; always whispering each other.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +THE PROBLEM, + +"THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS WHEN HE IS IN LOVE" + + +Did ever problem thus perplex, +Or more employ the female sex? +So sweet a passion who would think, +Jove ever form'd to make a stink? +The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, +Whether it be a truth or lie. +Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, +Works in my lord by stool and sweat, +Which brings a stink from every pore, +And from behind and from before; +Yet what is wonderful to tell it, +None but the favourite nymph can smell it. +But now, to solve the natural cause +By sober philosophic laws; +Whether all passions, when in ferment, +Work out as anger does in vermin; +So, when a weasel you torment, +You find his passion by his scent. +We read of kings, who, in a fright, +Though on a throne, would fall to sh--. +Beside all this, deep scholars know, +That the main string of Cupid's bow, +Once on a time was an a-- gut; +Now to a nobler office put, +By favour or desert preferr'd +From giving passage to a t--; +But still, though fix'd among the stars, +Does sympathize with human a--. +Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech, +Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch, +Till the kind looseness comes, and then, +Conclude the bow relax'd again. + And now, the ladies all are bent, +To try the great experiment, +Ambitious of a regent's heart, +Spread all their charms to catch a f-- +Watching the first unsavoury wind, +Some ply before, and some behind. +My lord, on fire amid the dames, +F--ts like a laurel in the flames. +The fair approach the speaking part, +To try the back-way to his heart. +For, as when we a gun discharge, +Although the bore be none so large, +Before the flame from muzzle burst, +Just at the breech it flashes first; +So from my lord his passion broke, +He f--d first and then he spoke. + The ladies vanish in the smother, +To confer notes with one another; +And now they all agreed to name +Whom each one thought the happy dame. +Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, +I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink. +You smell the stink! by G--d, you lie, +Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. +Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear; +Let's not fall out; we all had share; +And, by the most I can discover, +My lord's a universal lover. + + + + +THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 + +From Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. x, 67; lib. xxix. + +As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are +Call'd _Pompey, Scipio_, and _Caesar;_ +As pies and daws are often styl'd +With Christian nicknames, like a child; +As we say _Monsieur_ to an ape, +Without offence to human shape; +So men have got, from bird and brute, +Names that would best their nature suit. +The _Lion, Eagle, Fox_, and _Boar_, +Were heroes' titles heretofore, +Bestow'd as hi'roglyphics fit +To show their valour, strength, or wit: +For what is understood by _fame_, +Besides the getting of a _name?_ +But, e'er since men invented guns, +A diff'rent way their fancy runs: +To paint a hero, we inquire +For something that will conquer _fire._ +Would you describe _Turenne_[1] or _Trump?_[2] +Think of a _bucket_ or a _pump._ +Are these too low?--then find out grander, +Call my LORD CUTTS a _Salamander._[3] +'Tis well;--but since we live among +Detractors with an evil tongue, +Who may object against the term, +Pliny shall prove what we affirm: +Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply, +And I'll be judg'd by standers by. +First, then, our author has defined +This reptile of the serpent kind, +With gaudy coat, and shining train; +But loathsome spots his body stain: +Out from some hole obscure he flies, +When rains descend, and tempests rise, +Till the sun clears the air; and then +Crawls back neglected to his den.[4] + So, when the war has raised a storm, +I've seen a snake in human form, +All stain'd with infamy and vice, +Leap from the dunghill in a trice, +Burnish and make a gaudy show, +Become a general, peer, and beau, +Till peace has made the sky serene, +Then shrink into its hole again. +"All this we grant--why then, look yonder, +Sure that must be a Salamander!" + Further, we are by Pliny told, +This serpent is extremely cold; +So cold, that, put it in the fire, +'Twill make the very flames expire: +Besides, it spues a filthy froth +(Whether thro' rage or lust or both) +Of matter purulent and white, +Which, happening on the skin to light, +And there corrupting to a wound, +Spreads leprosy and baldness round.[5] + So have I seen a batter'd beau, +By age and claps grown cold as snow, +Whose breath or touch, where'er he came, +Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame: +And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel, +Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel, +Receive the filth which he ejects, +She soon would find the same effects +Her tainted carcass to pursue, +As from the Salamander's spue; +A dismal shedding of her locks, +And, if no leprosy, a pox. +"Then I'll appeal to each bystander, +If this be not a Salamander?" + + +[Footnote 1: The famous Mareschal Turenne, general of the French forces, +called the greatest commander of the age.] + +[Footnote 2: Admiral of the States General in their war with England, +eminent for his courage and his victories.] + +[Footnote 3: Who obtained this name from his coolness under fire at the +siege of Namur. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. +267.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 4: "Animal lacertae figura, stellatum, numquam nisi magnis +imbribus proveniens et serenitate desinens."--Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. +x, 67.] + +[Footnote 5: "Huic tantus rigor ut ignem tactu restinguat non alio modo +quam glacies. ejusdem sanie, quae lactea ore vomitur, quacumque parte +corporis humani contacta toti defluunt pili, idque quod contactum est +colorem in vitiliginem mutat."--Lib. x, 67. "Inter omnia venenata +salamandrae scelus maximum est. . . . nam si arbori inrepsit omnia poma +inficit veneno, et eos qui ederint necat frigida vi nihil aconito +distans."--Lib. xxix, 4, 23.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + + + Mordanto fills the trump of fame, +The Christian world his deeds proclaim, +And prints are crowded with his name. + + In journeys he outrides the post, +Sits up till midnight with his host, +Talks politics, and gives the toast. + + Knows every prince in Europe's face, +Flies like a squib from place to place, +And travels not, but runs a race. + + From Paris gazette à-la-main, +This day arriv'd, without his train, +Mordanto in a week from Spain. + + A messenger comes all a-reek +Mordanto at Madrid to seek; +He left the town above a week. + + Next day the post-boy winds his horn, +And rides through Dover in the morn: +Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. + + Mordanto gallops on alone, +The roads are with his followers strewn, +This breaks a girth, and that a bone; + + His body active as his mind, +Returning sound in limb and wind, +Except some leather lost behind. + + A skeleton in outward figure, +His meagre corps, though full of vigour, +Would halt behind him, were it bigger. + + So wonderful his expedition, +When you have not the least suspicion, +He's with you like an apparition. + + Shines in all climates like a star; +In senates bold, and fierce in war; +A land commander, and a tar: + + Heroic actions early bred in, +Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, +But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden.[2] + + +[Footnote 1: Who in the year 1705 took Barcelona, and in the winter +following with only 280 horse and 900 foot enterprized and accomplished +the conquest of Valentia.--_Pope_. + + "--he whose lightning pierc'd th'Iberian lines, + Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, + Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain + Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." + POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Sat. 1. + +Lord Peterborough seems to have been equally famous for his skill in +cookery. See note to above Satire, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and +Courthope, iii, 298.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: See Voltaire's "History of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden." + "He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale." + JOHNSON, _Vanity of Human Wishes_.] + + + + +ON THE UNION + +The queen has lately lost a part +Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart, +For want of which, by way of botch, +She pieced it up again with SCOTCH. +Blest revolution! which creates +Divided hearts, united states! +See how the double nation lies, +Like a rich coat with skirts of frize: +As if a man, in making posies, +Should bundle thistles up with roses. +Who ever yet a union saw +Of kingdoms without faith or law?[2] +Henceforward let no statesman dare +A kingdom to a ship compare; +Lest he should call our commonweal +A vessel with a double keel: +Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd, +And got about a league from land, +By change of wind to leeward side, +The pilot knew not how to guide. +So tossing faction will o'erwhelm +Our crazy double-bottom'd realm. + + +[Footnote 1: The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: _I.e._, Differing in religion and law.] + + + + +ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; + +OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. 1707 + + +When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat +To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a +country scene, +Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: +From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy +Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. +The Graces from the court did next provide +Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: +These Venus cleans'd from ev'ry spurious grain +Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. +Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; +Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD. + + + + +THE REVERSE + +(TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR, MRS. CLUDD + +Venus one day, as story goes, +But for what reason no man knows, +In sullen mood and grave deport, +Trudged it away to Jove's high court; +And there his Godship did entreat +To look out for his best receipt: +And make a monster strange and odd, +Abhorr'd by man and every god. +Jove, ever kind to all the fair, +Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, +Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took +A neatly bound and well-gilt book; +Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, +But what was very choice and rare. +Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,-- +It might be more, for aught I knew; +But, be the matter more or less, +'Mong friends 'twill break no squares, I guess. +Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, +Here's one will fit you to a T. +But, as the writing doth prescribe, +'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. +Away he went, and search'd the stews, +And every street about the Mews; +Diseases, impudence, and lies, +Are found and brought him in a trice. +From Hackney then he did provide, +A clumsy air and awkward pride; +From lady's toilet next he brought +Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. +These Jove put in an old close-stool, +And with them mix'd the vain, the fool. + But now came on his greatest care, +Of what he should his paste prepare; +For common clay or finer mould +Was much too good, such stuff to hold. +At last he wisely thought on mud; +So raised it up, and call'd it--_Cludd._ +With this, the lady well content, +Low curtsey'd, and away she went. + + + + +APOLLO OUTWITTED + +TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,[1] UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA + + +Phoebus, now short'ning every shade, + Up to the northern _tropic_ came, +And thence beheld a lovely maid, + Attending on a royal dame. + +The god laid down his feeble rays, + Then lighted from his glitt'ring coach; +But fenc'd his head with his own bays, + Before he durst the nymph approach. + +Under those sacred leaves, secure + From common lightning of the skies, +He fondly thought he might endure + The flashes of Ardelia's eyes. + +The nymph, who oft had read in books + Of that bright god whom bards invoke, +Soon knew Apollo by his looks, + And guess'd his business ere he spoke. + +He, in the old celestial cant, + Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, +Whate'er she would desire, to grant-- + But wise Ardelia knew his tricks. + +Ovid had warn'd her to beware + Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, +Under pretence of taking air, + To pick up sublunary ladies. + +Howe'er, she gave no flat denial, + As having malice in her heart; +And was resolv'd upon a trial, + To cheat the god in his own art. + +"Hear my request," the virgin said; + "Let which I please of all the Nine +Attend, whene'er I want their aid, + Obey my call, and only mine." + +By vow oblig'd, by passion led, + The god could not refuse her prayer: +He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, + Thrice mutter'd something to the air. + +And now he thought to seize his due; + But she the charm already try'd: +Thalia heard the call, and flew + To wait at bright Ardelia's side. + +On sight of this celestial _prude_, + Apollo thought it vain to stay; +Nor in her presence durst be rude, + But made his leg and went away. + +He hop'd to find some lucky hour, + When on their queen the Muses wait; +But Pallas owns Ardelia's power: + For vows divine are kept by Fate. + +Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke: + "Deceitful nymph! I see thy art; +And, though I can't my gift revoke, + I'll disappoint its nobler part. + +"Let stubborn pride possess thee long, + And be thou negligent of fame; +With ev'ry Muse to grace thy song, + May'st thou despise a poet's name! + +"Of modest poets be thou first; + To silent shades repeat thy verse, +Till Fame and Echo almost burst, + Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. + +"And last, my vengeance to compleat, + May you descend to take renown, +Prevail'd on by the thing you hate, + A Whig! and one that wears a gown!" + + +[Footnote 1: Afterwards Countess of Winchelsea.--_Scott_. See +Journal to Stella Aug. 7, 1712. The Countess was one of Swift's intimate +friends and correspondents. See "Prose Works," xi, 121.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] + +NOW FIRST PUBLISHED + + +I + +In pity to the empty'ng Town, + Some God May Fair invented, +When Nature would invite us down, + To be by Art prevented. + +II + +What a corrupted taste is ours + When milk maids in mock state +Instead of garlands made of Flowers + Adorn their pails with plate. + +III + +So are the joys which Nature yields + Inverted in May Fair, +In painted cloth we look for fields, + And step in Booths for air. + +IV + +Here a Dog dancing on his hams + And puppets mov'd by wire, +Do far exceed your frisking lambs, + Or song of feather'd quire. + +V +Howe'er, such verse as yours I grant + Would be but too inviting: +Were fair Ardelia not my Aunt, + Or were it Worsley's writing.[2] + + +[Footnote 1: Some ladies, among whom were Mrs. Worsley and Mrs. Finch, to +the latter of whom Swift addressed, under the name of Ardelia, the +preceding poem, appear to have written verses to him from May Fair, +offering him such temptations as that fashionable locality supplied to +detain him from the country and its pleasures: and thus he +replies.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 1: There is some playful allusion in this last stanza, not now +decipherable.--_Forster_.] + + + + +VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] + +BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + + +In times of old, when Time was young, +And poets their own verses sung, +A verse would draw a stone or beam, +That now would overload a team; +Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, +Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. +Each number had its diff'rent power; +Heroic strains could build a tower; +Sonnets and elegies to Chloris, +Might raise a house about two stories; +A lyric ode would slate; a catch +Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + Now Poets feel this art is lost, +Both to their own and landlord's cost. +Not one of all the tuneful throng +Can hire a lodging for a song. +For Jove consider'd well the case, +That poets were a numerous race; +And if they all had power to build, +The earth would very soon be fill'd: +Materials would be quickly spent, +And houses would not give a rent. +The God of Wealth was therefore made +Sole patron of the building trade; +Leaving to wits the spacious air, +With license to build castles there: +In right whereof their old pretence +To lodge in garrets comes from thence. +There is a worm by Phoebus bred, +By leaves of mulberry is fed, +Which unprovided where to dwell, +Conforms itself to weave a cell; +Then curious hands this texture take, +And for themselves fine garments make. +Meantime a pair of awkward things +Grow to his back instead of wings; +He flutters when he thinks he flies, +Then sheds about his spawn and dies. +Just such an insect of the age +Is he that scribbles for the stage; +His birth he does from Phoebus raise, +And feeds upon imagin'd bays; +Throws all his wit and hours away +In twisting up an ill spun Play: +This gives him lodging and provides +A stock of tawdry shift besides. +With the unravell'd shreds of which +The under wits adorn their speech: +And now he spreads his little fans, +(For all the Muses Geese are Swans) +And borne on Fancy's pinions, thinks +He soars sublimest when he sinks: +But scatt'ring round his fly-blows, dies; +Whence broods of insect-poets rise. + Premising thus, in modern way, +The greater part I have to say; +Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, +In higher strain than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) +Is both a Herald and a Poet; +No wonder then if nicely skill'd +In each capacity to build. +As Herald, he can in a day +Repair a house gone to decay; +Or by achievements, arms, device, +Erect a new one in a trice; +And poets, if they had their due, +By ancient right are builders too: +This made him to Apollo pray +For leave to build--the poets way. +His prayer was granted, for the God +Consented with the usual nod. + After hard throes of many a day +Van was delivered of a play, +Which in due time brought forth a house, +Just as the mountain did the mouse. +One story high, one postern door, +And one small chamber on a floor, +Born like a phoenix from the flame: +But neither bulk nor shape the same; +As animals of largest size +Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; +A type of modern wit and style, +The rubbish of an ancient pile; +So chemists boast they have a power, +From the dead ashes of a flower +Some faint resemblance to produce, +But not the virtue, taste, nor juice. +So modern rhymers strive to blast +The poetry of ages past; +Which, having wisely overthrown, +They from its ruins build their own. + + +[Footnote 1: This is the earlier version of the Poem discovered by +Forster at Narford, the residence of Mr. Fountaine. See Forster's "Life +of Swift," p. 163.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] + +BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + +In times of old, when Time was young, +And poets their own verses sung, +A verse would draw a stone or beam, +That now would overload a team; +Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, +Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. +Each number had its diff'rent power; +Heroic strains could build a tower; +Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, +Might raise a house about two stories; +A lyric ode would slate; a catch +Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + But, to their own or landlord's cost, +Now Poets feel this art is lost. +Not one of all our tuneful throng +Can raise a lodging for a song. +For Jove consider'd well the case, +Observed they grew a numerous race; +And should they build as fast as write, +'Twould ruin undertakers quite. +This evil, therefore, to prevent, +He wisely changed their element: +On earth the God of Wealth was made +Sole patron of the building trade; +Leaving the Wits the spacious air, +With license to build castles there: +And 'tis conceived their old pretence +To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + Premising thus, in modern way, +The better half we have to say; +Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, +In higher strains than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) +Is both a Herald[2] and a Poet; +No wonder then if nicely skill'd +In both capacities to build. +As Herald, he can in a day +Repair a house gone to decay; +Or, by achievements, arms, device, +Erect a new one in a trice; +And as a poet, he has skill +To build in speculation still. +"Great Jove!" he cried, "the art restore +To build by verse as heretofore, +And make my Muse the architect; +What palaces shall we erect! +No longer shall forsaken Thames +Lament his old Whitehall in flames; +A pile shall from its ashes rise, +Fit to invade or prop the skies." + Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god, +Consenting with the usual nod, +Told Van, he knew his talent best, +And left the choice to his own breast. +So Van resolved to write a farce; +But, well perceiving wit was scarce, +With cunning that defect supplies: +Takes a French play as lawful prize;[3] +Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, +Not once suspecting Jove would smoke; +And (like a wag set down to write) +Would whisper to himself, "a _bite_." +Then, from this motley mingled style, +Proceeded to erect his pile. +So men of old, to gain renown, did +Build Babel with their tongues confounded. +Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best +To turn the matter to a jest; +Down from Olympus' top he slides, +Laughing as if he'd burst his sides: +Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks, +Why then old plays deserve old bricks; +And since you're sparing of your stuff, +Your building shall be small enough. +He spake, and grudging, lent his aid; +Th'experienced bricks, that knew their trade, +(As being bricks at second hand,) +Now move, and now in order stand. + The building, as the Poet writ, +Rose in proportion to his wit-- +And first the prologue built a wall; +So wide as to encompass all. +The scene, a wood, produc'd no more +Than a few scrubby trees before. +The plot as yet lay deep; and so +A cellar next was dug below; +But this a work so hard was found, +Two acts it cost him under ground. +Two other acts, we may presume, +Were spent in building each a room. +Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift +To raise a roof with act the fift. +The epilogue behind did frame +A place, not decent here to name. + Now, Poets from all quarters ran, +To see the house of brother Van; +Looked high and low, walk'd often round; +But no such house was to be found. +One asks the watermen hard by, +"Where may the Poet's palace lie?" +Another of the Thames inquires, +If he has seen its gilded spires? +At length they in the rubbish spy +A thing resembling a goose-pie. +Thither in haste the Poets throng, +And gaze in silent wonder long, +Till one in raptures thus began +To praise the pile and builder Van: + "Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trail +Thy house about thee like a snail: +Or harness'd to a nag, at ease +Take journeys in it like a chaise; +Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt, +Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt! +Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all +Thou'rt well contrived, tho' thou art small: +For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isle +May lodge within thy spacious pile. +Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign, +Thy mother burnt, art born again, +Born like a phoenix from the flame: +But neither bulk nor shape the same; +As animals of largest size +Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; +A type of modern wit and style, +The rubbish of an ancient pile; +So chemists boast they have a power, +From the dead ashes of a flower +Some faint resemblance to produce, +But not the virtue, taste, or juice. +So modern rhymers wisely blast +The poetry of ages past; +Which, after they have overthrown, +They from its ruins build their own." + + +[Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in +all editions of Swift's works.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of +Clarencieux king of arms.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from +Molière.--_Scott_. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was +indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only +one taken from Molière was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Dépit +Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked +Wife," were original.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + +ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES +IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. +IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + + +In ancient time, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter's night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Came to a village hard by Rixham,[2] +Ragged and not a groat betwixt 'em. +It rain'd as hard as it could pour, +Yet they were forced to walk an hour +From house to house, wet to the skin, +Before one soul would let 'em in. +They call'd at every door: "Good people, +My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple! +Here we lie starving in the street, +'Twould grieve a body's heart to see't, +No Christian would turn out a beast, +In such a dreadful night at least; +Give us but straw and let us lie +In yonder barn to keep us dry." +Thus in the stroller's usual cant, +They begg'd relief, which none would grant. +No creature valued what they said, +One family was gone to bed: +The master bawled out half asleep, +"You fellows, what a noise you keep! +So many beggars pass this way, +We can't be quiet, night nor day; +We cannot serve you every one; +Pray take your answer, and be gone." +One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks; +A third could not forbear his mocks; +But bawl'd as loud as he could roar +"You're on the wrong side of the door!" +One surly clown look't out and said, +"I'll fling the p--pot on your head: +You sha'nt come here, nor get a sous! +You look like rogues would rob a house. +Can't you go work, or serve the King? +You blind and lame! 'Tis no such thing. +That's but a counterfeit sore leg! +For shame! two sturdy rascals beg! +If I come down, _I'll_ spoil your trick, +And cure you both with a good stick." + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having thro' all the village past, +To a small cottage came at last +Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, +Call'd thereabout good man Philemon; +Who kindly did the saints invite +In his poor house to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +Whilst he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fry'd; +Which tost up in a pan with batter, +And served up in an earthen platter, +Quoth Baucis, "This is wholesome fare, +Eat, honest friends, and never spare, +And if we find our victuals fail, +We can but make it out in ale." + To a small kilderkin of beer, +Brew'd for the good time of the year, +Philemon, by his wife's consent, +Stept with a jug, and made a vent, +And having fill'd it to the brink, +Invited both the saints to drink. +When they had took a second draught, +Behold, a miracle was wrought; +For, Baucis with amazement found, +Although the jug had twice gone round, +It still was full up to the top, +As they ne'er had drunk a drop. +You may be sure so strange a sight, +Put the old people in a fright: +Philemon whisper'd to his wife, +"These men are--Saints--I'll lay my life!" +The strangers overheard, and said, +"You're in the right--but be'nt afraid: +No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their village shall be drown'd; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes." + Scarce had they spoke, when fair and soft, +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; +The heavy wall went clambering after. +The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist, +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below: +In vain; for a superior force +Applied at bottom stops its course: +Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + The wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increas'd by new intestine wheels; +But what adds to the wonder more, +The number made the motion slower. +The flyer, altho't had leaden feet, +Would turn so quick you scarce could see't; +But, now stopt by some hidden powers, +Moves round but twice in twice twelve hours, +While in the station of a jack, +'Twas never known to turn its back, +A friend in turns and windings tried, +Nor ever left the chimney's side. +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But, up against the steeple rear'd, +Became a clock, and still adher'd; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cookmaid not to burn +That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge insect, up the wall; +There stuck, and to a pulpit grew, +But kept its matter and its hue, +And mindful of its ancient state, +Still groans while tattling gossips prate. +The mortar only chang'd its name, +In its old shape a font became. + The porringers, that in a row, +Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, +To a less noble substance chang'd, +Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Chevy Chase, and English Mall,[3] +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Enlarged in picture, size, and letter, +And painted, lookt abundance better, +And now the heraldry describe +Of a churchwarden, or a tribe. +A bedstead of the antique mode, +Composed of timber many a load, +Such as our grandfathers did use, +Was metamorphos'd into pews; +Which yet their former virtue keep +By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, with such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees, +The holy men desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Replied in complimental style: +"Your goodness, more than my desert, +Makes you take all things in good part: +You've raised a church here in a minute, +And I would fain continue in it; +I'm good for little at my days, +Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat reach down his heels; +The sleeves new border'd with a list, +Widen'd and gather'd at his wrist, +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +A shambling awkward gait he took, +With a demure dejected look, +Talk't of his offerings, tythes, and dues, +Could smoke and drink and read the news, +Or sell a goose at the next town, +Decently hid beneath his gown. +Contriv'd to preach old sermons next, +Chang'd in the preface and the text. +At christ'nings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wish'd women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; +Against dissenters would repine. +And stood up firm for "right divine;" +Carried it to his equals higher, +But most obedient to the squire. +Found his head fill'd with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. +Instead of homespun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;[4] +Her petticoat, transform'd apace, +Became black satin, flounced with lace. +"Plain Goody" would no longer down, +'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes. +Amaz'd to see her look so prim, +And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which prov'd their last, +Discoursing o'er old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard, to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cry'd out, +"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- +"Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true, +And really yours is budding too-- +Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; +It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, +In short, they both were turn'd to yews. +Old Goodman Dobson of the Green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folk to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening prayer, +He gathers all the parish there; +Points out the place of either yew, +Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; +At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd +How much the other tree was griev'd, +Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, +So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. + + + +[Footnote 1: I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster +found in Swift's handwriting at Narford; and which has never been +published. It is well known that, at Addison's suggestion, Swift made +extensive changes in this, "one of the happiest of his poems," concerning +which Forster says, in his "Life of Swift," at p. 165: "The poem, as +printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I +found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the +latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has +been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the +addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two. The question +can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and, +in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison."--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: The "village hard by Rixham" of the original has as little +connection with "Chilthorne" as the "village down in Kent" of the altered +version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for +either.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: See the next poem for note on this line. Chevy Chase seems +more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered +version.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M. +Colbert Planché's "Costume," p. 395.--_W. E. B_.] + + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + +ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF +CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. +IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went +To a small village down in Kent; +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begg'd from door to door in vain, +Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having thro' all the village past, +To a small cottage came at last +Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, +Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fry'd; +Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink, +Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what was wonderful) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. +The good old couple were amaz'd, +And often on each other gaz'd; +For both were frighten'd to the heart, +And just began to cry, "What _art_!" +Then softly turn'd aside, to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, +Told them their calling and their errand: +"Good folk, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints," the hermits said; +"No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drown'd; +While you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes." + They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher +Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fasten'd to a joist, +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below: +In vain; for a superior force +Applied at bottom stops its course: +Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increas'd by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more, +The number made the motion slower. +The flyer, though it had leaden feet, +Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; +But, slacken'd by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near ally'd, +Had never left each other's side; +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But, up against the steeple rear'd, +Became a clock, and still adher'd; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon, declares, +Warning the cookmaid not to burn +That roast meat, which it cannot turn. +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like an huge snail, half up the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change, a pulpit grew. + The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, +To a less noble substance chang'd, +Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3] +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seem'd to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter: +And, high in order plac'd, describe +The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4] + A bedstead of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphos'd into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep +By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees, +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancy'd most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Return'd them thanks in homely style; +Then said, "My house is grown so fine, +Methinks, I still would call it mine. +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues: +Could smoke his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamp'd in the preface and the text; +At christ'nings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wish'd women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; +Against dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for "right divine;" +Found his head fill'd with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. +Instead of homespun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transform'd apace, +Became black satin, flounced with lace. +"Plain Goody" would no longer down, +'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes. +Amaz'd to see her look so prim, +And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which prov'd their last, +Discoursing o'er old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +[5]To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cry'd out, +"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- +"Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true, +And really yours is budding too--Nay,--now +I cannot stir my foot; +It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, +In short, they both were turn'd to yews. +Old Goodman Dobson of the Green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folk to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening prayer, +He gathers all the parish there; +Points out the place of either yew, +Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; +At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd +How much the other tree was griev'd, +Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, +So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. + + +[Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in +accordance with Addison's suggestions.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orléans. See "Hudibras," "Lady's Answer," verse +285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular +ballad was written. The line in the text is from "Hudibras," Part I, +c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla: + "A bold virago, stout and tall, + As Joan of France, or English Mall." +The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii, +239.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country +churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.--_Dublin Edition_.] + + +[Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.--_Dublin Edition_.] + + + + +THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE +1708 + +When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, +And call'd to take the cards away, +Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, +How Miss pick'd every painted card, +And, busy both with hand and eye, +Soon rear'd a house two stories high. +Van's genius, without thought or lecture +Is hugely turn'd to architecture: +He view'd the edifice, and smiled, +Vow'd it was pretty for a child: +It was so perfect in its kind, +He kept the model in his mind. + But, when he found the boys at play +And saw them dabbling in their clay, +He stood behind a stall to lurk, +And mark the progress of their work; +With true delight observed them all +Raking up mud to build a wall. +The plan he much admired, and took +The model in his table-book: +Thought himself now exactly skill'd, +And so resolved a house to build: +A real house, with rooms and stairs, +Five times at least as big as theirs; +Taller than Miss's by two yards; +Not a sham thing of play or cards: +And so he did; for, in a while, +He built up such a monstrous pile, +That no two chairmen could be found +Able to lift it from the ground. +Still at Whitehall it stands in view, +Just in the place where first it grew; +There all the little schoolboys run, +Envying to see themselves outdone. + From such deep rudiments as these, +Van is become, by due degrees, +For building famed, and justly reckon'd, +At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3] +No wonder, since wise authors show, +That best foundations must be low: +And now the duke has wisely ta'en him +To be his architect at Blenheim. + But raillery at once apart, +If this rule holds in every art; +Or if his grace were no more skill'd in +The art of battering walls than building, +We might expect to see next year +A mouse-trap man chief engineer. + + +[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 51, "The Reverse."--_W, E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De +Architectura."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of +his majesty's works.--_Scott_.] + + + + +A GRUB-STREET ELEGY + +ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708 + + +Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, +Though we all took it for a jest: +Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd, +Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd. +Strange, an astrologer should die +Without one wonder in the sky; +Not one of all his crony stars +To pay their duty at his hearse! +No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! +No comet with a flaming beard! +The sun hath rose and gone to bed, +Just as if Partridge were not dead; +Nor hid himself behind the moon +To make a dreadful night at noon. +He at fit periods walks through Aries, +Howe'er our earthly motion varies; +And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator, +As if there had been no such matter. + Some wits have wonder'd what analogy +There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology; +How Partridge made his optics rise +From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. + A list the cobbler's temples ties, +To keep the hair out of his eyes; +From whence 'tis plain the diadem +That princes wear derives from them; +And therefore crowns are now-a-days +Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; +Which plainly shows the near alliance +'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science. + Besides, that slow-paced sign Böötes, +As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis; +But Partridge ended all disputes; +He knew his trade, and call'd it _boots_.[3] + The horned moon,[4] which heretofore +Upon their shoes the Romans wore, +Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, +And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, +Shows how the art of cobbling bears +A near resemblance to the spheres. +A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, +(A great refiner in barometry,) +Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; +And what is parchment else but leather? +Which an astrologer might use +Either for almanacks or shoes. + Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, +At once did practise both these arts: +And as the boding owl (or rather +The bat, because her wings are leather) +Steals from her private cell by night, +And flies about the candle-light; +So learned Partridge could as well +Creep in the dark from leathern cell, +And in his fancy fly as far +To peep upon a twinkling star. + Besides, he could confound the spheres, +And set the planets by the ears; +To show his skill, he Mars could join +To Venus in aspect malign; +Then call in Mercury for aid, +And cure the wounds that Venus made. + Great scholars have in Lucian read, +When Philip King of Greece was dead +His soul and spirit did divide, +And each part took a different side; +One rose a star; the other fell +Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5] + Thus Partridge still shines in each art, +The cobbling and star-gazing part, +And is install'd as good a star +As any of the Caesars are. + Triumphant star! some pity show +On cobblers militant below, +Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, +Torment by pissing out their lights, +Or through a chink convey their smoke, +Enclosed artificers to choke. + Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, +May'st follow still thy calling there. +To thee the Bull will lend his hide, +By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd; +For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, +And scrape her pitchy sides for wax: +Then Ariadne kindly lends +Her braided hair to make thee ends; +The points of Sagittarius' dart +Turns to an awl by heavenly art; +And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, +Will forge for thee a paring-knife. +For want of room by Virgo's side, +She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride, +To take thee kindly in between; +And then the Signs will be Thirteen. + + + +[Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by +Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 _et seq.--W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 3: See his Almanack.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver +which distinguished the wearer as a senator. + "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."--Juvenal, _Sat_. vii, 192; and +Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.] + +[Footnote 6: + "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens + Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit." +VIRG., _Georg._, i, 34.] + + + + +THE EPITAPH + +Here, five feet deep, lies on his back +A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; +Who to the stars, in pure good will, +Does to his best look upward still. +Weep, all you customers that use +His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; +And you that did your fortunes seek, +Step to his grave but once a-week; +This earth, which bears his body's print, +You'll find has so much virtue in't, +That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell +Whate'er concerns you full as well, +In physic, stolen goods, or love, +As he himself could, when above. + + + + +A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING + +WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1] + + +Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach +Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. +Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, +And softly stole to discompose her own; +The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door +Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. +Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, +Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. +The youth with broomy stumps began to trace +The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2] +The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, +Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: +Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; +And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. +The turnkey now his flock returning sees, +Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3] +The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, +And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. + + +[Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, +1786.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: To find old nails.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the +prison.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] + +WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238 + + +Careful observers may foretell the hour, +(By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower. +While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er +Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. +Returning home at night, you'll find the sink +Strike your offended sense with double stink. +If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: +You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. +A coming shower your shooting corns presage, +Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; +Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; +He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. +Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, +A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, +That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, +And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. +Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, +While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; +Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean +Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: +You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop +To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. +Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, +But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, +And wafted with its foe by violent gust, +'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3] +Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, +When dust and rain at once his coat invade? +Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, +Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! +Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, +Threatening with deluge this _devoted_ town. +To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, +Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. +The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, +Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. +The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, +While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. +Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, +Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. +Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5] +Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. +Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, +While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, +And ever and anon with frightful din +The leather sounds; he trembles from within. +So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, +Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, +(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, +Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) +Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear, +And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. + Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, +And bear their trophies with them as they go: +Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell +What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell. +They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, +From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, +And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, +Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7] +Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, +Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, +Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. + + +[Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in +the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis +the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of +Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: +"there never was such a Shower since Danäe's," etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost +the right pronunciation, have _aches_ as one syllable; and then to +complete the metre have foisted in "aches _will_ throb." Thus, what the +poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See +Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81, +edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line +407, where persons are mentioned who + "Can by their Pangs and _Aches_ find + All turns and changes of the wind."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S +_Dispensary_.] + +[Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the +"Miscellanies": + "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, + Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.] + +[Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in +"The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of +Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition +of Pope, 8vo, 1751.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK +1710 + +Whoever pleases to inquire +Why yonder steeple wants a spire, +The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1] +The philosophic cause will show. +Once on a time a western blast, +At least twelve inches overcast, +Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all, +Which came with a prodigious fall; +And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, +Lit with its bottom on the ground: +For, by the laws of gravitation, +It fell into its proper station. + This is the little strutting pile +You see just by the churchyard stile; +The walls in tumbling gave a knock, +And thus the steeple got a shock; +From whence the neighbouring farmer calls +The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2] + The vicar once a-week creeps in, +Sits with his knees up to his chin; +Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, +Till the small ragged flock is met. + A traveller, who by did pass, +Observed the roof behind the grass; +On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, +And saw the parson creeping out: +Was much surprised to see a crow +Venture to build his nest so low. + A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought +The crib was down, the blackbird caught. +A third, who lost his way by night, +Was forced for safety to alight, +And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, +His horse had like to spoil his hoof. + Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, +This building was design'd a model; +Or of a pigeon-house or oven, +To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. + Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, +And every one was pleased that heard it; +All that you make this stir about +Is but a still which wants a spout. +The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd +More probably than all the rest; +He said, but that it wanted room, +It might have been a pigmy's tomb. + The doctor's family came by, +And little miss began to cry, +Give me that house in my own hand! +Then madam bade the chariot stand, +Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, +Pray, reach that thing here to the child: +That thing, I mean, among the kale; +And here's to buy a pot of ale. + The clerk said to her in a heat, +What! sell my master's country seat, +Where he comes every week from town! +He would not sell it for a crown. +Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; +In half an hour thou'lt make another. + Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss +A finer house ten times than this; +The dean will give me willow sticks, +And Joe my apron-full of bricks. + + +[Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, +for venerable white locks.--_Scott_. He had a claim on the Irish +Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works," +vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire +for a collector's place.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.] + +[Footnote 4: Stella.] + +[Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.] + +[Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.] + + + + +A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] + +_Scene, the Royal Exchange_ + +CORYDON + +Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, +No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, +While other girls confess the genial spring, +And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, +Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, +And throw each useless chafing-dish away; +Why sits my Phillis discontented here, +Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? +Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, +Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play? + +PHILLIS + +Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, +Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: +Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, +Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; +Then how you swore, how many vows you made! +Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, +Waft the soft accents to the gods above. +Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) +I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame. + +CORYDON + +When I forget the favour you bestow'd, +Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road: +Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, +And mass be sung where operas are seen. +The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, +Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; +Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, +At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum. + +PHILLIS + +But what to me does all that love avail, +If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, +Each night with wine and wenches you regale? +My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, +And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. +On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, +And with shrill voice invite them as they go. +Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine, +And unregarded wave upon the twine. +The week flies round, and when my profit's known, +I hardly clear enough to change a crown. + +CORYDON + +Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, +Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; +As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, +And ruddy peaches them; as first in place +Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, +And ice on that: so Phillis does appear +In playhouse and in Park, above the rest +Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest. + +PHILLIS + +And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, +Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, +And views me hourly with a scornful eye. + +CORYDON + +She might as well with bright Cleora vie. + +PHILLIS + +With this large petticoat I strive in vain +To hide my folly past, and coming pain; +'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, +Observe the symptoms I had once before: +A second babe at Wapping must be placed, +When I scarce bear the charges of the last. + +CORYDON + +What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, +Five shillings, and a coral for his gums; +To-morrow I intend him something more. + +PHILLIS + +I sent a frock and pair of shoes before. + +CORYDON + +However, you shall home with me to-night, +Forget your cares, and revel in delight, +I have in store a pint or two of wine, +Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine. + + And now on either side, and all around, +The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; +Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, +And ties her hood, preparing to be gone. + +L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T. + + +[Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals," +and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed +by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."--_Scott_.] + + +A CONFERENCE + +BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1] + + +CHARIOT + +My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, +To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; +Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day +At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; +And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion +Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;-- +Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love +As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; +Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, +I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; +And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, +Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together. + +CHAIR + +By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, +With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry. +By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; +He that makes love to me, must make it in French. +Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, +Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit? +Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, +No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix: +Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, +With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat. +Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat, +And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat. +You may think that you make a figure most shining, +But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining. +Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry, +To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry? +If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due +In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to. + +CHARIOT + +Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; +Is it your French breeding has made you so pert? +Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: +Who is it that values your ---- or your fox? +Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed +His bloody red hand to her bloody red head. +You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail +Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; +And although it may pass for gold on a ninny, +Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea. +Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, +Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket. +I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; +Your velvet was wore before in a mant, +On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,-- +The fire she carries hath changed its colour. +Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, +If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; +They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, +Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare. +We know how your lady was on you befriended; +You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: +But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; +She is two or three years above being out. +Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour +On one he can't hope of e'er making _bigger_. + + +[Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom +Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll +of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, +whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery." +See, _post_, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] +OCTOBER 31, 1713 + +Among the numbers who employ +Their tongues and pens to give you joy, +Dear Harley! generous youth, admit +What friendship dictates more than wit. +Forgive me, when I fondly thought +(By frequent observations taught) +A spirit so inform'd as yours +Could never prosper in amours. +The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, +With all acquired and natural parts, +Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, +Was an unfortunate gallant. +Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, +The nymph had soon been brought to yield; +Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, +The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. +Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, +Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; +For such is all the sex's flight, +They fly from learning, wit, and light; +They fly, and none can overtake +But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. + How then, dear Harley, could I guess +That you should meet, in love, success? +For, if those ancient tales be true, +Phoebus was beautiful as you; +Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, +For wit and learning spoil'd his face. +And since the same resemblance held +In gifts wherein you both excell'd, +I fancied every nymph would run +From you, as from Latona's son. +Then where, said I, shall Harley find +A virgin of superior mind, +With wit and virtue to discover, +And pay the merit of her lover? +This character shall Ca'endish claim, +Born to retrieve her sex's fame. +The chief among the glittering crowd, +Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, +(As fools are insolent and vain) +Madly aspired to wear her chain; +But Pallas, guardian of the maid, +Descending to her charge's aid, +Held out Medusa's snaky locks, +Which stupified them all to stocks. +The nymph with indignation view'd +The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; +For Pallas, with celestial light, +Had purified her mortal sight; +Show'd her the virtues all combined, +Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. + Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, +Display their various nets for hearts: +Their looks are all by method set, +When to be prude, and when coquette; +Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, +Their only pride is to refuse. +But, when a goddess would bestow +Her love on some bright youth below, +Round all the earth she casts her eyes; +And then, descending from the skies, +Makes choice of him she fancies best, +And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. +Thus the bright empress of the morn[3] +Chose for her spouse a mortal born: +The goddess made advances first; +Else what aspiring hero durst? +Though, like a virgin of fifteen, +She blushes when by mortals seen; +Still blushes, and with speed retires, +When Sol pursues her with his fires. + Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen +Struck with Endymion's graceful mien +Down from her silver chariot came, +And to the shepherd own'd her flame. + Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, +And chaster than the Queen of Night +Descended from her sphere to find +A mortal of superior kind. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married +Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of +Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the +Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and +Swift.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel +tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven; +hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 + + +Desponding Phyllis was endu'd +With ev'ry talent of a prude: +She trembled when a man drew near; +Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: +If o'er against her you were placed, +She durst not look above your waist: +She'd rather take you to her bed, +Than let you see her dress her head; +In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, +Repeat the absolution loud: +In church, secure behind her fan, +She durst behold that monster man: +There practis'd how to place her head, +And bite her lips to make them red; +Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, +Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. +And heave her bosom unaware, +For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare. + At length a lucky lover came, +And found admittance to the dame, +Suppose all parties now agreed, +The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, +The vicar and the ring bespoke: +Guess, how could such a match be broke? +See then what mortals place their bliss in! +Next morn betimes the bride was missing: +The mother scream'd, the father chid; +Where can this idle wench be hid? +No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, +And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; +Because her father used to say, +The girl had such a bashful way! + Now John the butler must be sent +To learn the road that Phyllis went: +The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; +For John must neither light nor stop, +But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, +And bring her back alive or dead. + See here again the devil to do! +For truly John was missing too: +The horse and pillion both were gone! +Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. + Old Madam, who went up to find +What papers Phyl had left behind, +A letter on the toilet sees, +"To my much honour'd father--these--" +('Tis always done, romances tell us, +When daughters run away with fellows,) +Fill'd with the choicest common-places, +By others used in the like cases. +"That long ago a fortune-teller +Exactly said what now befell her; +And in a glass had made her see +A serving-man of low degree. +It was her fate, must be forgiven; +For marriages were made in Heaven: +His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, +She'd do't if 'twere to do again: +Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin; +For John was come of honest kin. +Love never thinks of rich and poor; +She'd beg with John from door to door. +Forgive her, if it be a crime; +She'll never do't another time. +She ne'er before in all her life +Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife." +One argument she summ'd up all in, +"The thing was done and past recalling; +And therefore hoped she should recover +His favour when his passion's over. +She valued not what others thought her, +And was--his most obedient daughter." +Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, +Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: +Away they rode in homely sort, +Their journey long, their money short; +The loving couple well bemir'd; +The horse and both the riders tir'd: +Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; +Phyl cried! and John began to curse: +Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, +When first she ventured out with him; +John wish'd that he had broke a leg, +When first for her he quitted Peg. + But what adventures more befell 'em, +The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; +How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, +Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd: +How oft she broke her marriage vows, +In kindness to maintain her spouse, +Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; +For now the surgeon must be paid, +To whom those perquisites are gone, +In Christian justice due to John. + When food and raiment now grew scarce, +Fate put a period to the farce, +And with exact poetic justice; +For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; +They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, +Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore. + + +[Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.--_Swift_.] + + + + +HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX +ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718 + +Virtue conceal'd within our breast +Is inactivity at best: +But never shall the Muse endure +To let your virtues lie obscure; +Or suffer Envy to conceal +Your labours for the public weal. +Within your breast all wisdom lies, +Either to govern or advise; +Your steady soul preserves her frame, +In good and evil times, the same. +Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, +Stand in your sacred presence awed; +Your hand alone from gold abstains, +Which drags the slavish world in chains. + Him for a happy man I own, +Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2] +And happy he who wisely knows +To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; +Or, if it please the powers divine, +Can suffer want and not repine. +The man who infamy to shun +Into the arms of death would run; +That man is ready to defend, +With life, his country or his friend. + + +[Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less +friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, _passim_; and +an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.--_W. E. B._] + + +[Footnote 2: + "Non possidentem multa vocaveris + recte beatum: rectius occupat + nomen beati, qui deorum + muneribus sapienter uti + duramque callet pauperiem pati, + pejusque leto flagitium timet."] + + +TO MR. DELANY,[1] + +OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING + +To you whose virtues, I must own +With shame, I have too lately known; +To you, by art and nature taught +To be the man I long have sought, +Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, +Placed you in life too far behind: +Or, what I should repine at more, +Placed me in life too far before: +To you the Muse this verse bestows, +Which might as well have been in prose; +No thought, no fancy, no sublime, +But simple topics told in rhyme. + Three gifts for conversation fit +Are humour, raillery, and wit: +The last, as boundless as the wind, +Is well conceived, though not defined; +For, sure by wit is only meant +Applying what we first invent. +What humour is, not all the tribe +Of logic-mongers can describe; +Here only nature acts her part, +Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: +For wit and humour differ quite; +That gives surprise, and this delight, +Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, +Only by affectation spoil'd; +'Tis never by invention got, +Men have it when they know it not. + Our conversation to refine, +True humour must with wit combine: +From both we learn to rally well, +Wherein French writers most excel; +[2]Voiture, in various lights, displays +That irony which turns to praise: +His genius first found out the rule +For an obliging ridicule: +He flatters with peculiar air +The brave, the witty, and the fair: +And fools would fancy he intends +A satire where he most commends. + But as a poor pretending beau, +Because he fain would make a show, +Nor can afford to buy gold lace, +Takes up with copper in the place: +So the pert dunces of mankind, +Whene'er they would be thought refined, +Because the diff'rence lies abstruse +'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, +To show their parts will scold and rail, +Like porters o'er a pot of ale. + Such is that clan of boisterous bears, +Always together by the ears; +Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe +That meet for nothing but to gibe; +Who first run one another down, +And then fall foul on all the town; +Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, +And call'd by excellence The Club. +I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, +All special friends, and always jar. + The mettled and the vicious steed +Do not more differ in their breed, +Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, +As rudeness is to repartee. + If what you said I wish unspoke, +'Twill not suffice it was a joke: +Reproach not, though in jest, a friend +For those defects he cannot mend; +His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, +If named with scorn, gives just offence. + What use in life to make men fret, +Part in worse humour than they met? +Thus all society is lost, +Men laugh at one another's cost: +And half the company is teazed +That came together to be pleased: +For all buffoons have most in view +To please themselves by vexing you. + When jests are carried on too far, +And the loud laugh begins the war, +You keep your countenance for shame, +Yet still you think your friend to blame; +For though men cry they love a jest, +'Tis but when others stand the test; +And (would you have their meaning known) +They love a jest when 'tis their own. + You wonder now to see me write +So gravely where the subject's light; +Some part of what I here design +Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; +Who full of humour, fire, and wit, +Not always judges what is fit, +But loves to take prodigious rounds, +And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, +You must, although the point be nice, +Venture to give him some advice; +Few hints from you will set him right, +And teach him how to be polite. +Bid him like you, observe with care, +Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; +Nor indiscreetly to suppose +All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose. +To study the obliging jest, +By reading those who teach it best; +For prose I recommend Voiture's, +For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. +He'll find the secret out from thence, +To rhyme all day without offence; +And I no more shall then accuse +The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse. + If he be guilty, you must mend him; + If he be innocent, defend him. + + + +[Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, +born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged +Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. +Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too +hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died +1648.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.] + +[Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively +party, _post_, p. 137.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +AN ELEGY[1] + +ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; +WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720 + +Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, +By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; +Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound +Redeem him from his prison underground. +His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst +Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. +Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know +His faithful steward in the shades below. +He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; +He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: +And by his looks, had he held out his palms, +He might be thought an object fit for alms. +So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, +He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself. + Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; +Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; +And under hand and seal, the Irish nation +Were forc'd to own to him their obligation. + He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, +In half a minute is not worth a groat. +His coffers from the coffin could not save, +Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave. +A golden monument would not be right, +Because we wish the earth upon him light. + Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, +Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; +He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; +The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. + Old as he was, no vulgar known disease +On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; +"[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight +Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; +And, as he saw his darling money fail, +Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." +He who so long was current, 'twould be strange +If he should now be cry'd down since his change. + The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; +Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! +A dismal banker must that banker be, +Who gives no bills but of mortality! + + +[Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who +died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be +in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was +brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the +company.--_C. Walker_.] + +[Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.--_F_.] + + + + +EPITAPH ON THE SAME + +Beneath this verdant hillock lies +Demar, the wealthy and the wise, +His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, +Have put his carcass in a chest; +The very chest in which, they say, +His other self, his money, lay. +And, if his heirs continue kind +To that dear self he left behind, +I dare believe, that four in five +Will think his better self alive. + + +[Footnote 1: + "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd + His money bags together sew'd + And that he might securely rest," +Variation--From the Chetwode MS.--_W. E. B_.] + + + +TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, +ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT + +You always are making a god of your spouse; +But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; +Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, +And you adore him, because he adores you. +Your argument's weak, and so you will find; +For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. + + + + +VERSES +WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S + +Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? +Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. +In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, +You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. +In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, +You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. +O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, +Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request! +Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, +Instead of the deans, make the deanery double. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St. +Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his +hospitality. See Journal to Stella, _passim_, "Prose Works," vol. +ii--_W. E. B._] + + + +ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] + +A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, +Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, +Found out a new method at once of confessing, +And making the most of so mighty a blessing: +To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse, +By making his patron preside in his house; +And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, +That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense; +So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat +With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. +Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, +Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine. + + +[Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as +appears from the verses which follow.--_Scott_.] + + + +APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 + +Right Trusty, and so forth--we let you know +We are very ill used by you mortals below. +For, first, I have often by chemists been told, +(Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold; +Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it, +That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it. +Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine, +I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine; +To me the good fellows apply for relief, +Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef: +Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards +Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards. +That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think, +And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink. +But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd, +I alone can inspire the poetical crowd: +This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College, +Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge. +This every pretender in rhyme will admit, +Without troubling his head about judgment or wit. +These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom, +And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em. +They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls, +And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls. + But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany, +Whom I for your sake have used better than any, +And, of my mere motion, and special good grace, +Intended in time to succeed in your place, +On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came, +With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name, +To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass, +Where for fear of the cold I never can pass, +Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil, +Of value five shillings, in English a pencil, +Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write, +While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light. +My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath, +That she stopt in her course to look at them both; +That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding; +And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading: +That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day, +But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey: +And by the description, I certainly know, +'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago; +Whom when I with the best of my talents endued, +On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude: +That some verses were writ with felonious intent, +Direct to the North, where I never once went: +That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane, +But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again; +Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4] +And presently guessed the fancy was mine. +She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen +At night between Cavan Street and College Green. + Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown, +The reason is plain, they are none of his own; +And observe while you live that no man is shy +To discover the goods he came honestly by. +If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it, +And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it. +Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark, +There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark; +And let them be seen by the world if he dare, +I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware. +But as for the poem he writ on your sash, +I think I have now got him under my lash; +My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow, +And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow. +Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread +In all parts of the globe where your language is read. + He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal, +When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual: +But the secret is this; I did lately intend +To write a few verses on you as my friend: +I studied a fortnight, before I could find, +As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind, +And resolved the next winter (for that is my time, +When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme; +Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus; +When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us, +Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick +(For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,) +And from my own stock provided with topics, +He gets to a window beyond both the tropics, +There out of my sight, just against the north zone, +Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own; +And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow: +Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo? +High treason by statute! yet here you object, +He only stole hints, but the verse is correct; +Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd; +So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd. +Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance, +We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence. +Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire, +To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire; +We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen, +To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. +And we order our subjects of every degree +To believe all his verses were written by me: +And under the pain of our highest displeasure, +To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure. +And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime, +I'm too much revenged already by Time, +In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases, +But will now be her friend whenever she pleases. +And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover +Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over. + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also +with the copy transcribed by Stella.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: Diana.] + +[Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran: + "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line + And found by the wit the Fancy was mine + For none of his poems were ever yet shown + Which he in his conscience could claim for his own." +_Forster_.] + + + +NEWS FROM PARNASSUS +BY DR. DELANY + +OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720 + + +Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. +The poets assembled here on the eleventh, +Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know +He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below; +But declared that no bard should this honour inherit, +Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit: +Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case, +For each bard believed he'd a right to the place; +So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate, +He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate: +'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose, +Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose; +Till at length he determined that every bard +Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard. + First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1] +Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration: +"Since the soul of great Milton was given to me, +I hope the convention will quickly agree."-- +"Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool? +Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school? +Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time, +And given in return neither reason nor rhyme." +To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you, +I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you: +Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd, +Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd; +That at my instigation, a poem you writ, +Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit; +That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice, +Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice. +Jove sent her to me, her power to try; +The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny? +She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire. +Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher." + The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding, +For he merited much for his wit and his breeding. +'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him, +He else might expect they should pay what they owe him. +And therefore they prudently chose to discard +The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward: +The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance, +"You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France: +You bend your ambition to rise in the state; +I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great." + Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3] +"The convention allows me a versificator." +Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit; +By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit. +I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth, +The greatest objection against you's your youth; +Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside; +If you live you shall certainly one day preside." + Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets, +"'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4] + You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before; +But give me the bard that can teach them to soar. +Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess, +Who lately attempted my style with success; +Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit, +And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit: +Who makes it appear, by all he has writ, +His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit; +Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease, +But excels even Virgil in elegant praise: +Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due +Yet writes in a manner entirely new; +Though none with more ease their depths can explore, +Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store; +Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see, +In scorning to borrow from any but me: +It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays +Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays. +This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift: +The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No. +66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir +Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift +writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and +he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into +blank verse.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a +"formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a +"pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and +"Odyssey."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."--_N_.] + +[Footnote 5: Diana.] + + + + +APOLLO'S EDICT +OCCASIONED BY "NEWS FROM PARNASSUS" + +Ireland is now our royal care, +We lately fix'd our viceroy there. +How near was she to be undone, +Till pious love inspired her son! +What cannot our vicegerent do, +As poet and as patriot too? +Let his success our subjects sway, +Our inspirations to obey, +And follow where he leads the way: +Then study to correct your taste; +Nor beaten paths be longer traced. + No simile shall be begun, +With rising or with setting sun; +And let the secret head of Nile +Be ever banish'd from your isle. + When wretched lovers live on air, +I beg you'll the chameleon spare; +And when you'd make a hero grander, +Forget he's like a salamander.[1] + No son of mine shall dare to say, +Aurora usher'd in the day, +Or ever name the milky-way. +You all agree, I make no doubt, +Elijah's mantle is worn out. + The bird of Jove shall toil no more +To teach the humble wren to soar. +Your tragic heroes shall not rant, +Nor shepherds use poetic cant. +Simplicity alone can grace +The manners of the rural race. +Theocritus and Philips be +Your guides to true simplicity. + When Damon's soul shall take its flight, +Though poets have the second-sight, +They shall not see a trail of light. +Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, +Nor a new star adorn the skies: +For who can hope to place one there, +As glorious as Belinda's hair? +Yet, if his name you'd eternize, +And must exalt him to the skies; +Without a star this may be done: +So Tickell mourn'd his Addison. + If Anna's happy reign you praise, +Pray, not a word of halcyon days: +Nor let my votaries show their skill +In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2] +For know I cannot bear to hear +The mimicry of "deep, yet clear." + Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, +Against the phoenix I protest. +When poets soar in youthful strains, +No Phaethon to hold the reins. + When you describe a lovely girl, +No lips of coral, teeth of pearl. + Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, +However beauteous, for his mother; +Nor shall his darts at random fly +From magazine in Celia's eye. +With woman compounds I am cloy'd, +Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3] +For foreign aid what need they roam, +Whom fate has amply blest at home? + Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, +Has form'd a model for your land, +Whom Jove endued with every grace; +The glory of the Granard race; +Now destined by the powers divine +The blessing of another line. +Then, would you paint a matchless dame, +Whom you'd consign to endless fame? +Invoke not Cytherea's aid, +Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; +Nor need you on the Graces call; +Take qualities from Donegal.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," _ante_, p. +46.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.] + +[Footnote 3: _Ante_, p. 50.] + +[Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of +Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.--_Scott_.] + + + + +THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST + +Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen +Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was +composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having +reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he +executed the following very spirited translation.--_W. E. B._ + +TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720 + +O'ROURKE'S noble fare + Will ne'er be forgot, +By those who were there, + Or those who were not. + +His revels to keep, + We sup and we dine +On seven score sheep, + Fat bullocks, and swine. + +Usquebaugh to our feast + In pails was brought up, +A hundred at least, + And a madder[1] our cup. + +O there is the sport! + We rise with the light +In disorderly sort, + From snoring all night. + +O how was I trick'd! + My pipe it was broke, +My pocket was pick'd, + I lost my new cloak. + +I'm rifled, quoth Nell, + Of mantle and kercher,[2] +Why then fare them well, + The de'el take the searcher. + +Come, harper, strike up; + But, first, by your favour, +Boy, give us a cup: + Ah! this hath some savour. + +O'Rourke's jolly boys + Ne'er dreamt of the matter, +Till, roused by the noise, + And musical clatter, + +They bounce from their nest, + No longer will tarry, +They rise ready drest, + Without one Ave-Mary. + +They dance in a round, + Cutting capers and ramping; +A mercy the ground + Did not burst with their stamping. + +The floor is all wet + With leaps and with jumps, +While the water and sweat + Splish-splash in their pumps. + +Bless you late and early, + Laughlin O'Enagin![3] +But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. + Margery Grinagin.[5] + +Bring straw for our bed, + Shake it down to the feet, +Then over us spread + The winnowing sheet. + +To show I don't flinch, + Fill the bowl up again: +Then give us a pinch + Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6] + +Good lord! what a sight, + After all their good cheer, +For people to fight + In the midst of their beer! + +They rise from their feast, + And hot are their brains, +A cubit at least + The length of their skeans.[7] + +What stabs and what cuts, + What clattering of sticks; +What strokes on the guts, + What bastings and kicks! + +With cudgels of oak, + Well harden'd in flame, +A hundred heads broke, + A hundred struck lame. + +You churl, I'll maintain + My father built Lusk, +The castle of Slane, + And Carrick Drumrusk: + +The Earl of Kildare, + And Moynalta his brother, +As great as they are, + I was nurst by their mother.[8] + +Ask that of old madam: + She'll tell you who's who, +As far up as Adam, + She knows it is true. + +Come down with that beam, + If cudgels are scarce, +A blow on the weam, + Or a kick on the a----se. + + +[Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the +women.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: An Irish oath.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,--_F_.] + +[Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; +their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or +foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.--_F_.] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] + +When first Diana leaves her bed, + Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, +A frowzy dirty-colour'd red + Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face: + +But by degrees, when mounted high, + Her artificial face appears +Down from her window in the sky, + Her spots are gone, her visage clears. + +'Twixt earthly females and the moon, + All parallels exactly run; +If Celia should appear too soon, + Alas, the nymph would be undone! + +To see her from her pillow rise, + All reeking in a cloudy steam, +Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, + Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme! + +The soot or powder which was wont + To make her hair look black as jet, +Falls from her tresses on her front, + A mingled mass of dirt and sweat. + +Three colours, black, and red, and white + So graceful in their proper place, +Remove them to a different light, + They form a frightful hideous face: + +For instance, when the lily slips + Into the precincts of the rose, +And takes possession of the lips, + Leaving the purple to the nose: + +So Celia went entire to bed, + All her complexion safe and sound; +But, when she rose, the black and red, + Though still in sight, had changed their ground. + +The black, which would not be confined, + A more inferior station seeks, +Leaving the fiery red behind, + And mingles in her muddy cheeks. + +The paint by perspiration cracks, + And falls in rivulets of sweat, +On either side you see the tracks + While at her chin the conflu'nts meet. + +A skilful housewife thus her thumb, + With spittle while she spins anoints; +And thus the brown meanders come + In trickling streams betwixt her joints. + +But Celia can with ease reduce, + By help of pencil, paint, and brush, +Each colour to its place and use, + And teach her cheeks again to blush. + +She knows her early self no more, + But fill'd with admiration stands; +As other painters oft adore + The workmanship of their own hands. + +Thus, after four important hours, + Celia's the wonder of her sex; +Say, which among the heavenly powers + Could cause such wonderful effects? + +Venus, indulgent to her kind, + Gave women all their hearts could wish, +When first she taught them where to find + White lead, and Lusitanian dish. + +Love with white lead cements his wings; + White lead was sent us to repair +Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things, + A lady's face, and China-ware. + +She ventures now to lift the sash; + The window is her proper sphere; +Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash, + Nor let the beaux approach too near. + +Take pattern by your sister star; + Delude at once and bless our sight; +When you are seen, be seen from far, + And chiefly choose to shine by night. + +In the Pall Mall when passing by, + Keep up the glasses of your chair, +Then each transported fop will cry, + "G----d d----n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!" + +But art no longer can prevail, + When the materials all are gone; +The best mechanic hand must fail, + Where nothing's left to work upon. + +Matter, as wise logicians say, + Cannot without a form subsist; +And form, say I, as well as they, + Must fail if matter brings no grist. + +And this is fair Diana's case; + For, all astrologers maintain, +Each night a bit drops off her face, + When mortals say she's in her wane: + +While Partridge wisely shows the cause + Efficient of the moon's decay, +That Cancer with his pois'nous claws + Attacks her in the milky way: + +But Gadbury,[2] in art profound, + From her pale cheeks pretends to show +That swain Endymion is not sound, + Or else that Mercury's her foe. + +But let the cause be what it will, + In half a month she looks so thin, +That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill, + See but her forehead and her chin. + +Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, + Till midnight never shows her head; +So rotting Celia strolls the street, + When sober folks are all a-bed: + +For sure, if this be Luna's fate, + Poor Celia, but of mortal race, +In vain expects a longer date + To the materials of her face. + +When Mercury her tresses mows, + To think of oil and soot is vain: +No painting can restore a nose, + Nor will her teeth return again. + +Two balls of glass may serve for eyes, + White lead can plaister up a cleft; +But these, alas, are poor supplies + If neither cheeks nor lips be left. + +Ye powers who over love preside! + Since mortal beauties drop so soon, +If ye would have us well supplied, + Send us new nymphs with each new moon! + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with the copy transcribed by +Stella.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of +ephemerides.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in +August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see +"Dictionary of National Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] + +AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, +A reverend Dean began to woo[2] +A handsome, young, imperious girl, +Nearly related to an earl.[3] +Her parents and her friends consent; +The couple to the temple went: +They first invite the Cyprian queen; +'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" +But Cupid in disdain could scarce +Forbear to bid them kiss his ---- +The Graces next, and all the Muses, +Were bid in form, but sent excuses. +Juno attended at the porch, +With farthing candle for a torch; +While mistress Iris held her train, +The faded bow bedropt with rain. +Then Hebe came, and took her place, +But show'd no more than half her face. + Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, +In joy the marriage-day was spent; +The marriage-_day_, you take me right, +I promise nothing for the night. +The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, +Assumes an artificial vigour; +A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace +His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; +Like the faint red upon a pippin, +Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. + And thus set out this happy pair, +The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; +But, what I gladly would forget, +The swain is old, the nymph coquette. +Both from the goal together start; +Scarce run a step before they part; +No common ligament that binds +The various textures of their minds; +Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, +Less corresponding than their years. +The Dean desires his coffee soon, +She rises to her tea at noon. +While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, +She at the glass consults her looks; +While Betty's buzzing at her ear, +Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! +So odd a choice how could she make! +Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. +Then, on her finger ends she counts, +Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. +The Dean, she heard her uncle say, +Is sixty, if he be a day; +His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; +You see the crow's feet round his eyes. + At one she rambles to the shops, +To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; +Or calls a council of her maids, +And tradesmen, to compare brocades. +Her weighty morning business o'er, +Sits down to dinner just at four; +Minds nothing that is done or said, +Her evening work so fills her head. +The Dean, who used to dine at one, +Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; +In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, +Looks like the chaplain of the household; +Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, +In French brocades, and Flanders lace; +He wonders what employs her brain, +But never asks, or asks in vain; +His mind is full of other cares, +And, in the sneaking parson's airs, +Computes, that half a parish dues +Will hardly find his wife in shoes. + Canst thou imagine, dull divine, +'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? +Hath she no other wants beside? +You feed her lust as well as pride, +Enticing coxcombs to adore, +And teach her to despise thee more. + If in her coach she'll condescend +To place him at the hinder end, +Her hoop is hoist above his nose, +His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] +She drops him at the church, to pray, +While she drives on to see the play. +He like an orderly divine, +Comes home a quarter after nine, +And meets her hasting to the ball: +Her chairmen push him from the wall. +The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, +And calls the family to prayers; +Then goes alone to take his rest +In bed, where he can spare her best. +At five the footmen make a din, +Her ladyship is just come in; +The masquerade began at two, +She stole away with much ado; +And shall be chid this afternoon, +For leaving company so soon: +She'll say, and she may truly say't, +She can't abide to stay out late. + But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, +Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: +The cause, alas! is quickly guest; +The town has whisper'd round the jest. +Think on some remedy in time, +The Dean you see, is past his prime, +Already dwindled to a lath: +No other way but try the Bath. + For Venus, rising from the ocean, +Infused a strong prolific potion, +That mix'd with Acheloüs spring, +The horned flood, as poets sing, +Who, with an English beauty smitten, +Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; +The genial virtue with him brought, +And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; +Then fled, and left his horn behind, +For husbands past their youth to find; +The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, +Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, +Where childless wives crowd every morn, +To drink in Acheloüs horn;[6] +Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs +Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. +And here the father often gains +That title by another's pains. + Hither, though much against his grain +The Dean has carried Lady Jane. +He, for a while, would not consent, +But vow'd his money all was spent: +Was ever such a clownish reason! +And must my lady slip her season? +The doctor, with a double fee, +Was bribed to make the Dean agree. + Here, all diversions of the place +Are proper in my lady's case: +With which she patiently complies, +Merely because her friends advise; +His money and her time employs +In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; +Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, +Since others oft have found one there; +Where if the Dean by chance appears, +It shames his cassock and his years. +He keeps his distance in the gallery, +Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; +For 'twould his character expose, +To bathe among the belles and beaux. + So have I seen, within a pen, +Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; +But, when let out, they run and muddle, +As instinct leads them, in a puddle; +The sober hen, not born to swim, +With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] + The Dean, with all his best endeavour, +Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. +A victim to the last essays +Of vigour in declining days, +He dies, and leaves his mourning mate +(What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. + The widow goes through all her forms: +New lovers now will come in swarms. +O, may I see her soon dispensing +Her favours to some broken ensign! +Him let her marry for his face, +And only coat of tarnish'd lace; +To turn her naked out of doors, +And spend her jointure on his whores; +But, for a parting present, leave her +A rooted pox to last for ever! + + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated +January, 1721-2.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: + "A rich divine began to woo," + "A grave divine resolved to woo," +are Swift's successive changes of this line.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but +he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: + "If by a more than usual grace + She lends him in her chariot place, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose + For fear his gown should soil her clothes."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib. +ix.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was +erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to +James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of +Modena, having conceived after bathing there.--Collinson's "History of +Somersetshire."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first +draft.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.--_Forster_.] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF POETRY + +The farmer's goose, who in the stubble +Has fed without restraint or trouble, +Grown fat with corn and sitting still, +Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; +And hardly waddles forth to cool +Her belly in the neighbouring pool! +Nor loudly cackles at the door; +For cackling shows the goose is poor. + But, when she must be turn'd to graze, +And round the barren common strays, +Hard exercise, and harder fare, +Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; +Her body light, she tries her wings, +And scorns the ground, and upward springs; +While all the parish, as she flies, +Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. + Such is the poet fresh in pay, +The third night's profits of his play; +His morning draughts till noon can swill, +Among his brethren of the quill: +With good roast beef his belly full, +Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, +Deep sunk in plenty and delight, +What poet e'er could take his flight? +Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, +What poet e'er could sing a note? +Nor Pegasus could bear the load +Along the high celestial road; +The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, +To raise the lumber from the earth. + But view him in another scene, +When all his drink is Hippocrene, +His money spent, his patrons fail, +His credit out for cheese and ale; +His two-years coat so smooth and bare, +Through every thread it lets in air; +With hungry meals his body pined, +His guts and belly full of wind; +And, like a jockey for a race, +His flesh brought down to flying case: +Now his exalted spirit loathes +Encumbrances of food and clothes; +And up he rises like a vapour, +Supported high on wings of paper. +He singing flies, and flying sings, +While from below all Grub-Street rings. + + + + +THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 + +Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, +Arma virûm, tabulaeque, et Troïa gaza per undas. +VIRG. + +For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, +projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and +ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, +see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," +Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and +arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his +grandfather.--_W. E. B._ + + +Ye wise philosophers, explain + What magic makes our money rise, +When dropt into the Southern main; + Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes? + +Put in your money fairly told; + _Presto_! be gone--'Tis here again: +Ladies and gentlemen, behold, + Here's every piece as big as ten. + +Thus in a basin drop a shilling, + Then fill the vessel to the brim, +You shall observe, as you are filling, + The pond'rous metal seems to swim: + +It rises both in bulk and height, + Behold it swelling like a sop; +The liquid medium cheats your sight: + Behold it mounted to the top! + +In stock three hundred thousand pounds, + I have in view a lord's estate; +My manors all contiguous round! + A coach-and-six, and served in plate! + +Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, + Puts all upon a desperate bet; +Then plunges in the Southern waves, + Dipt over head and ears--in debt. + +So, by a calenture misled, + The mariner with rapture sees, +On the smooth ocean's azure bed, + Enamell'd fields and verdant trees: + +With eager haste he longs to rove + In that fantastic scene, and thinks +It must be some enchanted grove; + And in he leaps, and down he sinks. + +Five hundred chariots just bespoke, + Are sunk in these devouring waves, +The horses drown'd, the harness broke, + And here the owners find their graves. + +Like Pharaoh, by directors led, + They with their spoils went safe before; +His chariots, tumbling out the dead, + Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore. + +Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, + The young adventurer o'er the deep +An eagle's flight and state assumes, + And scorns the middle way to keep. + +On paper wings he takes his flight, + With wax the father bound them fast; +The wax is melted by the height, + And down the towering boy is cast. + +A moralist might here explain + The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] +Describe his fall into the main, + And from a fable form a truth. + +His wings are his paternal rent, + He melts the wax at every flame; +His credit sunk, his money spent, + In Southern Seas he leaves his name. + +Inform us, you that best can tell, + Why in that dangerous gulf profound, +Where hundreds and where thousands fell, + Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd? + +So have I seen from Severn's brink + A flock of geese jump down together; +Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, + And, swimming, never wet a feather. + +But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, + Directors better knew their tools; +We see the nation's credit crack'd, + Each knave has made a thousand fools. + +One fool may from another win, + And then get off with money stored; +But, if a sharper once comes in, + He throws it all, and sweeps the board. + +As fishes on each other prey, + The great ones swallowing up the small, +So fares it in the Southern Sea; + The whale directors eat up all. + +When stock is high, they come between, + Making by second-hand their offers; +Then cunningly retire unseen, + With each a million in his coffers. + +So, when upon a moonshine night, + An ass was drinking at a stream, +A cloud arose, and stopt the light, + By intercepting every beam: + +The day of judgment will be soon, + Cries out a sage among the crowd; +An ass has swallow'd up the moon! + The moon lay safe behind the cloud. + +Each poor subscriber to the sea + Sinks down at once, and there he lies; +Directors fall as well as they, + Their fall is but a trick to rise. + +So fishes, rising from the main, + Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; +The moisture dried, they sink again, + And dip their fins again to fly. + +Undone at play, the female troops + Come here their losses to retrieve; +Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, + Like Lapland witches in a sieve. + +Thus Venus to the sea descends, + As poets feign; but where's the moral? +It shows the Queen of Love intends + To search the deep for pearl and coral. + +The sea is richer than the land, + I heard it from my grannam's mouth, +Which now I clearly understand; + For by the sea she meant the South. + +Thus, by directors we are told, + "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; +Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, + Look round, and see how thick it lies: + +"We, gentlemen, are your assisters, + We'll come, and hold you by the chin."-- +Alas! all is not gold that glisters, + Ten thousand sink by leaping in. + +O! would those patriots be so kind, + Here in the deep to wash their hands, +Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find + The sea indeed had golden sands. + +A shilling in the bath you fling, + The silver takes a nobler hue, +By magic virtue in the spring, + And seems a guinea to your view. + +But, as a guinea will not pass + At market for a farthing more, +Shown through a multiplying glass, + Than what it always did before: + +So cast it in the Southern seas, + Or view it through a jobber's bill; +Put on what spectacles you please, + Your guinea's but a guinea still. + +One night a fool into a brook + Thus from a hillock looking down, +The golden stars for guineas took, + And silver Cynthia for a crown. + +The point he could no longer doubt; + He ran, he leapt into the flood; +There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, + All cover'd o'er with slime and mud. + +"Upon the water cast thy bread, + And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] +But gold, upon this ocean spread, + Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it: + +There is a gulf, where thousands fell, + Here all the bold adventurers came, +A narrow sound, though deep as Hell-- + 'Change Alley is the dreadful name. + +Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, + Yet he that on the surface lies, +Without a pilot seldom knows + The time it falls, or when 'twill rise. + +Subscribers here by thousands float, + And jostle one another down; +Each paddling in his leaky boat, + And here they fish for gold, and drown. + +"Now buried in the depth below, + Now mounted up to Heaven again, +They reel and stagger to and fro, + At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4] + +Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, + A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, +Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, + And strip the bodies of the dead. + +But these, you say, are factious lies, + From some malicious Tory's brain; +For, where directors get a prize, + The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain. + +Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, + Some cully often wins a bet, +By venturing on the cheating side, + Though not into the secret let. + +While some build castles in the air, + Directors build them in the seas; +Subscribers plainly see them there, + For fools will see as wise men please. + +Thus oft by mariners are shown + (Unless the men of Kent are liars) +Earl Godwin's castles overflown, + And palace roofs, and steeple spires. + +Mark where the sly directors creep, + Nor to the shore approach too nigh! +The monsters nestle in the deep, + To seize you in your passing by. + +Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, + Who, taught by instinct how to shun +The crocodile, that lurking lies, + Run as they drink, and drink and run. + +Antæus could, by magic charms, + Recover strength whene'er he fell; +Alcides held him in his arms, + And sent him up in air to Hell. + +Directors, thrown into the sea, + Recover strength and vigour there; +But may be tamed another way, + Suspended for a while in air. + +Directors! for 'tis you I warn, + By long experience we have found +What planet ruled when you were born; + We see you never can be drown'd. + +Beware, nor overbulky grow, + Nor come within your cully's reach; +For, if the sea should sink so low + To leave you dry upon the beach, + +You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: + Your foes already waiting stand, +To tear you like a founder'd hulk, + While you lie helpless on the sand. + +Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, + The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: +The monster into parts divide, + And strip the bones, and melt the oil. + +Oh! may some western tempest sweep + These locusts whom our fruits have fed, +That plague, directors, to the deep, + Driven from the South Sea to the Red! + +May he, whom Nature's laws obey, + Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, +"Quiet the raging of the sea, + And still the madness of the crowd!" + +But never shall our isle have rest, + Till those devouring swine run down, +(The devils leaving the possest) + And headlong in the waters drown. + +The nation then too late will find, + Computing all their cost and trouble, +Directors' promises but wind, + South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble. + + + +[Footnote 1: Phaëthon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. +xi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.] + +[Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.] + +[Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in +1866.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE + +ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, +Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: +Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et altè +Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps +Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una. +Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; +Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet. + + + + +A PROLOGUE + +BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS SENT WITH THE PROLOGUE + +The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not +allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon +which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. + The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company +of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, +etc. to act in. + + +Our set of strollers, wandering up and down, +Hearing the house was empty, came to town; +And, with a license from our good lord mayor, +Went to one Griffith, formerly a player: +Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe, +To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe, +To let our company supply their places, +And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces. +Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me; +I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he. +When we perform, look sharp among our crew, +There's not a creature here you ever knew. +The former folks were servants to the king; +We, humble strollers, always on the wing. +Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole, +Rather than starve, a better man would stroll. + Stay! let me see--Three hundred pounds a-year, +For leave to act in town!--'Tis plaguy dear. +Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark, +For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk. +Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix, +The public should bestow the actors six; +A score of guineas given underhand, +For a good word or so, we understand. +To help an honest lad that's out of place, +May cost a crown or so; a common case: +And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought +To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat. +But, in the chronicles of former ages, +Who ever heard of servants paying wages? + I pity Elrington with all my heart; +Would he were here this night to act my part! +I told him what it was to be a stroller; +How free we acted, and had no comptroller: +In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor, +First get a license, then produce our ware; +We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum: +Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come; +And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on, +Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone. +I told him in the smoothest way I could, +All this, and more, yet it would do no good. +But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks, +He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2] +To whom our country has been always dear, +Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here, +Owns all your favours, here intends to stay, +And, as a stroller, act in every play: +And the whole crew this resolution takes, +To live and die all strollers, for your sakes; +Not frighted with an ignominious name, +For your displeasure is their only shame. + A pox on Elrington's majestic tone! +Now to a word of business in our own. + Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last: +Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. +Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss, +The next we act shall be as good as this. + + +[Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great +reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by +Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the +death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the +management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic +consideration. He died in July, 1732.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in +comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786; +Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National +Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +EPILOGUE[1] + +TO MR. HOPPY'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, AT SMOCK-ALLEY + + +HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, +I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. +He's not the first person who never did write, +And yet has been fed by a benefit-night. +The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye, +In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury. +But then you must know, those players still act on +Some very good reasons, for such benefaction. + A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail; +From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. +Your emerited actors, and actresses too, +For what they have done (though no more they can do) +And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G----, +And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea; +A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright, +Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night. + Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found +That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound, +Paid to him clear money once every year: +And however some think it a little too dear, +Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow, +Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow. + First, because by the King to us he was sent, +To guide the whole session of this parliament. +To preside in our councils, both public and private, +And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at. +When bold B---- roars, and meek M---- raves, +When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be----h by halves, +When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories; +And to himself constant when a member no more is, +But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes; +As S----t is dull, and with S----d, who dotes; +Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low, +And with eloquent bow, the house he must show, +That that worthy member who spoke last must give +The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive, +That his sentiment on this affair isn't right; +That he mightily wonders which way he came by't: +That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown; +And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down. + For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear, +Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year, +And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood, +To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good; +To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit; +And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit. +To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat, +And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat: +All which he deserves; for although all the day +He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay; +And if he rise early to watch for the state, +To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late. +Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say +Hop has got all the money for our acting this play, +Which makes us poor actors look _je ne sçai quoy_. + + +[Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the +avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the +company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to +have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But +it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous +guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's +accuracy of numbers.--_Scott_. Perhaps so, but the note to this +piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the _Captain_, one evening, at the +end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at +_Gallstown_"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous +guests." This is very different from "composed."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PROLOGUE[1] + +TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. +BY DR. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721 + + +Great cry, and little wool--is now become +The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom; +No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp; +Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. +Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry; +Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! +Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange +To shift your clothes, since you delight in change. +One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell-- +The men will like you every bit as well. + See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff, +And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough; +My wife admires me more, and swears she never, +In any dress, beheld me look so clever. +And if a man be better in such ware, +What great advantage must it give the fair! +Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds; +Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds; +Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find +Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined-- +And what are they but maggots in the mind? +For which I think it reason to conclude, +That clothes may change our temper like our food. +Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes +Too much about the party-colour'd dyes; +Although the lustre is from you begun, +We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun. + How sweet and innocent's the country maid, +With small expense in native wool array'd; +Who copies from the fields her homely green, +While by her shepherd with delight she's seen! +Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool +How much more lovely, and how beautiful, +Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove! +While wool would help to warm us into love! +Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, +We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece! + + +[Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the +Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish +Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.--_W. E. B._] + + + +EPILOGUE +TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. +BY THE DEAN. SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH + +Who dares affirm this is no pious age, +When charity begins to tread the stage? +When actors, who at best are hardly savers, +Will give a night of benefit to weavers? +Stay--let me see, how finely will it sound! +_Imprimis_, From his grace[1] a hundred pound. +Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors; +And then comes in the _item_ of the actors. +_Item_, The actors freely give a day-- +The poet had no more who made the play. + But whence this wondrous charity in players? +They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: +Under the rose, since here are none but friends, +(To own the truth) we have some private ends. +Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, +Hold up the prices of their old brocades; +We'll dress in manufactures made at home; +Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2] +We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen +And Antony shall court her in ratteen. +In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad, +And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid, +In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, +See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; +And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, +With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage. +In short, our kings and princesses within +Are all resolved this project to begin; +And you, our subjects, when you here resort, +Must imitate the fashion of the court. + O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, +Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: +But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, +And scarce a crown is left to see the play. +Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs +Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; +But wit and weaving had the same beginning; +Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: +And, next, observe how this alliance fits, +For weavers now are just as poor as wits: +Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, +For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; +But weavers will be kinder to the players, +And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs. +And to your knowledge, there is often less in +The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing. + + +[Footnote 1: Archbishop King.] + +[Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.," +lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish +Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANSWER +TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE. +IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY. + +Femineo generi tribuantur. + +The Muses, whom the richest silks array, +Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; +The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, +And gives each colour to the pictured maids; +Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, +Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine. +And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff +And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? + The player in mimic piety may storm, +Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm: +The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, +May curse the belles and chintzes of the age: +Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, +And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. + The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, +Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; +Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, +Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: +Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, +And be the emblem of your innocence. + Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, +Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour: +Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, +Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. +Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, +For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these? +Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade +Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid. +Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, +Thus act subservient to a poplin gown? +Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough +The under petticoat be made of stuff. +Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May, +When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay! +And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they? + In what weak colours would the plaid appear, +Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair! +The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff; +Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough? +Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, +Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, +Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, +And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky! +Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full: +And all this for the benefit of wool! + "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers, +That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?" +The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, +Demand their care, to make their webs complete: +These may they tend, their promises receive; +We cannot pay too much for what they give! + + + + +ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE + +THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. +BY DR. DELANY + +'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, +You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; +'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, +You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; +'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, +And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; +'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, +And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; +'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, +Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; +'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, +And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; +'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, +'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, +'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, +It is part of the new, and part of the old; +It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse-- +wish then, dear George, it were better or worse. + +[Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George +Rochfort, Esq.--_F._] + + + + +THE COUNTRY LIFE + +PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, +THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort. +_George_, his eldest son. +_Nim_, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting. +_Dan_, Mr. Jackson, a parson. +Gaulstown, the Baron's seat. +_Sheridan_, a pedant and pedagogue. +_Delany_, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor +of Ireland. +Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal. +Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady. + + +Thalia, tell, in sober lays, +How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days; +And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, +Yet _Neget quis carmina Gallo?_ +Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I +Not Sheridan, but friend Delany. +Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers +We sally forth at different hours; +At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, +Goes round the house to wake the rest; +At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, +Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2] +At ten my lady comes and hectors +And kisses George, and ends our lectures; +And when she has him by the neck fast, +Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast. +We squander there an hour or more, +And then all hands, boys, to the oar; +All, heteroclite Dan except, +Who never time nor order kept, +But by peculiar whimseys drawn, +Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn: +O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, +Or mars a text, or mends his hose; +Or--but proceed we in our journal-- +At two, or after, we return all: +From the four elements assembling, +Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, +From airy garrets some descend, +Some from the lake's remotest end; +My lord and Dean the fire forsake, +Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; +The loiterers quake, no corner hides them +And Lady Betty soundly chides them. +Now water brought, and dinner done; +With "Church and King" the ladies gone. +Not reckoning half an hour we pass +In talking o'er a moderate glass. +Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief +Steals off to doze away his beef; +And this must pass for reading Hammond-- +While George and Dean go to backgammon. +George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, +And then, again, boys, to the oar. +But when the sun goes to the deep, +(Not to disturb him in his sleep, +Or make a rumbling o'er his head, +His candle out, and he a-bed,) +We watch his motions to a minute, +And leave the flood when he goes in it. +Now stinted in the shortening day, +We go to prayers and then to play, +Till supper comes; and after that +We sit an hour to drink and chat. +'Tis late--the old and younger pairs, +By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs. +The weary Dean goes to his chamber; +And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, +So when the circle we have run, +The curtain falls and all is done. + I might have mention'd several facts, +Like episodes between the acts; +And tell who loses and who wins, +Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; +How Dan caught nothing in his net, +And how the boat was overset. +For brevity I have retrench'd +How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: +It would be an exploit to brag on, +How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; +How steady in the storm he sat, +And saved his oar, but lost his hat: +How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) +Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; +How skilfully Dan mends his nets; +How fortune fails him when he sets; +Or how the Dean delights to vex +The ladies, and lampoon their sex: +I might have told how oft Dean Perceval +Displays his pedantry unmerciful, +How haughtily he cocks his nose, +To tell what every schoolboy knows: +And with his finger and his thumb, +Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: +But now there needs no more be said on't, +Nor how his wife, that female pedant, +Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: +For candles how she trucks her dripping; +Was forced to send three miles for yeast, +To brew her ale, and raise her paste; +Tells everything that you can think of, +How she cured Charley of the chincough; +What gave her brats and pigs the measles, +And how her doves were killed by weasels; +How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright +She had with dreams the other night. + But now, since I have gone so far on, +A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; +And tell how little weight he sets +On all Whig papers and gazettes; +But for the politics of Pue,[4] +Thinks every syllable is true: +And since he owns the King of Sweden [5] +Is dead at last, without evading, +Now all his hopes are in the czar; +"Why, Muscovy is not so far; +Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, +And in a month he's at your gates; +Perhaps from what the packet brings, +By Christmas we shall see strange things." +Why should I tell of ponds and drains, +What carps we met with for our pains; +Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable +To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? +But you, who are a scholar, know +How transient all things are below, +How prone to change is human life! +Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife-- +This grand event has broke our measures; +Their reign began with cruel seizures; +The Dean must with his quilt supply +The bed in which those tyrants lie; +Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, +(My lady says, she can't afford one,) +George is half scared out of his wits, +For Clem gets all the dainty bits. +Henceforth expect a different survey, +This house will soon turn topsyturvy; +They talk of farther alterations, +Which causes many speculations. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for +his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: The butler.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p. +347.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a +"petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to +"Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of +Gaulstown.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] + +WOULD you that Delville I describe? +Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: +For who would be satirical +Upon a thing so very small? + You scarce upon the borders enter, +Before you're at the very centre. +A single crow can make it night, +When o'er your farm she takes her flight: +Yet, in this narrow compass, we +Observe a vast variety; +Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, +Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs, +And hills and dales, and woods and fields, +And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields: +All to your haggard brought so cheap in, +Without the mowing or the reaping: +A razor, though to say't I'm loth, +Would shave you and your meadows both. + Though small's the farm, yet here's a house +Full large to entertain a mouse; +But where a rat is dreaded more +Than savage Caledonian boar; +For, if it's enter'd by a rat, +There is no room to bring a cat. + A little rivulet seems to steal +Down through a thing you call a vale, +Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, +Like rain along a blade of leek: +And this you call your sweet meander, +Which might be suck'd up by a gander, +Could he but force his nether bill +To scoop the channel of the rill. +For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, +Were it as big as city gutter. +Next come I to your kitchen garden, +Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; +And round this garden is a walk +No longer than a tailor's chalk; +Thus I compare what space is in it, +A snail creeps round it in a minute. +One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze +Up through a tuft you call your trees: +And, once a year, a single rose +Peeps from the bud, but never blows; +In vain then you expect its bloom! +It cannot blow for want of room. + In short, in all your boasted seat, +There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. + + +[Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's +friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is +unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.--_W. E. B._] + + + +ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE + +A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, +Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. +This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent, +And bid him go ask what his votary meant? +"Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: +'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser! +Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, +I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; +For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; +And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train." + + + + +CARBERIAE RUPES + +IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723 + + +Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo +Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, +Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa +Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur +Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis. +Nam, longâ venti rabie, atque aspergine crebrâ +Aequorei laticis, specus imâ rupe cavatur: +Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant; +Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas. +Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem +Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum +In capita anguipedum coelo jaculâsse gigantum. + Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu +Exesa è scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, +Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo +Cautibus enormè junctis laquearia tecti +Formantur; moles olim ruitura supernè. +Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, +Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae. + Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, +Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; +Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextrâ +Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, +Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procellâ: +Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia latè, +Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, +Terretur tamen, et longè fugit, arva relinquens. + Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, +Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, +Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt. + Piscator terrâ non audet vellere funem; +Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aëra sudum +Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat. + + + + +CARBERY ROCKS + +TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN + +Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds +Its airy head amid the azure clouds, +Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props, +Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops; +With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound, +From shore to shore the rocks return the sound: +The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, +And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: +For, long the whirling winds and beating tides +Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides. +Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge +Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge. +Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, +When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; +Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, +To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load. + Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide +Presents an orifice on either side. +A dismal orifice, from sea to sea +Extended, pervious to the God of Day: +Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form +An arch, the ruin of a future storm: +High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, +And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake. + But when bleak Winter with his sullen train +Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; +When o'er the craggy steep without control, +Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; +Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, +Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, +Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, +Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, +Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: +Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore. +The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks +Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, +Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, +Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. + The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, +The wither'd herb improvident they crop, +Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, +Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep. + The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, +Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, +Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, +Wearies with vows the monarch of the main. + + + + +COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES + +ON MR. FORD[1] + + +COME, be content, since out it must, +For Stella has betray'd her trust; +And, whispering, charged me not to say +That Mr. Ford was born to-day; +Or, if at last I needs must blab it, +According to my usual habit, +She bid me, with a serious face, +Be sure conceal the time and place; +And not my compliment to spoil, +By calling this your native soil; +Or vex the ladies, when they knew +That you are turning forty-two: +But, if these topics shall appear +Strong arguments to keep you here, +I think, though you judge hardly of it, +Good manners must give place to profit. + The nymphs, with whom you first began, +Are each become a harridan; +And Montague so far decay'd, +Her lovers now must all be paid; +And every belle that since arose, +Has her contemporary beaux. +Your former comrades, once so bright, +With whom you toasted half the night, +Of rheumatism and pox complain, +And bid adieu to dear champaign. +Your great protectors, once in power, +Are now in exile or the Tower. +Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, +Who hate your person and your cause, +If once they get you on the spot, +You must be guilty of the plot; +For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire, +But use you ten times worse than Prior. + In London! what would you do there? +Can you, my friend, with patience bear +(Nay, would it not your passion raise +Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase) +To see a scoundrel strut and hector, +A foot-boy to some rogue director, +To look on vice triumphant round, +And virtue trampled on the ground? +Observe where bloody **** stands +With torturing engines in his hands, +Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail, +Threatening the pillory and jail: +If this you think a pleasing scene, +To London straight return again; +Where, you have told us from experience, +Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians. + I thought my very spleen would burst, +When fortune hither drove me first; +Was full as hard to please as you, +Nor persons' names nor places knew: +But now I act as other folk, +Like prisoners when their gaol is broke. + If you have London still at heart, +We'll make a small one here by art; +The difference is not much between +St. James's Park and Stephen's Green; +And Dawson Street will serve as well +To lead you thither as Pall Mall. +Nor want a passage through the palace, +To choke your sight, and raise your malice. +The Deanery-house may well be match'd, +Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2] +Nor shall I, when you hither come, +Demand a crown a-quart for stum. +Then for a middle-aged charmer, +Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3] +She's now as handsome every bit, +And has a thousand times her wit +The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, +Will half supply a Gay and Pope. +Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not, +No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot. +I throw into the bargain Tim; +In London can you equal him? +What think you of my favourite clan, +Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan; +Fellows of modest worth and parts, +With cheerful looks and honest hearts? + Can you on Dublin look with scorn? +Yet here were you and Ormond born. + O! were but you and I so wise, +To see with Robert Grattan's eyes! +Robin adores that spot of earth, +That literal spot which gave him birth; +And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste, +As fine as Hampton-court at least." +When to your friends you would enhance +The praise of Italy or France, +For grandeur, elegance, and wit, +We gladly hear you, and submit; +But then, to come and keep a clutter, +For this or that side of a gutter, +To live in this or t'other isle, +We cannot think it worth your while; +For, take it kindly or amiss, +The difference but amounts to this, +We bury on our side the channel +In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7] +You for the news are ne'er to seek; +While we, perhaps, may wait a week; +You happy folks are sure to meet +A hundred whores in every street; +While we may trace all Dublin o'er +Before we find out half a score. + You see my arguments are strong, +I wonder you held out so long; +But, since you are convinced at last, +We'll pardon you for what has past. +So--let us now for whist prepare; +Twelve pence a corner, if you dare. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his +friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the +poem, "Stella at Wood Park."--Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's +intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a +fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and +nation."--_Nichols_.] + +[Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till +about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, +"exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind +than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the +Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i, +172.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death +of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.] + +[Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.--_H._] + +[Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.--_H._] + +[Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in +1733.] + + + + +ON DREAMS + +AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS + +Petronii Fragmenta, xxx. + + +THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, +And with false flitting shades our minds delude +Jove never sends us downward from the skies; +Nor can they from infernal mansions rise; +But are all mere productions of the brain, +And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1] + +For when in bed we rest our weary limbs, +The mind unburden'd sports in various whims; +The busy head with mimic art runs o'er +The scenes and actions of the day before.[2] + +The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, +To regal rage devotes some patriot's head. +With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, +The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt. + +The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, +And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. +With like remorse his brother of the trade, +The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. + +The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, +And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. +Nor less Tom-t--d-man, of true statesman mould, +Collects the city filth in search of gold. + +Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, +And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. +His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, +Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob. + +The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, +Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. +The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, +Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes. + +The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, +As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: +While the sly mountebank attends his trade, +Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. + +The hireling senator of modern days +Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: +And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace +Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face. + + +[Footnote 1: +"Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, +Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, +Sed sibi quisque facit."] + +[Footnote 2: + "Nam cum prostrata sopore +Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, +Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, +IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724 + + +Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, +Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. +Can anything be more unkind? +Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? +Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,-- +A friend that loves to see and hear you. +Why am I robb'd of that delight, +When you can be no loser by't +Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) +That if you heard you'd be no gainer? +For sure you are not yet to learn, +That hearing is not your concern. +Then be your doors no longer barr'd: +Your business, sir, is to be heard. + + + + +THE ANSWER + +The wise pretend to make it clear, +'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. +Why are we then so fond of two, +When by experience one would do? + 'Tis true, say they, cut off the head, +And there's an end; the man is dead; +Because, among all human race, +None e'er was known to have a brace: +But confidently they maintain, +That where we find the members twain, +The loss of one is no such trouble, +Since t'other will in strength be double. +The limb surviving, you may swear, +Becomes his brother's lawful heir: +Thus, for a trial, let me beg of +Your reverence but to cut one leg off, +And you shall find, by this device, +The other will be stronger twice; +For every day you shall be gaining +New vigour to the leg remaining. +So, when an eye has lost its brother, +You see the better with the other, +Cut off your hand, and you may do +With t'other hand the work of two: +Because the soul her power contracts, +And on the brother limb reacts. + But yet the point is not so clear in +Another case, the sense of hearing: +For, though the place of either ear +Be distant, as one head can bear, +Yet Galen most acutely shows you, +(Consult his book _de partium usu_) +That from each ear, as he observes, +There creep two auditory nerves, +Not to be seen without a glass, +Which near the _os petrosum_ pass; +Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there, +One goes to this, and one to t'other ear; +Which made my grandam always stuff her ears +Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers. +You see my learning; but, to shorten it, +When my left ear was deaf a fortnight, +To t'other ear I felt it coming on: +And thus I solve this hard phenomenon. + +'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies +To weak, or old, or clouded eyes: +Your arms, though both your eyes were lost, +Would guard your nose against a post: +Without your legs, two legs of wood +Are stronger, and almost as good: +And as for hands, there have been those +Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1] +But no contrivance yet appears +To furnish artificial ears. + + +[Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot. +And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush +betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it +done at all.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME +TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724 + +NELL scolded in so loud a din, +That Will durst hardly venture in: +He mark'd the conjugal dispute; +Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute; +But, when he saw his friend appear, +Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!" +At sight of Will she bawl'd no more, +But hurried out and clapt the door. + Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell, +(Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell. +Why what a peal the jade has rung! +D--n her, why don't you slit her tongue? +For nothing else will make it cease. +Dear Will, I suffer this for peace: +I never quarrel with my wife; +I bear it for a quiet life. +Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it; +Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it. + Will went again to visit Dick; +And entering in the very nick, +He saw virago Nell belabour, +With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour. +Poor Will, who needs must interpose, +Received a brace or two of blows. +But now, to make my story short, +Will drew out Dick to take a quart. +Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims; +Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs? +If she were mine, and had such tricks, +I'd teach her how to handle sticks: +Z--ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1] +Or truck the carrion for tobacco: +I'd send her far enough away---- +Dear Will; but what would people say? +Lord! I should get so ill a name, +The neighbours round would cry out shame. + Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; +But who believed him when he said it? +Can he, who makes himself a slave, +Consult his peace, or credit save? +Dick found it by his ill success, +His quiet small, his credit less. +She served him at the usual rate; +She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: +And what he thought the hardest case, +The parish jeer'd him to his face; +Those men who wore the breeches least, +Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. +At home he was pursued with noise; +Abroad was pester'd by the boys: +Within, his wife would break his bones: +Without, they pelted him with stones; +The 'prentices procured a riding,[2] +To act his patience and her chiding. +False patience and mistaken pride! +There are ten thousand Dicks beside; +Slaves to their quiet and good name, +Are used like Dick, and bear the blame. + + +[Footnote 1: See _post_, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."] + +[Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to +ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in +this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through +the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and +her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, +enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix, +370, 578.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS +1726 + +Ye poets ragged and forlorn, + Down from your garrets haste; +Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, + Not yet consign'd to paste; + +I know a trick to make you thrive; + O, 'tis a quaint device: +Your still-born poems shall revive, + And scorn to wrap up spice. + +Get all your verses printed fair, + Then let them well be dried; +And Curll[1] must have a special care + To leave the margin wide. + +Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; + And when he sets to write, +No letter with an envelope + Could give him more delight. + +When Pope has fill'd the margins round, + Why then recall your loan; +Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, + And swear they are your own. + +[Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, +_passim.--W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer +(preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the +covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters +themselves.] + + + + +A PASTORAL DIALOGUE + +WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, +WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1] + + +This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the +following explanatory introduction: + +Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It +was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond +was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of +Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer +there. It is within a mile of Richmond. + +"Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now +Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the +Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles +from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert +the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the +ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the +above dialogue."--_Dublin Edition_, 1734. + + +In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, +And all that he or they can say; +Sing on I must, and sing I will, +Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill. + Last Friday night, as neighbours use, +This couple met to talk of news: +For, by old proverbs, it appears, +That walls have tongues, and hedges ears. + +MARBLE HILL + +Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, +Your mistress now is grown a queen; +You'll find it soon by woful proof, +She'll come no more beneath your roof. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +The kingly prophet well evinces, +That we should put no trust in princes: +My royal master promised me +To raise me to a high degree: +But now he's grown a king, God wot, +I fear I shall be soon forgot. +You see, when folks have got their ends, +How quickly they neglect their friends; +Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, +Pray God, they now may find as true! + +MARBLE HILL + +My house was built but for a show, +My lady's empty pockets know; +And now she will not have a shilling, +To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; +For all the courtly madams round +Now pay four shillings in the pound; +'Tis come to what I always thought: +My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2] +Had you and I been courtiers born, +We should not thus have lain forlorn; +For those we dext'rous courtiers call, +Can rise upon their masters' fall: +But we, unlucky and unwise, +Must fall because our masters rise. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +My master, scarce a fortnight since, +Was grown as wealthy as a prince; +But now it will be no such thing, +For he'll be poor as any king; +And by his crown will nothing get, +But like a king to run in debt. + +MARBLE HILL + +No more the Dean, that grave divine, +Shall keep the key of my (no) wine; +My ice-house rob, as heretofore, +And steal my artichokes no more; +Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen +Bedraggled in my walks so green: +Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; +And here no more will dangle Pope. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, +To spunge a breakfast once a-week; +To cry the bread was stale, and mutter +Complaints against the royal butter. +But now I fear it will be said, +No butter sticks upon his bread.[4] +We soon shall find him full of spleen, +For want of tattling to the queen; +Stunning her royal ears with talking; +His reverence and her highness walking: +While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller, +Sits mounted on the garden-roller. +A goodly sight to see her ride, +With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. +In velvet cap his head lies warm, +His hat, for show, beneath his arm. + +MARBLE HILL + +Some South-Sea broker from the city +Will purchase me, the more's the pity; +Lay all my fine plantations waste, +To fit them to his vulgar taste: +Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, +My master Pope will break his heart. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +In my own Thames may I be drownded, +If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: +Except her majesty prevails +To place me with the Prince of Wales; +And then I shall be free from fears, +For he'll be prince these fifty years. +I then will turn a courtier too, +And serve the times as others do. +Plain loyalty, not built on hope, +I leave to your contriver, Pope; +None loves his king and country better, +Yet none was ever less their debtor. + +MARBLE HILL + +Then let him come and take a nap +In summer on my verdant lap; +Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, +To Kensington, or hot St. James's; +Nor shall I dull in silence sit; +For 'tis to me he owes his wit; +My groves, my echoes, and my birds, +Have taught him his poetic words. +We gardens, and you wildernesses, +Assist all poets in distresses. +Him twice a-week I here expect, +To rattle Moody[7] for neglect; +An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge +In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; +And I can hardly get him down +Three times a-week to brush my gown. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +I pity you, dear Marble Hill; +But hope to see you flourish still. +All happiness--and so adieu. + +MARBLE HILL + +Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you. + + +[Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after +supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden +on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at +the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th, +wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room +where he was born.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the +narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to +Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death, +described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy +could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and +states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the +King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty +thousand pounds to her family.--See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p. +304; v, p. 456.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his +esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral +Epistle."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean +suspected.] + +[Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England +after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of +religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See +Voltaire, "Siècle de Louis XIV."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: The gardener.] + + + + +DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 + + + 'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire +In men, Possession and Desire! +Think what they wish so great a blessing; +So disappointed when possessing! + A moralist profoundly sage +(I know not in what book or page, +Or whether o'er a pot of ale) +Related thus the following tale. + Possession, and Desire, his brother, +But still at variance with each other, +Were seen contending in a race; +And kept at first an equal pace; +'Tis said, their course continued long, +For this was active, that was strong: +Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt, +Misled them many a league about; +Seduced by some deceiving light, +They take the wrong way for the right; +Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, +They often climb, and often creep. + Desire, the swifter of the two, +Along the plain like lightning flew: +Till, entering on a broad highway, +Where power and titles scatter'd lay, +He strove to pick up all he found, +And by excursions lost his ground: +No sooner got, than with disdain +He threw them on the ground again; +And hasted forward to pursue +Fresh objects, fairer to his view, +In hope to spring some nobler game; +But all he took was just the same: +Too scornful now to stop his pace, +He spurn'd them in his rival's face. + Possession kept the beaten road, +And gather'd all his brother strew'd; +But overcharged, and out of wind, +Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind. + Desire had now the goal in sight; +It was a tower of monstrous height; +Where on the summit Fortune stands, +A crown and sceptre in her hands; +Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell, +Where many a bold adventurer fell. +Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile, +And saw the treacherous goddess smile; +But as he climb'd to grasp the crown, +She knock'd him with the sceptre down! +He tumbled in the gulf profound; +There doom'd to whirl an endless round. + Possession's load was grown so great, +He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight; +And, as he now expiring lay, +Flocks every ominous bird of prey; +The raven, vulture, owl, and kite, +At once upon his carcass light, +And strip his hide, and pick his bones, +Regardless of his dying groans. + + + + +ON CENSURE +1727 + +Ye wise, instruct me to endure +An evil, which admits no cure; +Or, how this evil can be borne, +Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. +Bare innocence is no support, +When you are tried in Scandal's court. +Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; +All others, who inferior sit, +Conceive themselves in conscience bound +To join, and drag you to the ground. +Your altitude offends the eyes +Of those who want the power to rise. +The world, a willing stander-by, +Inclines to aid a specious lie: +Alas! they would not do you wrong; +But all appearances are strong. + Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay +On what detracting people say! +For let mankind discharge their tongues +In venom, till they burst their lungs, +Their utmost malice cannot make +Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; +Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, +Or put one feature out of place; +Nor will you find your fortune sink +By what they speak or what they think; +Nor can ten hundred thousand lies +Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. + The most effectual way to balk +Their malice, is--to let them talk. + + + + +THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND +1727 + + +A set of phrases learn'd by rote; +A passion for a scarlet coat; +When at a play, to laugh or cry, +Yet cannot tell the reason why; +Never to hold her tongue a minute, +While all she prates has nothing in it; +Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, +And take his nonsense all for wit; +Her learning mounts to read a song, +But half the words pronouncing wrong; +Has every repartee in store +She spoke ten thousand times before; +Can ready compliments supply +On all occasions cut and dry; +Such hatred to a parson's gown, +The sight would put her in a swoon; +For conversation well endued, +She calls it witty to be rude; +And, placing raillery in railing, +Will tell aloud your greatest failing; +Nor make a scruple to expose +Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; +Can at her morning tea run o'er +The scandal of the day before; +Improving hourly in her skill, +To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. + In choosing lace, a critic nice, +Knows to a groat the lowest price; +Can in her female clubs dispute, +What linen best the silk will suit, +What colours each complexion match, +And where with art to place a patch. + If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, +Can finely counterfeit a fright; +So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, +She ravishes all hearts to hear her. +Can dext'rously her husband teaze, +By taking fits whene'er she please; +By frequent practice learns the trick +At proper seasons to be sick; +Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, +At once creating love and pity; +If Molly happens to be careless, +And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, +She gets a cold as sure as death, +And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; +Admires how modest women can +Be so robustious like a man. + In party, furious to her power; +A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; +Her arguments directly tend +Against the side she would defend; +Will prove herself a Tory plain, +From principles the Whigs maintain; +And, to defend the Whiggish cause, +Her topics from the Tories draws. + O yes! if any man can find +More virtues in a woman's mind, +Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1] +She'll pay the charges to a farthing; +Take notice, she has my commission +To add them in the next edition; +They may outsell a better thing: +So, holla, boys; God save the King! + + +[Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.--_F._] + + + + +CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 + + +As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, +Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, +He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, +And promised to pay for it when he came back. +His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; +His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't. +The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, +And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!" +But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, +Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side! +And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, +He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!" +The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; +Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: +Then said, I must speak to the people a little; +But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1] +My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) +He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. +Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, +Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; +My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, +And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; +Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, +Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch. + + +[Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.--_F._] + + +[Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was +the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of +stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD" + +1727 + + +POPE has the talent well to speak, + But not to reach the ear; +His loudest voice is low and weak, + The Dean too deaf to hear. + +Awhile they on each other look, + Then different studies choose; +The Dean sits plodding on a book; + Pope walks, and courts the Muse. + +Now backs of letters, though design'd + For those who more will need 'em, +Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, + Himself can hardly read 'em. + +Each atom by some other struck, + All turns and motions tries; +Till in a lump together stuck, + Behold a poem rise: + +Yet to the Dean his share allot; + He claims it by a canon; +That without which a thing is not, + Is _causa sine quâ non_. + +Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; + For, had our deaf divine +Been for your conversation fit, + You had not writ a line. + +Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed + The sexton reason'd well; +And justly half the merit claim'd, + Because he rang the bell. + + + + +A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS + +WRITTEN AT LONDON + + +By poets we are well assured +That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; +A complicated heap of ills, +Despising boluses and pills. +Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, +Since first I gave my heart to you. +Now, by your cruelty hard bound, +I strain my guts, my colon wound. +Now jealousy my grumbling tripes +Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. +When pity in those eyes I view, +My bowels wambling make me spew. +When I an amorous kiss design'd, +I belch'd a hurricane of wind. +Once you a gentle sigh let fall; +Remember how I suck'd it all; +What colic pangs from thence I felt, +Had you but known, your heart would melt, +Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, +Till Nature pointed out a vent. +How have you torn my heart to pieces +With maggots, humours, and caprices! +By which I got the hemorrhoids; +And loathsome worms my _anus_ voids. +Whene'er I hear a rival named, +I feel my body all inflamed; +Which, breaking out in boils and blains, +With yellow filth my linen stains; +Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, +Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; +And then I drag a bloated _corpus_, +Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; +When, if I cannot purge or stale, +I must be tapp'd to fill a pail. + + +[Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.--_H._] + + +BOUTS RIMEZ[1] + +ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA + + +Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, + Of classic beauty, _haec et illa_; +Not all his birch inspires such wit + As th'ogling beams of Domitilla. + +Let nobles toast, in bright champaign, + Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; +I'll drink her health, again, again, + In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla. + +At Goodman's Fields I've much admired + The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; +But what are they to the soft step, + The gliding air of Domitilla? + +Virgil has eternized in song + The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3] +Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; + He might have dream'd of Domitilla. + +Great Theodose condemn'd a town + For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4] +And deuce take London! if some knight + O' th' city wed not Domitilla. + +Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, + Gives us a medal of Plantilla; +But O! the empress has not eyes, + Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla. + +Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, + Piled on the mules of king At-tila, +Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) + Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla. + +Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, + Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- +--bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let + To verse--but now for Domitilla. + +Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch + To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6] +And thus I offer up my catch + To the snow-white hands of Domitilla. + + +[Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a +line, and to which rhymes must be found.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, _inter alia_, for his +enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints. +See his Works, _edit._ Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a +remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to +Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the +"Journal."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.] + +[Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several +books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."] + + + + +HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS +UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT + + +Now the active young attorneys +Briskly travel on their journeys, +Looking big as any giants, +On the horses of their clients; +Like so many little Marses +With their tilters at their a--s, +Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, +And with harness-buckles furnish'd, +And with whips and spurs so neat, +And with jockey-coats complete, +And with boots so very greasy, +And with saddles eke so easy, +And with bridles fine and gay, +Bridles borrow'd for a day, +Bridles destined far to roam, +Ah! never, never to come home. +And with hats so very big, sir, +And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, +And with ruffles to be shown, +Cambric ruffles not their own; +And with Holland shirts so white, +Shirts becoming to the sight, +Shirts bewrought with different letters, +As belonging to their betters. +With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, +Gotten from their dainty doxies, +And with rings so very trim, +Lately taken out of lim--[1] +And with very little pence, +And as very little sense; +With some law, but little justice, +Having stolen from my hostess, +From the barber and the cutler, +Like the soldier from the sutler; +From the vintner and the tailor, +Like the felon from the jailor; +Into this and t'other county, +Living on the public bounty; +Thorough town and thorough village, +All to plunder, all to pillage: +Thorough mountains, thorough valleys, +Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, +Some to--kiss with farmers' spouses, +And make merry in their houses; +Some to tumble country wenches +On their rushy beds and benches; +And if they begin a fray, +Draw their swords, and----run away; +All to murder equity, +And to take a double fee; +Till the people are all quiet, +And forget to broil and riot, +Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, +Safely glad to sup their porridge, +And vacation's over--then, +Hey, for London town again. + + +[Footnote 1: _Limbo_, any place of misery and restraint. + "For he no sooner was at large, + But Trulla straight brought on the charge, + And in the selfsame _Limbo_ put + The knight and squire where he was shut." + _Hudibras_, Part i, canto iii, 1,000. +Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PUPPET-SHOW + + +The life of man to represent, + And turn it all to ridicule, +Wit did a puppet-show invent, + Where the chief actor is a fool. + +The gods of old were logs of wood, + And worship was to puppets paid; +In antic dress the idol stood, + And priest and people bow'd the head. + +No wonder then, if art began + The simple votaries to frame, +To shape in timber foolish man, + And consecrate the block to fame. + +From hence poetic fancy learn'd + That trees might rise from human forms; +The body to a trunk be turn'd, + And branches issue from the arms. + +Thus Dædalus and Ovid too, + That man's a blockhead, have confest: +Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue; + Life is a farce, the world a jest. + +The same great truth South Sea has proved + On that famed theatre, the alley; +Where thousands, by directors moved + Are now sad monuments of folly. + +What Momus was of old to Jove, + The same a Harlequin is now; +The former was buffoon above, + The latter is a Punch below. + +This fleeting scene is but a stage, + Where various images appear; +In different parts of youth and age, + Alike the prince and peasant share. + +Some draw our eyes by being great, + False pomp conceals mere wood within; +And legislators ranged in state + Are oft but wisdom in machine. + +A stock may chance to wear a crown, + And timber as a lord take place; +A statue may put on a frown, + And cheat us with a thinking face. + +Others are blindly led away, + And made to act for ends unknown; +By the mere spring of wires they play, + And speak in language not their own. + +Too oft, alas! a scolding wife + Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; +And many drink the cup of life, + Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan. + +In short, whatever men pursue, + Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: +This mimic race brings all to view: + Alike they dress, they talk, they move. + +Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, + Mortals to please and to deride; +And, when death breaks thy vital band, + Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride. + +Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, + Thy image shall preserve thy fame; +Ages to come thy worth shall own, + Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name. + +Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, + Before he looks in nature's glass; +Puns cannot form a witty scene, + Nor pedantry for humour pass. + +To make men act as senseless wood, + And chatter in a mystic strain, +Is a mere force on flesh and blood, + And shows some error in the brain. + +He that would thus refine on thee, + And turn thy stage into a school, +The jest of Punch will ever be, + And stand confest the greater fool. + + +[Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.] + +[Footnote 2: Sheridan.] + + + + +THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY + +IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728 + + +SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part +In you, who ought to know my heart, +Are well acquainted with my zeal +For all the female commonweal-- +How could it come into your mind +To pitch on me, of all mankind, +Against the sex to write a satire, +And brand me for a woman-hater? +On me, who think them all so fair, +They rival Venus to a hair; +Their virtues never ceased to sing, +Since first I learn'd to tune a string? +Methinks I hear the ladies cry, +Will he his character belie? +Must never our misfortunes end? +And have we lost our only friend? +Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears, +No more let fall those precious tears. +Sooner shall, etc. + +[Here several verses are omitted.] + +The hound be hunted by the hare, +Than I turn rebel to the fair. + 'Twas you engaged me first to write, +Then gave the subject out of spite: +The journal of a modern dame, +Is, by my promise, what you claim. +My word is past, I must submit; +And yet perhaps you may be bit. +I but transcribe; for not a line +Of all the satire shall be mine. +Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes +The common slanders of the times, +Of modern times, the guilt is yours, +And me my innocence secures. +Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, +The annals of a female day. + By nature turn'd to play the rake well, +(As we shall show you in the sequel,) +The modern dame is waked by noon, +(Some authors say not quite so soon,) +Because, though sore against her will, +She sat all night up at quadrille. +She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, +And asks if it be time to rise; +Of headache and the spleen complains; +And then, to cool her heated brains, +Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, +Takes a large dram of citron water. +Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray, +Don't I look frightfully to-day? +But was it not confounded hard? +Well, if I ever touch a card! +Four matadores, and lose codille! +Depend upon't, I never will. +But run to Tom, and bid him fix +The ladies here to-night by six." +"Madam, the goldsmith waits below; +He says, his business is to know +If you'll redeem the silver cup +He keeps in pawn?"--"Why, show him up." +"Your dressing-plate he'll be content +To take, for interest _cent. per cent._ +And, madam, there's my Lady Spade +Has sent this letter by her maid." +"Well, I remember what she won; +And has she sent so soon to dun? +Here, carry down these ten pistoles +My husband left to pay for coals: +I thank my stars they all are light, +And I may have revenge to-night." +Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, +She enters on her usual theme; +Her last night's ill success repeats, +Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: +"She slipt spadillo in her breast, +Then thought to turn it to a jest: +There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, +And to each other give the sign." +Through every game pursues her tale, +Like hunters o'er their evening ale. + Now to another scene give place: +Enter the folks with silks and lace: +Fresh matter for a world of chat, +Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: +"Observe this pattern--there's a stuff; +I can have customers enough. +Dear madam, you are grown so hard-- +This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: +Madam, if there be truth in man, +I never sold so cheap a fan." + This business of importance o'er, +And madam almost dress'd by four; +The footman, in his usual phrase, +Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." +She answers, in her usual style, +"The cook must keep it back a while; +I never can have time to dress, +No woman breathing takes up less; +I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; +I wish the dinner at Old Nick." +At table now she acts her part, +Has all the dinner cant by heart: +"I thought we were to dine alone, +My dear; for sure, if I had known +This company would come to-day-- +But really 'tis my spouse's way! +He's so unkind, he never sends +To tell when he invites his friends: +I wish ye may but have enough!" +And while with all this paltry stuff +She sits tormenting every guest, +Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, +In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, +Which modern ladies call polite; +You see the booby husband sit +In admiration at her wit! + But let me now a while survey +Our madam o'er her evening tea; +Surrounded with her noisy clans +Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, +When, frighted at the clamorous crew, +Away the God of Silence flew, +And fair Discretion left the place, +And modesty with blushing face; +Now enters overweening Pride, +And Scandal, ever gaping wide, +Hypocrisy with frown severe, +Scurrility with gibing air; +Rude laughter seeming like to burst, +And Malice always judging worst; +And Vanity with pocket glass, +And Impudence with front of brass; +And studied Affectation came, +Each limb and feature out of frame; +While Ignorance, with brain of lead, +Flew hovering o'er each female head. + Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, +A hundred tongues, as poets use, +When, to give every dame her due, +A hundred thousand were too few? +Or how should I, alas! relate +The sum of all their senseless prate, +Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, +Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? +Now comes the general scandal charge; +What some invent, the rest enlarge; +And, "Madam, if it be a lie, +You have the tale as cheap as I; +I must conceal my author's name: +But now 'tis known to common fame." + Say, foolish females, bold and blind, +Say, by what fatal turn of mind, +Are you on vices most severe, +Wherein yourselves have greatest share? +Thus every fool herself deludes; +The prude condemns the absent prudes: +Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, +Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; +Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes +To censure Phyllis for perfumes; +While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, +That Florimel wears iron stays; +Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, +Admires how girls can talk with fellows; +And, full of indignation, frets, +That women should be such coquettes: +Iris, for scandal most notorious, +Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" +And Rufa, with her combs of lead, +Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: +Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, +Talks half a day in praise of silence; +And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, +Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. + Now voices over voices rise, +While each to be the loudest vies: +They contradict, affirm, dispute, +No single tongue one moment mute; +All mad to speak, and none to hearken, +They set the very lap-dog barking; +Their chattering makes a louder din +Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; +Not schoolboys at a barring out +Raised ever such incessant rout; +The jumbling particles of matter +In chaos made not such a clatter; +Far less the rabble roar and rail, +When drunk with sour election ale. + Nor do they trust their tongues alone, +But speak a language of their own; +Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, +Far better than a printed book; +Convey a libel in a frown, +And wink a reputation down; +Or by the tossing of the fan, +Describe the lady and the man. + But see, the female club disbands, +Each twenty visits on her hands. +Now all alone poor madam sits +In vapours and hysteric fits; +"And was not Tom this morning sent? +I'd lay my life he never went; +Past six, and not a living soul! +I might by this have won a vole." +A dreadful interval of spleen! +How shall we pass the time between? +"Here, Betty, let me take my drops; +And feel my pulse, I know it stops; +This head of mine, lord, how it swims! +And such a pain in all my limbs!" +"Dear madam, try to take a nap"-- +But now they hear a footman's rap: +"Go, run, and light the ladies up: +It must be one before we sup." + The table, cards, and counters, set, +And all the gamester ladies met, +Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, +Our madam can sit up all night; +"Whoever comes, I'm not within." +Quadrille's the word, and so begin. + How can the Muse her aid impart, +Unskill'd in all the terms of art? +Or in harmonious numbers put +The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? +The superstitious whims relate, +That fill a female gamester's pate? +What agony of soul she feels +To see a knave's inverted heels! +She draws up card by card, to find +Good fortune peeping from behind; +With panting heart, and earnest eyes, +In hope to see spadillo rise; +In vain, alas! her hope is fed; +She draws an ace, and sees it red; +In ready counters never pays, +But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; +Ever with some new fancy struck, +Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. +"This morning, when the parson came, +I said I should not win a game. +This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? +I think I never had good luck in't. +I'm so uneasy in my stays: +Your fan, a moment, if you please. +Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; +I always lose when you look on." +"Lord! madam, you have lost codille: +I never saw you play so ill." +"Nay, madam, give me leave to say, +'Twas you that threw the game away: +When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, +You took it with a matadore; +I saw you touch your wedding ring +Before my lady call'd a king; +You spoke a word began with H, +And I know whom you meant to teach, +Because you held the king of hearts; +Fie, madam, leave these little arts." +"That's not so bad as one that rubs +Her chair to call the king of clubs; +And makes her partner understand +A matadore is in her hand." +"Madam, you have no cause to flounce, +I swear I saw you thrice renounce." +"And truly, madam, I know when +Instead of five you scored me ten. +Spadillo here has got a mark; +A child may know it in the dark: +I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails: +I wish some folks would pare their nails." + While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, +It passes but for common form: +But, conscious that they all speak true, +And give each other but their due, +It never interrupts the game, +Or makes them sensible of shame. + The time too precious now to waste, +The supper gobbled up in haste; +Again afresh to cards they run, +As if they had but just begun. +But I shall not again repeat, +How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. +At last they hear the watchman knock, +"A frosty morn--past four o'clock." +The chairmen are not to be found, +"Come, let us play the other round." + Now all in haste they huddle on +Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone; +But, first, the winner must invite +The company to-morrow night. + Unlucky madam, left in tears, +(Who now again quadrille forswears,) +With empty purse, and aching head, +Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed. + + + + +THE LOGICIANS REFUTED + + +Logicians have but ill defined +As rational, the human kind; +Reason, they say, belongs to man, +But let them prove it if they can. +Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, +By ratiocinations specious, +Have strove to prove, with great precision, +With definition and division, +_Homo est ratione praeditum;_ +But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, +And must, in spite of them, maintain, +That man and all his ways are vain; +And that this boasted lord of nature +Is both a weak and erring creature; +That instinct is a surer guide +Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; +And that brute beasts are far before 'em. +_Deus est anima brutorum._ +Whoever knew an honest brute +At law his neighbour prosecute, +Bring action for assault or battery, +Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? +O'er plains they ramble unconfined, +No politics disturb their mind; +They eat their meals, and take their sport +Nor know who's in or out at court. +They never to the levee go +To treat, as dearest friend, a foe: +They never importune his grace, +Nor ever cringe to men in place: +Nor undertake a dirty job, +Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1] +Fraught with invective, they ne'er go +To folks at Paternoster Row. +No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, +No pickpockets, or poetasters, +Are known to honest quadrupeds; +No single brute his fellow leads. +Brutes never meet in bloody fray, +Nor cut each other's throats for pay. +Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape +Comes nearest us in human shape; +Like man, he imitates each fashion, +And malice is his lurking passion: +But, both in malice and grimaces, +A courtier any ape surpasses. +Behold him, humbly cringing, wait +Upon the minister of state; +View him soon after to inferiors +Aping the conduct of superiors; +He promises with equal air, +And to perform takes equal care. +He in his turn finds imitators, +At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, +Their masters' manner still contract, +And footmen, lords and dukes can act. +Thus, at the court, both great and small +Behave alike, for all ape all. + + +[Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of +party-writers.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN + +WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; +AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE +THE HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I + +Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor +should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; +secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a +most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, +without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be +constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either +for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... +thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might +prevent dangers to come."--_W. E. B._ + + +Ere bribes convince you whom to choose, +The precepts of Lord Coke peruse. +Observe an elephant, says he, +And let him like your member be: +First take a man that's free from _Gaul_, +For elephants have none at all; +In flocks or parties he must keep; +For elephants live just like sheep. +Stubborn in honour he must be; +For elephants ne'er bend the knee. +Last, let his memory be sound, +In which your elephant's profound; +That old examples from the wise +May prompt him in his noes and ayes. + Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ, +In all the form of lawyer's wit: +And then, with Latin and all that, +Shows the comparison is pat. +Yet in some points my lord is wrong, +One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: +Now, men of parliament, God knows, +Are more like elephants of shows; +Whose docile memory and sense +Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; +To get their master half-a-crown, +They spread the flag, or lay it down: +Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, +And guarded nations from attacks, +Now practise every pliant gesture, +Opening their trunk for every tester. +Siam, for elephants so famed, +Is not with England to be named: +Their elephants by men are sold; +Ours sell themselves, and take the gold. + + + + +PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM + +BY MR. LINDSAY[1] + +_Dublin, Sept._ 7, 1728. + + +"A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, +In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; +While smiling Nature, in her best attire, +Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. +Can he, who knows that real good should please, +Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"-- +This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, +Upon his board the client pours the ore: +He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, +Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws. + + +[Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent +pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the +Justices of the Common Pleas.--_H._] + + + + +THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT + + +Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, +And honest Paulus judges right. +Then, why these quarrels to the sun, +Without whose aid you're all undone? +Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat? +Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; +The influence of whose golden beams +Soon licks up all unsavoury steams? +The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: +It has; but then it greased his fist. +True lawyers, for the wisest ends, +Have always been Apollo's friends. +Not for his superficial powers +Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; +Not for inspiring poets' brains +With penniless and starveling strains; +Not for his boasted healing art; +Not for his skill to shoot the dart; +Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; +Nor for his prophecies in riddles: +But for a more substantial cause-- +Apollo's patron of the laws; +Whom Paulus ever must adore, +As parent of the golden ore, +By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, +Begot upon his grandam Earth; +By Phoebus first produced to light; +By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: +Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, +By clients to her priests and trustees. +Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand +With even balance in her hand, +Must we suppose she has in view, +How to give every man his due; +Her scales you see her only hold, +To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold. + Now, should I own your case was grievous, +Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? +'Tis very true, and none denies, +At least, that such complaints are wise: +'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, +To cry, like statesmen, _Quanta patimur!_ +But, since the truth must needs be stretched +To prove that lawyers are so wretched, +This paradox I'll undertake, +For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; +By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, +May serve as arguments _ad hominem_: +Yet I disdain to offer those +Made use of by detracting foes. + I own the curses of mankind +Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: +The clamours of ten thousand tongues +Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; +I own, his conscience always free, +(Provided he has got his fee,) +Secure of constant peace within, +He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. + Yet well they merit to be pitied, +By clients always overwitted. +And though the gospel seems to say, +What heavy burdens lawyers lay +Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, +Nor lend a finger to their labour, +Always for saving their own bacon; +No doubt, the text is here mistaken: +The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: +To prove it, I appeal to fact; +And thus by demonstration show +What burdens lawyers undergo. + With early clients at his door, +Though he was drunk the night before, +And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, +The wretch must be at court by nine; +Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, +As ridden by a midnight hag; +Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, +In English vile, and viler French, +And Latin, vilest of the three; +And all for poor ten moidores fee! +Of paper how is he profuse, +With periods long, in terms abstruse! +What pains he takes to be prolix! +A thousand lines to stand for six! +Of common sense without a word in! +And is not this a grievous burden? + The lawyer is a common drudge, +To fight our cause before the judge: +And, what is yet a greater curse, +Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: +While he at ease, secure and light, +Walks boldly home at dead of night; +When term is ended, leaves the town, +Trots to his country mansion down; +And, disencumber'd of his load, +No danger dreads upon the road; +Despises rapparees,[2] and rides +Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. + Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, +To state this question _pro_ and _con_. +My satire may offend, 'tis true; +However, it concerns not you. +I own, there may, in every clan, +Perhaps, be found one honest man; +Yet link them close, in this they jump, +To be but rascals in the lump. +Imagine Lindsay at the bar, +He's much the same his brethren are; +Well taught by practice to imbibe +The fundamentals of his tribe: +And in his client's just defence, +Must deviate oft from common sense; +And make his ignorance discern'd, +To get the name of counsel-learn'd, +(As _lucus_ comes _a non lucendo_,) +And wisely do as other men do: +But shift him to a better scene, +Among his crew of rogues in grain; +Surrounded with companions fit, +To taste his humour, sense, and wit; +You'd swear he never took a fee, +Nor knew in law his A, B, C. + 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, +To keep good sense in crowds of fools. +And we admire the man, who saves +His honesty in crowds of knaves; +Nor yields up virtue at discretion, +To villains of his own profession. +Lindsay, you know what pains you take +In both, yet hardly save your stake; +And will you venture both anew, +To sit among that venal crew, +That pack of mimic legislators, +Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters? +For as the rabble daub and rifle +The fool who scrambles for a trifle; +Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, +Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; +You must expect the like disgrace, +Scrambling with rogues to get a place; +Must lose the honour you have gain'd, +Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: +Disclaim for ever all pretence +To common honesty and sense; +And join in friendship with a strict tie, +To M--l, C--y, and Dick Tighe.[3] + + +[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave +the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, +150.--_W. E .B._] + +[Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, +and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times +mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and +how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, +etc.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A DIALOGUE + +BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN +SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, +BOOK II, SATIRE I + +"Sunt quibus in Satirâ," etc. + +WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729 + + +DR. SWIFT + +Since there are persons who complain +There's too much satire in my vein; +That I am often found exceeding +The rules of raillery and breeding; +With too much freedom treat my betters, +Not sparing even men of letters: +You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, +What's your advice? Shall I give o'er? +Nor ever fools or knaves expose, +Either in verse or humorous prose: +And to avoid all future ill, +In my scrutoire lock up my quill? + +LAWYER + + Since you are pleased to condescend +To ask the judgment of a friend, +Your case consider'd, I must think +You should withdraw from pen and ink, +Forbear your poetry and jokes, +And live like other Christian folks; +Or if the Muses must inspire +Your fancy with their pleasing fire, +Take subjects safer for your wit +Than those on which you lately writ. +Commend the times, your thoughts correct, +And follow the prevailing sect; +Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story, +Shows all the malice of a Tory; +While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page, +Discovers freedom without rage. +To Woolston[4] recommend our youth, +For learning, probity, and truth; +That noble genius, who unbinds +The chains which fetter freeborn minds; +Redeems us from the slavish fears +Which lasted near two thousand years; +He can alone the priesthood humble, +Make gilded spires and altars tumble. + +DR. SWIFT + + Must I commend against my conscience, +Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense; +To such a subject tune my lyre, +And sing like one of Milton's choir, +Where devils to a vale retreat, +And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate; +Lament upon their hapless fall, +That Force free Virtue should enthrall? +Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power +Make me pollute the Muses' bower? + +LAWYER + + As from the tripod of Apollo, +Hear from my desk the words that follow: +"Some, by philosophers misled, +Must honour you alive and dead; +And such as know what Greece has writ, +Must taste your irony and wit; +While most that are, or would be great, +Must dread your pen, your person hate; +And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie, +And there without a mitre die." + + +[Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."] + +[Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the +Reformation."] + +[Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him, +see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles +caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in +1733.--_W.E.B._] + +[Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.--_F_.] + + + + +ON BURNING A DULL POEM + +1729 + + +An ass's hoof alone can hold +That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. +Methought, when I this poem read, +No vessel but an ass's head +Such frigid fustian could contain; +I mean, the head without the brain. +The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, +Went down like stupifying draughts; +I found my head begin to swim, +A numbness crept through every limb. +In haste, with imprecations dire, +I threw the volume in the fire; +When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, +It burnt to ashes in a trice. + How could I more enhance its fame? +Though born in snow, it died in flame. + + + + +AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD +OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN[1] TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE. 1730 + + +Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, + And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, +(A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year, + For the good of our church, a true English dean. +A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, +The worst you can say, he committed a rape. + +In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, + And there he grew fond of another man's wife; +Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her; + But she valued her honour much more than her life. +She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape +To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape. + +The dean he pursued, to recover his game; + And now to attack her again he prepares: +But the company stood in defence of the dame, + They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs. +His deanship was now in a damnable scrape, +And this was no time for committing a rape. + +To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, + And orders the landlord to bring him a whore; +No scruple came on him his gown to expose, + 'Twas what all his life he had practised before. +He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, +And got a good clap, but committed no rape. + +The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, + Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight; +For why, they had both been brought up to the trade + Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night. +His landlord was ready his deanship to ape +In every debauch but committing a rape. + +This Protestant zealot, this English divine, + In church and in state was of principles sound; +Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line, + And grieved that a Tory should live above ground. +Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape, +For no other crime but committing a rape? + +By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, + Each priest had a concubine _jure ecclesiae_; +Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a _commendam_? + And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: +Then why should the dean, when whores are so cheap, +Be put to the peril and toil of a rape? + +If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet, + (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,) +To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, + Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser. +But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape, +For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape. + +Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, + Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten? +To hang him, all England would lend him their garters, + Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3] +Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, +For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape. + +The dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing; + He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; +He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling; + But here was to pay the devil and all. +His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap, +And hang'd he must be for committing a rape. + +If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: + Why are they so wilful to struggle with men? +If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, + No devil nor dean could ravish them then. +Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape +Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape. + +Our church and our state dear England maintains, + For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: +She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, + And better would give us, if better she had. +But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, +When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape! + + +[Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered +himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the +Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."--_London Evening +Post_, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean +of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose +trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on +behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's +Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her +for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape +was committed against her in the city of Dublin."--_Daily Post-Boy_, June +23, 1730.--_Nichols_.] + +[Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years +ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.--See "The penitent death of +a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at +Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several +passages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements, +preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland. + +"_Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius +Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam assequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed +magisterium sanctitatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia fortasse +quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille +laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi_. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin, +Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."] + +[Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty +of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was +fined £300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of +Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the +Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ON STEPHEN DUCK +THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET + +A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730 + +The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, +The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." +From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; +For which her majesty allows him grains: +Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw +His poems, think them all not worth a straw! + Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble, +Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double. + +[Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small +collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal +Gardens of Richmond. + "How shall we fill a library with wit, + When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?" +POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Ep. 1.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 + +Five hours (and who can do it less in?) +By haughty Celia spent in dressing; +The goddess from her chamber issues, +Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues. + Strephon, who found the room was void, +And Betty otherwise employ'd, +Stole in, and took a strict survey +Of all the litter as it lay: +Whereof, to make the matter clear, +An inventory follows here. + And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, +Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd; +Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, +And turn'd it round on ev'ry side: +On such a point, few words are best, +And Strephon bids us guess the rest; +But swears, how damnably the men lie +In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. + Now listen, while he next produces +The various combs for various uses; +Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, +No brush could force a way betwixt; +A paste of composition rare, +Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: +A fore-head cloth with oil upon't, +To smooth the wrinkles on her front: +Here alum-flour, to stop the steams +Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: +There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, +[1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; +With puppy-water, beauty's help, +Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp. +Here gallipots and vials placed, +Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; +Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, +And ointments good for scabby chops. +Hard by a filthy bason stands, +Foul'd with the scouring of her hands: +The bason takes whatever comes, +The scrapings from her teeth and gums, +A nasty compound of all hues, +For here she spits, and here she spues. + But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels +When he beheld and smelt the towels, +Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd, +With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd; +No object Strephon's eye escapes; +Here petticoats in frouzy heaps; +Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, +All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot. +The stockings why should I expose, +Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2] +Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking, +Which Celia slept at least a week in? +A pair of tweezers next he found, +To pluck her brows in arches round; +Or hairs that sink the forehead low, +Or on her chin like bristles grow. + The virtues we must not let pass +Of Celia's magnifying glass; +When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't, +It shew'd the visage of a giant: +A glass that can to sight disclose +The smallest worm in Celia's nose, +And faithfully direct her nail +To squeeze it out from head to tail; +For, catch it nicely by the head, +It must come out, alive or dead. + Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest? +And must you needs describe the chest? +That careless wench! no creature warn her +To move it out from yonder corner! +But leave it standing full in sight, +For you to exercise your spight? +In vain the workman shew'd his wit, +With rings and hinges counterfeit, +To make it seem in this disguise +A cabinet to vulgar eyes: +Which Strephon ventur'd to look in, +Resolved to go thro' thick and thin. +He lifts the lid: there needs no more, +He smelt it all the time before. + As, from within Pandora's box, +When Epimetheus op'd the locks, +A sudden universal crew +Of human evils upward flew; +He still was comforted to find +That hope at last remain'd behind: +So Strephon, lifting up the lid, +To view what in the chest was hid, +The vapours flew from up the vent; +But Strephon, cautious, never meant +The bottom of the pan to grope, +And foul his hands in search of hope. +O! ne'er may such a vile machine +Be once in Celia's chamber seen! +O! may she better learn to keep +Those "secrets of the hoary deep." [3] + As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat, +Which, tho' with art you salt and beat, +As laws of cookery require, +And toast them at the clearest fire; +If from upon the hopeful chops +The fat upon a cinder drops, +To stinking smoke it turns the flame, +Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came, +And up exhales a greasy stench, +For which you curse the careless wench: +So things which must not be exprest, +When drop'd into the reeking chest, +Send up an excremental smell +To taint the part from whence they fell: +The petticoats and gown perfume, +And waft a stink round ev'ry room. + Thus finishing his grand survey, +Disgusted Strephon slunk away; +Repeating in his amorous fits, +"Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--!" +But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping, +Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: +His foul imagination links +Each dame he sees with all her stinks; +And, if unsavoury odours fly, +Conceives a lady standing by. +All women his description fits, +And both ideas jump like wits; +By vicious fancy coupled fast, +And still appearing in contrast. + I pity wretched Strephon, blind +To all the charms of woman kind. +Should I the Queen of Love refuse, +Because she rose from stinking ooze? +To him that looks behind the scene, +Statira's but some pocky quean. + When Celia in her glory shews, +If Strephon would but stop his nose, +(Who now so impiously blasphemes +Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, +Her washes, slops, and every clout, +With which he makes so foul a rout;) +He soon would learn to think like me, +And bless his ravish'd sight to see +Such order from confusion sprung, +Such gaudy tulips raised from dung. + + +[Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."--1732.] + +[Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."--1732.] + +[Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: + "Before their eyes in sudden view appear + The secrets of the hoary deep."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 + +If neither brass nor marble can withstand +The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; +If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, +And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; +When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine) +Is out at elbows, why should I repine? + + + + +CASSINUS AND PETER + +A TRAGICAL ELEGY + +1731 + + +Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, +Both special wits and lovers both, +Conferring, as they used to meet, +On love, and books, in rapture sweet; +(Muse, find me names to fit my metre, +Cassinus this, and t'other Peter.) +Friend Peter to Cassinus goes, +To chat a while, and warm his nose: +But such a sight was never seen, +The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen. +He seem'd as just crept out of bed; +One greasy stocking round his head, +The other he sat down to darn, +With threads of different colour'd yarn; +His breeches torn, exposing wide +A ragged shirt and tawny hide. +Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare, +But well embrown'd with dirt and hair +A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown, +(A rug, for nightgown he had none,) +His jordan stood in manner fitting +Between his legs, to spew or spit in; +His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, +And half unsmoked, lay by his side. + Him thus accoutred Peter found, +With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; +The leavings of his last night's pot +On embers placed, to drink it hot. + Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate: +What makes thee lie a-bed so late? +The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, +Their matins chant in every bush; +And I have heard thee oft salute +Aurora with thy early flute. +Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps! +How! not a word come from thy lips? + Then gave him some familiar thumps, +A college joke to cure the dumps. + The swain at last, with grief opprest, +Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest. + Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread, +Yet ask I must--is Celia dead? + How happy I, were that the worst! +But I was fated to be curst! + Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore? + O Peter, would it were no more! + Why, plague confound her sandy locks! +Say, has the small or greater pox +Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face? +Be easy, 'tis a common case. + O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, +Which time and accidents will tarnish: +But Celia has contrived to blast +Those beauties that might ever last. +Nor can imagination guess, +Nor eloquence divine express, +How that ungrateful charming maid +My purest passion has betray'd: +Conceive the most envenom'd dart +To pierce an injured lover's heart. + Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, +I know she loves the barber's boy. + Friend Peter, this I could excuse, +For every nymph has leave to choose; +Nor have I reason to complain, +She loves a more deserving swain. +But, oh! how ill hast thou divined +A crime, that shocks all human kind; +A deed unknown to female race, +At which the sun should hide his face: +Advice in vain you would apply-- +Then leave me to despair and die. +Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn +These elegies and sonnets burn; +And on the marble grave these rhymes, +A monument to after-times-- +"Here Cassy lies, by Celia slain, +And dying, never told his pain." + Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, +The loud Cerberian triple bark; +And there--behold Alecto stand, +A whip of scorpions in her hand: +Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry +Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry: +I come! I come! Medusa see, +Her serpents hiss direct at me. +Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: +"Avaunt--ye cannot say 'twas I."[1] + Dear Cassy, thou must purge and bleed; +I fear thou wilt be mad indeed. +But now, by friendship's sacred laws, +I here conjure thee, tell the cause; +And Celia's horrid fact relate: +Thy friend would gladly share thy fate. + To force it out, my heart must rend; +Yet when conjured by such a friend-- +Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd! +These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact. +Now bend thine ear, since out it must; +But, when thou seest me laid in dust, +The secret thou shalt ne'er impart, +Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; + (How would her virgin soul bemoan +A crime to all her sex unknown!) +Nor whisper to the tattling reeds +The blackest of all female deeds; +Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, +Where Echo sits, and listening mocks; +Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale +Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; +Nor to the chattering feather'd race +Discover Celia's foul disgrace. +But, if you fail, my spectre dread, +Attending nightly round your bed-- +And yet I dare confide in you; +So take my secret, and adieu: +Nor wonder how I lost my wits: +Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--! + + +[Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: + "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc. + "Avaunt, and quit my sight."] + + + + +A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. + +WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731 + + +Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, +For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; +Never did Covent-Garden boast +So bright a batter'd strolling toast! +No drunken rake to pick her up, +No cellar where on tick to sup; +Returning at the midnight hour, +Four stories climbing to her bower; +Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, +Takes off her artificial hair; +Now picking out a crystal eye, +She wipes it clean, and lays it by. +Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide +Stuck on with art on either side, +Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, +Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em. +Now dext'rously her plumpers draws, +That serve to fill her hollow jaws, +Untwists a wire, and from her gums +A set of teeth completely comes; +Pulls out the rags contrived to prop +Her flabby dugs, and down they drop. +Proceeding on, the lovely goddess +Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, +Which, by the operator's skill, +Press down the lumps, the hollows fill. +Up goes her hand, and off she slips +The bolsters that supply her hips; +With gentlest touch she next explores +Her chancres, issues, running sores; +Effects of many a sad disaster, +And then to each applies a plaster: +But must, before she goes to bed, +Rub off the daubs of white and red, +And smooth the furrows in her front +With greasy paper stuck upon't. +She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; +And then between two blankets creeps. +With pains of love tormented lies; +Or, if she chance to close her eyes, +Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams, +And feels the lash, and faintly screams; +Or, by a faithless bully drawn, +At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; +Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported +Alone, and by no planter courted; +Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks, +Surrounded with a hundred stinks, +Belated, seems on watch to lie, +And snap some cully passing by; +Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs +On watchmen, constables, and duns, +From whom she meets with frequent rubs; +But never from religious clubs; +Whose favour she is sure to find, +Because she pays them all in kind. + Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight! +Behold the ruins of the night! +A wicked rat her plaster stole, +Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole. +The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd; +And puss had on her plumpers p--st, +A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease: +And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas. + The nymph, though in this mangled plight +Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite. +But how shall I describe her arts +To re-collect the scatter'd parts? +Or show the anguish, toil, and pain, +Of gath'ring up herself again? +The bashful Muse will never bear +In such a scene to interfere. +Corinna, in the morning dizen'd, +Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd. + + +[Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the +Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and +pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See +the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily, +been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New +Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished. +For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present," +by Wheatley.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See +"A quiet life and a good name," _ante_, p. 152.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: See _ante_, p. 78, "Descripton of a City +Shower."--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +STREPHON AND CHLOE +1731 + + +Of Chloe all the town has rung, +By ev'ry size of poets sung: +So beautiful a nymph appears +But once in twenty thousand years; +By Nature form'd with nicest care, +And faultless to a single hair. +Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, +Confess'd her of no mortal race: +And then so nice, and so genteel; +Such cleanliness from head to heel; +No humours gross, or frouzy steams, +No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, +Before, behind, above, below, +Could from her taintless body flow: +Would so discreetly things dispose, +None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] +Her dearest comrades never caught her +Squat on her hams to make maid's water: +You'd swear that so divine a creature +Felt no necessities of nature. +In summer had she walk'd the town, +Her armpits would not stain her gown: +At country dances, not a nose +Could in the dog-days smell her toes. +Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs, +Like ivory dry, and soft as wax. +Her hands, the softest ever felt, +[2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. + Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid, +Nor let her loose to spoil your trade. +While she engrosses ev'ry swain, +You but o'er half the world can reign. +Think what a case all men are now in, +What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing! +What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts! +What hampers full of bleeding hearts! +What sword-knots! what poetic strains! +What billets-doux, and clouded canes! + But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong, +He blew a settlement along; +And bravely drove his rivals down, +With coach and six, and house in town. +The bashful nymph no more withstands, +Because her dear papa commands. +The charming couple now unites: +Proceed we to the marriage rites. + _Imprimis_, at the Temple porch +Stood Hymen with a flaming torch: +The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings +Her infant loves with purple wings: +And pigeons billing, sparrows treading, +Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding. +The Muses next in order follow, +Conducted by their squire, Apollo: +Then Mercury with silver tongue; +And Hebe, goddess ever young. +Behold, the bridegroom and his bride +Walk hand in hand, and side by side; +She, by the tender Graces drest, +But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest. +The nymph was cover'd with her _flammeum_[3], +And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4]. +And last, to make the matter sure, +Dame Juno brought a priest demure. +[5]Luna was absent, on pretence +Her time was not till nine months hence. +The rites perform'd, the parson paid, +In state return'd the grand parade; +With loud huzzas from all the boys, +That now the pair must crown their joys. + But still the hardest part remains: +Strephon had long perplex'd his brains, +How with so high a nymph he might +Demean himself the wedding-night: +For, as he view'd his person round, +Mere mortal flesh was all he found: +His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet, +Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet; +With other parts, that shall be nameless, +The ladies else might think me shameless. +The weather and his love were hot; +And, should he struggle, I know what-- +Why, let it go, if I must tell it-- +He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it; +While she, a goddess dyed in grain, +Was unsusceptible of stain, +And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin +Exhaled ambrosia from within. +Can such a deity endure +A mortal human touch impure? +How did the humbled swain detest +His prickly beard, and hairy breast! +His night-cap, border'd round with lace, +Could give no softness to his face. + Yet, if the goddess could be kind, +What endless raptures must he find! +And goddesses have now and then +Come down to visit mortal men; +To visit and to court them too: +A certain goddess, God knows who, +(As in a book he heard it read,) +Took Col'nel Peleus[6] to her bed. +But what if he should lose his life +By vent'ring on his heavenly wife! +(For Strephon could remember well, +That once he heard a school-boy tell, +How Semele,[7] of mortal race, +By thunder died in Jove's embrace.) +And what if daring Strephon dies +By lightning shot from Chloe's eyes! + While these reflections fill'd his head, +The bride was put in form to bed: +He follow'd, stript, and in he crept, +But awfully his distance kept. + Now, "ponder well, ye parents dear;" +Forbid your daughters guzzling beer; +And make them ev'ry afternoon +Forbear their tea, or drink it soon; +That, ere to bed they venture up, +They may discharge it ev'ry sup; +If not, they must in evil plight +Be often forc'd to rise at night. +Keep them to wholesome food confin'd, +Nor let them taste what causes wind: +'Tis this the sage of Samos means, +Forbidding his disciples beans.[8] +O! think what evils must ensue; +Miss Moll, the jade, will burn it blue; +And, when she once has got the art, +She cannot help it for her heart; +But out it flies, even when she meets +Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets. +_Carminative_ and _diuretic_[9] +Will damp all passion sympathetic; +And Love such nicety requires, +One blast will put out all his fires. +Since husbands get behind the scene, +The wife should study to be clean; +Nor give the smallest room to guess +The time when wants of nature press; +But after marriage practise more +Decorum than she did before; +To keep her spouse deluded still, +And make him fancy what she will. + In bed we left the married pair; +'Tis time to show how things went there. +Strephon, who had been often told +That fortune still assists the bold, +Resolved to make the first attack; +But Chloe drove him fiercely back. +How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe, +With constitution cold and snowy, +Permit a brutish man to touch her? +Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher. +Resistance on the wedding-night +Is what our maidens claim by right; +And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed, +Was maid in thought, in word, and deed. +Yet some assign a different reason; +That Strephon chose no proper season. + Say, fair ones, must I make a pause, +Or freely tell the secret cause? + Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak) +Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak. +This point must needs be settled first: +The bride must either void or burst. +Then see the dire effects of pease; +Think what can give the colic ease. +The nymph oppress'd before, behind, +As ships are toss'd by waves and wind, +Steals out her hand, by nature led, +And brings a vessel into bed; +Fair utensil, as smooth and white +As Chloe's skin, almost as bright. + Strephon, who heard the fuming rill +As from a mossy cliff distil, +Cried out, Ye Gods! what sound is this? +Can Chloe, heavenly Chloe,----? +But when he smelt a noisome steam +Which oft attends that lukewarm stream; +(Salerno both together joins,[10] +As sov'reign med'cines for the loins:) +And though contriv'd, we may suppose, +To slip his ears, yet struck his nose; +He found her while the scent increast, +As mortal as himself at least. +But soon, with like occasions prest +He boldly sent his hand in quest +(Inspired with courage from his bride) +To reach the pot on t'other side; +And, as he fill'd the reeking vase; +Let fly a rouser in her face. + The little Cupids hov'ring round, +(As pictures prove) with garlands crown'd, +Abash'd at what they saw and heard, +Flew off, nor ever more appear'd. + Adieu to ravishing delights, +High raptures, and romantic flights; +To goddesses so heav'nly sweet, +Expiring shepherds at their feet; +To silver meads and shady bowers, +Dress'd up with amaranthine flowers. + How great a change! how quickly made! +They learn to call a spade a spade. +They soon from all constraint are freed; +Can see each other do their need. +On box of cedar sits the wife, +And makes it warm for dearest life; +And, by the beastly way of thinking, +Find great society in stinking. +Now Strephon daily entertains +His Chloe in the homeliest strains; +And Chloe, more experienc'd grown, +With int'rest pays him back his own. +No maid at court is less asham'd, +Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd, +Than she to name her parts behind, +Or when a-bed to let out wind. + Fair Decency, celestial maid! +Descend from Heaven to Beauty's aid! +Though Beauty may beget desire, +'Tis thou must fan the Lover's fire; +For Beauty, like supreme dominion, +Is best supported by Opinion: +If Decency bring no supplies, +Opinion falls, and Beauty dies. + To see some radiant nymph appear +In all her glitt'ring birth-day gear, +You think some goddess from the sky +Descended, ready cut and dry: +But ere you sell yourself to laughter, +Consider well what may come after; +For fine ideas vanish fast, +While all the gross and filthy last. + O Strephon, ere that fatal day +When Chloe stole your heart away, +Had you but through a cranny spy'd +On house of ease your future bride, +In all the postures of her face, +Which nature gives in such a case; +Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings, +'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings, +Than from experience find too late +Your goddess grown a filthy mate. +Your fancy then had always dwelt +On what you saw and what you smelt; +Would still the same ideas give ye, +As when you spy'd her on the privy; +And, spite of Chloe's charms divine, +Your heart had been as whole as mine. + Authorities, both old and recent, +Direct that women must be decent; +And from the spouse each blemish hide, +More than from all the world beside. + Unjustly all our nymphs complain +Their empire holds so short a reign; +Is, after marriage, lost so soon, +It hardly lasts the honey-moon: +For, if they keep not what they caught, +It is entirely their own fault. +They take possession of the crown, +And then throw all their weapons down: +Though, by the politician's scheme, +Whoe'er arrives at power supreme, +Those arts, by which at first they gain it, +They still must practise to maintain it. + What various ways our females take +To pass for wits before a rake! +And in the fruitless search pursue +All other methods but the true! + Some try to learn polite behaviour +By reading books against their Saviour; +Some call it witty to reflect +On ev'ry natural defect; +Some shew they never want explaining +To comprehend a double meaning. +But sure a tell-tale out of school +Is of all wits the greatest fool; +Whose rank imagination fills +Her heart, and from her lips distils; +You'd think she utter'd from behind, +Or at her mouth was breaking wind. + Why is a handsome wife ador'd +By every coxcomb but her lord? +From yonder puppet-man inquire, +Who wisely hides his wood and wire; +Shows Sheba's queen completely drest, +And Solomon in royal vest: +But view them litter'd on the floor, +Or strung on pegs behind the door; +Punch is exactly of a piece +With Lorrain's duke, and prince of Greece. + A prudent builder should forecast +How long the stuff is like to last; +And carefully observe the ground, +To build on some foundation sound. +What house, when its materials crumble, +Must not inevitably tumble? +What edifice can long endure +Raised on a basis unsecure? +Rash mortals, ere you take a wife, +Contrive your pile to last for life: +Since beauty scarce endures a day, +And youth so swiftly glides away; +Why will you make yourself a bubble, +To build on sand with hay and stubble? + On sense and wit your passion found, +By decency cemented round; +Let prudence with good-nature strive, +To keep esteem and love alive. +Then come old age whene'er it will, +Your friendship shall continue still: +And thus a mutual gentle fire +Shall never but with life expire. + + +[Footnote 1: A delicate way of speaking of a lady retiring behind a bush +in a garden.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: + "Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull + Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full." +DENHAM, _Cooper's Hill._] + + +[Footnote 3: A veil with which the Roman brides covered themselves when +going to be married.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Marriage song, sung at weddings.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Diana.] + +[Footnote 6: Who married Thetis, the Nereid, by whom he became the father +of Achilles.--Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. xi, 221, _seq.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: See Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. iii.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 8: A precept of Pythagoras. Hence, in French _argot_, beans, as +causing wind, are called _musiciens.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: Provocative of perspiration and urine.] + +[Footnote 1: "Mingere cum bombis res est saluberrima lumbis." A precept +to be found in the "Regimen Sanitatis," or "Schola Salernitana," a work +in rhyming Latin verse composed at Salerno, the earliest school in +Christian Europe where medicine was professed, taught, and practised. The +original text, if anywhere, is in the edition published and commented +upon by Arnaldus de Villa Nova, about 1480. Subsequently above one +hundred and sixty editions of the "Schola Salernitana" were published, +with many additions. A reprint of the first edition, edited by Sir +Alexander Croke, with woodcuts from the editions of 1559, 1568, and +1573, was published at Oxford in 1830.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED +1731 + + +Apollo, god of light and wit, +Could verse inspire, but seldom writ, +Refined all metals with his looks, +As well as chemists by their books; +As handsome as my lady's page; +Sweet five-and-twenty was his age. +His wig was made of sunny rays, +He crown'd his youthful head with bays; +Not all the court of Heaven could show +So nice and so complete a beau. +No heir upon his first appearance, +With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents, +E'er drove, before he sold his land, +So fine a coach along the Strand; +The spokes, we are by Ovid told, +Were silver, and the axle gold: +I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four, +For Jupiter allows no more. + Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts, +Enough to win ten thousand hearts, +No vulgar deity above +Was so unfortunate in love. + Three weighty causes were assign'd, +That moved the nymphs to be unkind. +Nine Muses always waiting round him, +He left them virgins as he found them. +His singing was another fault; +For he could reach to B in _alt_: +And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1] +Such singers are like Nicolini. +At last, the point was fully clear'd; +In short, Apollo had no beard. + + +[Footnote 1: "Bubus tantum feminis vox gravior, in alio omni genere +exilior quam maribus, in homine etiam castratis."--"Hist. Nat.," xi, 51. +"A condicione castrati seminis quae spadonia appellant Belgae," +_ib_. xv.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED +1731 + + +All folks who pretend to religion and grace, +Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: +But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined +The place of the damn'd--I'll tell you my mind. +Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, +Most certainly there is HELL to be found: +Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves, +Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; +Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; +Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; +Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; +Damn'd time-serving priests all over the nation; +And into the bargain I'll readily give you +Damn'd ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy. +Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, +For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: +And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. +How happy for us that it is not at home! + + + + +THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] + +With a whirl of thought oppress'd, +I sunk from reverie to rest. +An horrid vision seized my head; +I saw the graves give up their dead! +Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, +And thunder roars and lightning flies! +Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, +The world stands trembling at his throne! +While each pale sinner hung his head, +Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: +"Offending race of human kind, +By nature, reason, _learning_, blind; +You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; +And you, who never fell--_through pride_: +You who in different sects were shamm'd, +And come to see each other damn'd; +(So some folk told you, but they knew +No more of Jove's designs than you;) +--The world's mad business now is o'er, +And I resent these pranks no more. +--I to such blockheads set my wit! +I damn such fools!--Go, go, you're _bit_." + + +[Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to +Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says: "Je vous envoie +ci-jointe une pièce par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous +déplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais été imprimée, vous en dévinerez bien la +raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, écrit de sa +propre main."--_W. E. B._] + + + + + +JUDAS. 1731 + + +By the just vengeance of incensed skies, +Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. +The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe, +Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe; +Which though his conscience forced him to restore, +(And parsons tell us, no man can do more,) +Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst, +He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst. +Those former ages differ'd much from this; +Judas betray'd his master with a kiss: +But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times, +Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes; +Some who can perjure through a two inch-board, +Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord: +Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn +To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn. + As ancient Judas by transgression fell, +And burst asunder ere he went to hell; +So could we see a set of new Iscariots +Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots; +Each modern Judas perish like the first, +Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst; +Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face, +To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place, +His habitation let all men forsake, +And let his bishopric another take!" + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] +1731 + + +How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, +To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] +Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere, +Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear. +Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, +To lose an inch of favour for a friend? + Say, had the court no better place to choose +For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse? +How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, +To squire a royal girl of two years old: +In leading strings her infant steps to guide, +Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5] + But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame, +Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame. +Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied, +When o'er your patron's treasure you preside: +The world shall own, his choice was wise and just, +For sons of Phoebus never break their trust. + Not love of beauty less the heart inflames +Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames, +Their passions not more impotent and cold, +Than those of poets to the lust of gold. +With Pæan's purest fire his favourites glow, +The dregs will serve to ripen ore below: +His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit +That wealth should be the appanage of wit, +The god of light could ne'er have been so blind +To deal it to the worst of human kind. + But let me now, for I can do it well, +Your conduct in this new employ foretell. + And first: to make my observation right, +I place a statesman full before my sight, +A bloated minister in all his gear, +With shameless visage and perfidious leer: +Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw, +And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw. +My fancy drags this monster to my view, +To shew the world his chief reverse in you. +Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood +Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud; +With these the court and senate-house he plies, +Made up of noise, and impudence, and lies. + Now let me show how Bob and you agree: +You serve a potent prince,[7] as well as he. +The ducal coffers trusted to your charge, +Your honest care may fill, perhaps enlarge: +His vassals easy, and the owner blest; +They pay a trifle, and enjoy the rest. +Not so a nation's revenues are paid; +The servant's faults are on the master laid. +The people with a sigh their taxes bring, +And, cursing Bob, forget to bless the king. + Next hearken, Gay, to what thy charge requires, +With servants, tenants, and the neighbouring squires, +Let all domestics feel your gentle sway; +Nor bribe, insult, nor flatter, nor betray. +Let due reward to merit be allow'd; +Nor with your kindred half the palace crowd; +Nor think yourself secure in doing wrong, +By telling noses [8] with a party strong. + Be rich; but of your wealth make no parade; +At least, before your master's debts are paid; +Nor in a palace, built with charge immense, +Presume to treat him at his own expense.[9] +Each farmer in the neighbourhood can count +To what your lawful perquisites amount. +The tenants poor, the hardness of the times, +Are ill excuses for a servant's crimes. +With interest, and a premium paid beside, +The master's pressing wants must be supplied; +With hasty zeal behold the steward come +By his own credit to advance the sum; +Who, while th'unrighteous Mammon is his friend, +May well conclude his power will never end. +A faithful treasurer! what could he do more? +He lends my lord what was my lord's before. + The law so strictly guards the monarch's health, +That no physician dares prescribe by stealth: +The council sit; approve the doctor's skill; +And give advice before he gives the pill. +But the state empiric acts a safer part; +And, while he poisons, wins the royal heart. + But how can I describe the ravenous breed? +Then let me now by negatives proceed. + Suppose your lord a trusty servant send +On weighty business to some neighbouring friend: +Presume not, Gay, unless you serve a drone, +To countermand his orders by your own. +Should some imperious neighbour sink the boats, +And drain the fish-ponds, while your master dotes; +Shall he upon the ducal rights intrench, +Because he bribed you with a brace of tench? + Nor from your lord his bad condition hide, +To feed his luxury, or soothe his pride. +Nor at an under rate his timber sell, +And with an oath assure him, all is well; +Or swear it rotten, and with humble airs [10] +Request it of him, to complete your stairs; +Nor, when a mortgage lies on half his lands, +Come with a purse of guineas in your hands. + Have Peter Waters [11] always in your mind; +That rogue, of genuine ministerial kind, +Can half the peerage by his arts bewitch, +Starve twenty lords to make one scoundrel rich: +And, when he gravely has undone a score, +Is humbly pray'd to ruin twenty more. + A dext'rous steward, when his tricks are found, +Hush-money sends to all the neighbours round; +His master, unsuspicious of his pranks, +Pays all the cost, and gives the villain thanks. +And, should a friend attempt to set him right, +His lordship would impute it all to spite; +Would love his favourite better than before, +And trust his honesty just so much more. +Thus families, like realms, with equal fate, +Are sunk by premier ministers of state. + Some, when an heir succeeds, go bodily on, +And, as they robb'd the father, rob the son. +A knave, who deep embroils his lord's affairs, +Will soon grow necessary to his heirs. +His policy consists in setting traps, +In finding ways and means, and stopping gaps; +He knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, +Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease. +In either case, an equal chance is run; +For, keep or turn him out, my lord's undone. +You want a hand to clear a filthy sink; +No cleanly workman can endure the stink. +A strong dilemma in a desperate case! +To act with infamy, or quit the place. + A bungler thus, who scarce the nail can hit, +With driving wrong will make the panel split: +Nor dares an abler workman undertake +To drive a second, lest the whole should break. + In every court the parallel will hold; +And kings, like private folks, are bought and sold. +The ruling rogue, who dreads to be cashler'd, +Contrives, as he is hated, to be fear'd; +Confounds accounts, perplexes all affairs: +For vengeance more embroils, than skill repairs. +So robbers, (and their ends are just the same,) +To 'scape inquiries, leave the house in flame. + I knew a brazen minister of state,[12] +Who bore for twice ten years the public hate. +In every mouth the question most in vogue +Was, when will they turn out this odious rogue? +A juncture happen'd in his highest pride: +While he went robbing on, his master died.[13] +We thought there now remain'd no room to doubt; +The work is done, the minister must out. +The court invited more than one or two: +Will you, Sir Spencer?[14] or will you, or you? +But not a soul his office durst accept; +The subtle knave had all the plunder swept: +And, such was then the temper of the times, +He owed his preservation to his crimes. +The candidates observed his dirty paws; +Nor found it difficult to guess the cause: +But, when they smelt such foul corruptions round him, +Away they fled, and left him as they found him. + Thus, when a greedy sloven once has thrown +His snot into the mess, 'tis all his own. + + +[Footnote 1: The Dean having been told by an intimate friend that the +Duke of Queensberry had employed Mr. Gay to inspect the accounts and +management of his grace's receivers and stewards (which, however, proved +to be a mistake), wrote this Epistle to his friend.--_H_. Through the +whole piece, under the pretext of instructing Gay in his duty as the +duke's auditor of accounts, he satirizes the conduct of Sir Robert +Walpole, then Prime Minister.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: See the "Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret," _post_.] + +[Footnote 3: The Countess of Suffolk.--_H._] + +[Footnote 4: Sir Robert Walpole.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 5: The post of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa was +offered to Gay, which he and his friends considered as a great indignity, +her royal highness being a mere infant.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.] + +[Footnote 7: A title given to every duke by the +heralds.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 8: Counting the numbers of a division. A horse dealer's +term.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: Alluding to the magnificence of Houghton, the seat of Sir +Robert Walpole, by which he greatly impaired his fortune. + "What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? + Some Demon whispered, 'Visto! have a Taste.'" +POPE, _Moral Essays_, Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: These lines are thought to allude to some story concerning +a vast quantity of mahogany declared rotten, and then applied by somebody +to wainscots, stairs, door-cases, etc.--_Dublin edition_.] + +[Footnote 11: He hath practised this trade for many years, and still +continues it with success; and after he hath ruined one lord, is +earnestly solicited to take another.--_Dublin edition_. +Properly Walter, a dexterous and unscrupulous attorney. + "Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, + And therefore hopes this nation may be sold." +POPE, _Moral Essays_, Epist. iii. +And see his character fully displayed in Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams' +poem, "Peter and my Lord Quidam," Works, with notes, edit. 1822. Peter +was the original of Peter Pounce in Fielding's "Joseph +Andrews."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 12: Sir Robert Walpole, who was called Sir Robert Brass.] + +[Footnote 13: King George I, who died on the 12th June, +1727.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 14: Sir Spencer Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons, +afterwards created Earl of Wilmington. George II, on his accession to the +throne, intended that Compton should be Prime Minister, but Walpole, +through the influence of the queen, retained his place, Compton having +confessed "his incapacity to undertake so arduous a task." As Lord +Wilmington, he is constantly ridiculed by Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams. +See his Works, with notes by Horace Walpole, edit. 1822.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO A LADY +WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER +IN THE HEROIC STYLE + + +After venting all my spite, +Tell me, what have I to write? +Every error I could find +Through the mazes of your mind, +Have my busy Muse employ'd, +Till the company was cloy'd. +Are you positive and fretful, +Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? +Those, and twenty follies more, +I have often told before. + Hearken what my lady says: +Have I nothing then to praise? +Ill it fits you to be witty, +Where a fault should move your pity. +If you think me too conceited, +Or to passion quickly heated; +If my wandering head be less +Set on reading than on dress; +If I always seem too dull t'ye; +I can solve the diffi--culty. + You would teach me to be wise: +Truth and honour how to prize; +How to shine in conversation, +And with credit fill my station; +How to relish notions high; +How to live, and how to die. + But it was decreed by Fate-- +Mr. Dean, you come too late. +Well I know, you can discern, +I am now too old to learn: +Follies, from my youth instill'd, +Have my soul entirely fill'd; +In my head and heart they centre, +Nor will let your lessons enter. + Bred a fondling and an heiress; +Drest like any lady mayoress: +Cocker'd by the servants round, +Was too good to touch the ground; +Thought the life of every lady +Should be one continued play-day-- +Balls, and masquerades, and shows, +Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux. + Thus you have my case at large, +And may now perform your charge. +Those materials I have furnish'd, +When by you refined and burnish'd, +Must, that all the world may know 'em, +Be reduced into a poem. + But, I beg, suspend a while +That same paltry, burlesque style; +Drop for once your constant rule, +Turning all to ridicule; +Teaching others how to ape you; +Court nor parliament can 'scape you; +Treat the public and your friends +Both alike, while neither mends. + Sing my praise in strain sublime: +Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme. +'Tis but just, you should produce, +With each fault, each fault's excuse; +Not to publish every trifle, +And my few perfections stifle. +With some gifts at least endow me, +Which my very foes allow me. +Am I spiteful, proud, unjust? +Did I ever break my trust? +Which of all our modern dames +Censures less, or less defames? +In good manners am I faulty? +Can you call me rude or haughty? +Did I e'er my mite withhold +From the impotent and old? +When did ever I omit +Due regard for men of wit? +When have I esteem express'd +For a coxcomb gaily dress'd? +Do I, like the female tribe, +Think it wit to fleer and gibe? +Who with less designing ends +Kindlier entertains her friends; +With good words and countenance sprightly, +Strives to treat them more politely? + Think not cards my chief diversion: +'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion: +Never knew I any good in 'em, +But to dose my head like laudanum. +We, by play, as men, by drinking, +Pass our nights to drive out thinking. +From my ailments give me leisure, +I shall read and think with pleasure; +Conversation learn to relish, +And with books my mind embellish. + Now, methinks, I hear you cry, +Mr. Dean, you must reply. + Madam, I allow 'tis true: +All these praises are your due. +You, like some acute philosopher, +Every fault have drawn a gloss over;[1] +Placing in the strongest light +All your virtues to my sight. + Though you lead a blameless life, +Are an humble prudent wife, +Answer all domestic ends: +What is this to us your friends? +Though your children by a nod +Stand in awe without a rod; +Though, by your obliging sway, +Servants love you, and obey; +Though you treat us with a smile; +Clear your looks, and smooth your style; +Load our plates from every dish; +This is not the thing we wish. +Colonel ***** may be your debtor; +We expect employment better. +You must learn, if you would gain us, +With good sense to entertain us. + Scholars, when good sense describing, +Call it tasting and imbibing; +Metaphoric meat and drink +Is to understand and think; +We may carve for others thus; +And let others carve for us; +To discourse, and to attend, +Is, to help yourself and friend. +Conversation is but carving; +Carve for all, yourself is starving: +Give no more to every guest, +Than he's able to digest; +Give him always of the prime; +And but little at a time. +Carve to all but just enough: +Let them neither starve nor stuff: +And, that you may have your due, +Let your neighbours carve for you. +This comparison will hold, +Could it well in rhyme be told, +How conversing, listening, thinking, +Justly may resemble drinking; +For a friend a glass you fill, +What is this but to instil? + To conclude this long essay; +Pardon if I disobey, +Nor against my natural vein, +Treat you in heroic strain. +I, as all the parish knows, +Hardly can be grave in prose: +Still to lash, and lashing smile, +Ill befits a lofty style. +From the planet of my birth +I encounter vice with mirth. +Wicked ministers of state +I can easier scorn than hate; +And I find it answers right: +Scorn torments them more than spight. +All the vices of a court +Do but serve to make me sport. +Were I in some foreign realm, +Which all vices overwhelm; +Should a monkey wear a crown, +Must I tremble at his frown? +Could I not, through all his ermine, +'Spy the strutting chattering vermin; +Safely write a smart lampoon, +To expose the brisk baboon? + When my Muse officious ventures +On the nation's representers: +Teaching by what golden rules +Into knaves they turn their fools; +How the helm is ruled by Walpole, +At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull; +Let the vessel split on shelves; +With the freight enrich themselves: +Safe within my little wherry, +All their madness makes me merry: +Like the waterman of Thames, +I row by, and call them names; +Like the ever-laughing sage,[2] +In a jest I spend my rage: +(Though it must be understood, +I would hang them if I could;) +If I can but fill my niche, +I attempt no higher pitch; +Leave to d'Anvers and his mate +Maxims wise to rule the state. +Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns, +Scourge the villains with a vengeance; +Let me, though the smell be noisome, +Strip their bums; let Caleb[3] hoise 'em; +Then apply Alecto's[4] whip +Till they wriggle, howl, and skip. + Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean: +What can all this passion mean? +Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet +On corruptions running riot. +End as it befits your station; +Come to use and application; +Nor with senates keep a fuss. +I submit; and answer thus: + If the machinations brewing, +To complete the public ruin, +Never once could have the power +To affect me half an hour; +Sooner would I write in buskins, +Mournful elegies on Blueskins.[5] +If I laugh at Whig and Tory; +I conclude _à fortiori_, +All your eloquence will scarce +Drive me from my favourite farce. +This I must insist on; for, as +It is well observed by Horace,[6] +Ridicule has greater power +To reform the world than sour. +Horses thus, let jockeys judge else, +Switches better guide than cudgels. +Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse, +Only dulness can produce; +While a little gentle jerking +Sets the spirits all a-working. + Thus, I find it by experiment, +Scolding moves you less than merriment. +I may storm and rage in vain; +It but stupifies your brain. +But with raillery to nettle, +Sets your thoughts upon their mettle; +Gives imagination scope; +Never lets your mind elope; +Drives out brangling and contention. +Brings in reason and invention. +For your sake as well as mine, +I the lofty style decline. +I should make a figure scurvy, +And your head turn topsy-turvy. + I who love to have a fling +Both at senate-house and king: +That they might some better way tread, +To avoid the public hatred; +Thought no method more commodious, +Than to show their vices odious; +Which I chose to make appear, +Not by anger, but by sneer. +As my method of reforming, +Is by laughing, not by storming, +(For my friends have always thought +Tenderness my greatest fault,) +Would you have me change my style? +On your faults no longer smile; +But, to patch up all our quarrels, +Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals, +Or from Solomon produce +Maxims teaching Wisdom's use? + If I treat you like a crown'd head, +You have cheap enough compounded; +Can you put in higher claims, +Than the owners of St. James? +You are not so great a grievance, +As the hirelings of St. Stephen's. +You are of a lower class +Than my friend Sir Robert Brass. +None of these have mercy found: +I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round. + Have you seen a rocket fly? +You would swear it pierced the sky: +It but reach'd the middle air, +Bursting into pieces there; +Thousand sparkles falling down +Light on many a coxcomb's crown. +See what mirth the sport creates! +Singes hair, but breaks no pates. +Thus, should I attempt to climb, +Treat you in a style sublime, +Such a rocket is my Muse: +Should I lofty numbers choose, +Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top, +I should burst, and bursting drop; +All my fire would fall in scraps, +Give your head some gentle raps; +Only make it smart a while; +Then could I forbear to smile, +When I found the tingling pain +Entering warm your frigid brain; +Make you able upon sight +To decide of wrong and right; +Talk with sense whate'er you please on; +Learn to relish truth and reason! + Thus we both shall gain our prize; +I to laugh, and you grow wise. + + +[Footnote 1: + "Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher, + And had read ev'ry Text and Gloss over." + _Hudibras_.] + +[Footnote 2: Democritus, the Greek philosopher, one of the founders of +the atomic theory.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Caleb d'Anvers was the name assumed by Nicholas Amhurst, the +ostensible editor of the celebrated journal, entitled "The Craftsman," +written by Bolingbroke and Pulteney. See "Prose Works," vii, p. +219.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: One of the three Furies--Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, the +avenging deities.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: The famous thief, who, while on his trial at the Old Bailey, +stabbed Jonathan Wild. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild," Book iv, +ch. i.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: + "Ridiculum acri + Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."--_Sat_. I, x, 14.] + + + +EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732 + + "Sic siti laetantur docti." + + +With honour thus by Carolina placed, +How are these venerable bustoes graced! +O queen, with more than regal title crown'd, +For love of arts and piety renown'd! +How do the friends of virtue joy to see +Her darling sons exalted thus by thee! +Nought to their fame can now be added more, +Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2] + +[Footnote 1: Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Woolaston.] + +[Footnote 2: Queen Caroline's regard for learned men was chiefly directed +to those who had signalized themselves by philosophical research. Horace +Walpole alludes to this her peculiar taste, in his fable called the +"Funeral of the Lioness," where the royal shade is made to say: + "... where Elysian waters glide, + With Clarke and Newton by my side, + Purrs o'er the metaphysic page, + Or ponders the prophetic rage + Of Merlin, who mysterious sings + Of men and lions, beasts and kings." +_Lord Orford's Works_, iv, 379.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANOTHER + +Louis the living learned fed, +And raised the scientific head; +Our frugal queen, to save her meat, +Exalts the heads that cannot eat. + + + + +A CONCLUSION + +DRAWN FROM THE ABOVE EPIGRAMS, AND SENT TO THE DRAPIER + +Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, +Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: +And since our good queen to the wise is so just, +To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust, +I wonder, good man, that you are not envaulted; +Prithee go, and be dead, and be doubly exalted. + + + + +DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER + +Her majesty never shall be my exalter; +And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter! + + +TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT + +WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1732.[1] +BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY + +To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; +Small is the present, but sincere the friend. +Think not so poor a book below thy care; +Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear? +Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face, +The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace; +Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat, +A _rasa tabula_ within denote: +Yet, if a venal and corrupted age, +And modern vices should provoke thy rage; +If, warn'd once more by their impending fate, +A sinking country and an injur'd state, +Thy great assistance should again demand, +And call forth reason to defend the land; +Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise, +Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes; +Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense +True force of eloquence, and nervous sense; +Inform the judgment, animate the heart, +And sacred rules of policy impart. +The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore, +Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more; +But lead us inward to those golden mines, +Where all thy soul in native lustre shines. +So when the eye surveys some lovely fair, +With bloom of beauty graced, with shape and air; +How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find +Her form excell'd by her celestial mind! + + +[Footnote 1: It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued +among his friends, of making him a present on his birth-day. Orrery's +"Remarks," p. 202.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. +BY DR. DELANY + +Hither from Mexico I came, +To serve a proud Iernian dame: +Was long submitted to her will; +At length she lost me at quadrille. +Through various shapes I often pass'd, +Still hoping to have rest at last; +And still ambitious to obtain +Admittance to the patriot Dean; +And sometimes got within his door, +But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1] +Not strolling Idleness to aid, +But honest Industry decay'd. +At length an artist purchased me, +And wrought me to the shape you see. + This done, to Hermes I applied: +"O Hermes! gratify my pride; +Be it my fate to serve a sage, +The greatest genius of his age; +That matchless pen let me supply, +Whose living lines will never die!" + "I grant your suit," the God replied, +And here he left me to reside. + + +[Footnote 1: Alluding to sums lent by the Dean, without interest, to +assist poor tradesmen.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS + +A paper book is sent by Boyle, +Too neatly gilt for me to soil. +Delany sends a silver standish, +When I no more a pen can brandish. +Let both around my tomb be placed: +As trophies of a Muse deceased; +And let the friendly lines they writ, +In praise of long-departed wit, +Be graved on either side in columns, +More to my praise than all my volumes, +To burst with envy, spite, and rage, +The Vandals of the present age. + + + + +VERSES +SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL, +ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR. DELANY. +BY MRS. PILKINGTON +Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, +And boldly rob me of eternal fame? +To every art my gen'rous aid I lend, +To music, painting, poetry, a friend. +'Tis I celestial harmony inspire, +When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire.[1] +I to the faithful canvas have consign'd +Each bright idea of the painter's mind; +Behold from Raphael's sky-dipt pencils rise +Such heavenly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes. +O let me now aspire to higher praise! +Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays: +Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse, +Accept me as the servant of your Muse; +Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare, +And all mankind your matchless pen revere. + + +[Footnote 1: Quills of the harpsichord.] + + + +AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. SWIFT + +Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call, +To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all; +Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care, +For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare. +I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies, +As friend Virgil has it, I've _aliud mercedis_; +For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale; +And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal; +And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood, +I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good: +Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health: +High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5] + + +[Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at +London, in 4to, by subscription.] + +[Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her +friends.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who +died in 1733, at the age of 27.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had +ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and +the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of +National Biography."--. _W. E. B_.] + + + + +THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, +ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732 + +PREFACE + +I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and +greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of +mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their +own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter +of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly +seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a +manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many +pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on +those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is +the same case in every other qualification. By the multitude of those +who deal in rhymes, from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every +minute, there must be at least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs +of London: half as many coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, +forty thousand politicians, and four thousand five hundred profound +scholars; not to mention the wits, the railers, the smart fellows, and +critics; all as illiterate and impudent as a suburb whore. What are we +to think of the fine-dressed sparks, proud of their own personal +deformities, which appear the more hideous by the contrast of wearing +scarlet and gold, with what they call toupees[1] on their heads, and all +the frippery of a modern beau, to make a figure before women; some of +them with hump-backs, others hardly five feet high, and every feature +of their faces distorted: I have seen many of these insipid pretenders +entering into conversation with persons of learning, constantly making +the grossest blunders in every sentence, without conveying one single +idea fit for a rational creature to spend a thought on; perpetually +confounding all chronology, and geography, even of present times. I +compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau and puppy kind, +for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours transplanted +thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown capital exceeds +ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what is more to our +farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool of Irish birth +or education, who makes any noise in that famous metropolis, unless the +London prints be very partial or defective; whereas London is seldom +without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the vogue for half a +winter together, and are never heard of more, but give place to a new +set. This has been the constant progress for at least thirty years past, +only allowing for the change of breed and fashion. + +The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking +their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his +own species, almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, +he is too partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as +low as he well could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the ass, the +swine, and the ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes +them in the article of cunning: so great is the pride of man! + +When beasts could speak, (the learned say +They still can do so every day,) +It seems, they had religion then, +As much as now we find in men. +It happen'd, when a plague broke out, +(Which therefore made them more devout,) +The king of brutes (to make it plain, +Of quadrupeds I only mean) +By proclamation gave command, +That every subject in the land +Should to the priest confess their sins; +And thus the pious Wolf begins: +Good father, I must own with shame, +That often I have been to blame: +I must confess, on Friday last, +Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: +But I defy the basest tongue +To prove I did my neighbour wrong; +Or ever went to seek my food, +By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. + The Ass approaching next, confess'd, +That in his heart he loved a jest: +A wag he was, he needs must own, +And could not let a dunce alone: +Sometimes his friend he would not spare, +And might perhaps be too severe: +But yet the worst that could be said, +He was a wit both born and bred; +And, if it be a sin and shame, +Nature alone must bear the blame: +One fault he has, is sorry for't, +His ears are half a foot too short; +Which could he to the standard bring, +He'd show his face before the king: +Then for his voice, there's none disputes +That he's the nightingale of brutes. + The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, +His shape and beauty made him proud: +In diet was perhaps too nice, +But gluttony was ne'er his vice: +In every turn of life content, +And meekly took what fortune sent: +Inquire through all the parish round, +A better neighbour ne'er was found; +His vigilance might some displease; +'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + The mimic Ape began his chatter, +How evil tongues his life bespatter; +Much of the censuring world complain'd, +Who said, his gravity was feign'd: +Indeed, the strictness of his morals +Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: +He saw, and he was grieved to see't, +His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: +He found his virtues too severe +For our corrupted times to bear; +Yet such a lewd licentious age +Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + The Goat advanced with decent pace, +And first excused his youthful face; +Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd +('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. +'Tis true, he was not much inclined +To fondness for the female kind: +Not, as his enemies object, +From chance, or natural defect; +Not by his frigid constitution; +But through a pious resolution: +For he had made a holy vow +Of Chastity, as monks do now: +Which he resolved to keep for ever hence +And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2] + Apply the tale, and you shall find, +How just it suits with human kind. +Some faults we own; but can you guess? +--Why, virtue's carried to excess, +Wherewith our vanity endows us, +Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) +He never squeezed a needy client; +And this he makes his constant rule, +For which his brethren call him fool; +His conscience always was so nice, +He freely gave the poor advice; +By which he lost, he may affirm, +A hundred fees last Easter term; +While others of the learned robe, +Would break the patience of a Job. +No pleader at the bar could match +His diligence and quick dispatch; +Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, +Above a term or two at most. + The cringing knave, who seeks a place +Without success, thus tells his case: +Why should he longer mince the matter? +He fail'd, because he could not flatter; +He had not learn'd to turn his coat, +Nor for a party give his vote: +His crime he quickly understood; +Too zealous for the nation's good: +He found the ministers resent it, +Yet could not for his heart repent it. + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, +Though it would raise him to the lawn: +He pass'd his hours among his books; +You find it in his meagre looks: +He might, if he were worldly wise, +Preferment get, and spare his eyes; +But owns he had a stubborn spirit. +That made him trust alone to merit; +Would rise by merit to promotion; +Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + The Doctor, if you will believe him, +Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) +Call'd up at midnight, ran to save +A blind old beggar from the grave: +But see how Satan spreads his snares; +He quite forgot to say his prayers. +He cannot help it, for his heart, +Sometimes to act the parson's part: +Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, +That moves his patients to repentance; +And, when his medicines do no good, +Supports their minds with heavenly food: +At which, however well intended, +He hears the clergy are offended; +And grown so bold behind his back, +To call him hypocrite and quack. +In his own church he keeps a seat; +Says grace before and after meat; +And calls, without affecting airs, +His household twice a-day to prayers. +He shuns apothecaries' shops, +And hates to cram the sick with slops: +He scorns to make his art a trade; +Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. +Old nurse-keepers would never hire, +To recommend him to the squire; +Which others, whom he will not name, +Have often practised to their shame. + The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, +His fault is to be too sincere; +And having no sinister ends, +Is apt to disoblige his friends. +The nation's good, his master's glory, +Without regard to Whig or Tory, +Were all the schemes he had in view, +Yet he was seconded by few: +Though some had spread a thousand lies, +'Twas he defeated the excise.[3] +'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, +That standing troops were his aversion: +His practice was, in every station: +To serve the king, and please the nation. +Though hard to find in every case +The fittest man to fill a place: +His promises he ne'er forgot, +But took memorials on the spot; +His enemies, for want of charity, +Said, he affected popularity: +'Tis true, the people understood, +That all he did was for their good; +Their kind affections he has tried; +No love is lost on either side. +He came to court with fortune clear, +Which now he runs out every year; +Must, at the rate that he goes on, +Inevitably be undone: +O! if his majesty would please +To give him but a writ of ease, +Would grant him license to retire, +As it has long been his desire, +By fair accounts it would be found, +He's poorer by ten thousand pound. +He owns, and hopes it is no sin, +He ne'er was partial to his kin; +He thought it base for men in stations, +To crowd the court with their relations: +His country was his dearest mother, +And every virtuous man his brother; +Through modesty or awkward shame, +(For which he owns himself to blame,) +He found the wisest man he could, +Without respect to friends or blood; +Nor ever acts on private views, +When he has liberty to choose. + The Sharper swore he hated play, +Except to pass an hour away: +And well he might; for, to his cost, +By want of skill, he always lost; +He heard there was a club of cheats, +Who had contrived a thousand feats; +Could change the stock, or cog a die, +And thus deceive the sharpest eye: +Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, +His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. + I own the moral not exact, +Besides, the tale is false, in fact; +And so absurd, that could I raise up, +From fields Elysian, fabling Æsop, +I would accuse him to his face, +For libelling the four-foot race. +Creatures of every kind but ours +Well comprehend their natural powers, +While we, whom reason ought to sway, +Mistake our talents every day. +The Ass was never known so stupid, +To act the part of Tray or Cupid; +Nor leaps upon his master's lap, +There to be stroked, and fed with pap, +As Æsop would the world persuade; +He better understands his trade: +Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, +But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. +Our author's meaning, I presume, is +A creature _bipes et implumis;_ +Wherein the moralist design'd +A compliment on human kind; +For here he owns, that now and then +Beasts may degenerate into men.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in +fashion. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same +name.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in +March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent +was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second +reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months, +and thus it was dropped.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the +Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PARSON'S CASE + +That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, +Can wish to die in strains heroic, +No real fortitude implies: +Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise. +Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, +Thy busy, drudging scene of life, +Thy insolent, illiterate vicar, +Thy want of all-consoling liquor, +Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent, +Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, +Thy week made up of fasting-days, +Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, +And to complete thy other curses, +The quarterly demands of nurses, +Are ills you wisely wish to leave, +And fly for refuge to the grave; +And, O, what virtue you express, +In wishing such afflictions less! + But, now, should Fortune shift the scene, +And make thy curateship a dean: +Or some rich benefice provide, +To pamper luxury and pride; +With labour small, and income great; +With chariot less for use than state; +With swelling scarf, and glossy gown, +And license to reside in town: +To shine where all the gay resort, +At concerts, coffee-house, or court: +And weekly persecute his grace +With visits, or to beg a place: +With underlings thy flock to teach, +With no desire to pray or preach; +With haughty spouse in vesture fine, +With plenteous meals and generous wine; +Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, +Thy years as numerous as thy days? + + + + +THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES +1733 + +Poor ladies! though their business be to play, +'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: +Why should they want the privilege of men, +Nor take some small diversions now and then? +Had women been the makers of our laws, +(And why they were not, I can see no cause,) +The men should slave at cards from morn to night +And female pleasures be to read and write. + + + + +A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 + +Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, + Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: +I a slave in thy dominions; + Nature must give way to art. + +Mild Arcadians, ever blooming + Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, +See my weary days consuming + All beneath yon flowery rocks. + +Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping + Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; +Him the boar, in silence creeping, + Gored with unrelenting tooth. + +Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; + Fair Discretion, string the lyre; +Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: + Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. + +Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, + Arm'd in adamantine chains, +Lead me to the crystal mirrors, + Watering soft Elysian plains. + +Mournful cypress, verdant willow, + Gilding my Aurelia's brows, +Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, + Hear me pay my dying vows. + +Melancholy smooth Meander, + Swiftly purling in a round, +On thy margin lovers wander, + With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. + +Thus when Philomela drooping + Softly seeks her silent mate, +See the bird of Juno stooping; + Melody resigns to fate. + + + + +THE STORM + +MINERVA'S PETITION + +Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise +Descending lately from the skies, +To Neptune went, and begg'd in form +He'd give his orders for a storm; +A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1] +And she would kindly thank him for't: +A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her, +Had lately honour'd with a mitre. + The god, who favour'd her request, +Assured her he would do his best: +But Venus had been there before, +Pleaded the bishop loved a whore, +And had enlarged her empire wide; +He own'd no deity beside. +At sea or land, if e'er you found him +Without a mistress, hang or drown him. +Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench, +Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench; +If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it, +She'll not have left one single prelate: +For, to say truth, she did intend him, +Elect of Cyprus _in commendam._ +And, since her birth the ocean gave her, +She could not doubt her uncle's favour. + Then Proteus urged the same request, +But half in earnest, half in jest; +Said he--"Great sovereign of the main, +To drown him all attempts are vain. +Hort can assume more forms than I, +A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy; +Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim; +All motions are alike to him: +Turn him adrift, and you shall find +He knows to sail with every wind; +Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride +As well against as with the tide. +But, Pallas, you've applied too late; +For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate, +That Ireland must be soon destroy'd, +And who but Hort can be employ'd? +You need not then have been so pert, +In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert. +I found you did it, by your grinning; +Your business is to mind your spinning. +But how you came to interpose +In making bishops, no one knows; +Or who regarded your report; +For never were you seen at court. +And if you must have your petition, +There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition; +Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just, +If one must drown, the other must; +But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas, +We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4] +Now, if 'twill gratify your spight, +To put him in a plaguy fright, +Although 'tis hardly worth the cost, +You soon shall see him soundly tost. +You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn +(And every moment take a dram) +His ghastly visage with an air +Of reprobation and despair; +Or else some hiding-hole he seeks, +For fear the rest should say he squeaks; +Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before, +Resolve to perish with his whore; +Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, +And, but for shame, would say his prayers. +Or, would you see his spirits sink? +Relaxing downwards in a stink? +If such a sight as this can please ye, +Good madam Pallas, pray be easy. +To Neptune speak, and he'll consent; +But he'll come back the knave he went." +The goddess, who conceived a hope +That Hort was destined to a rope, +Believed it best to condescend +To spare a foe, to save a friend; +But, fearing Berkeley might be scared, +She left him virtue for a guard. + + +[Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a +Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, +and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as +chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in +1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He +died in 1751.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of +Cashell.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, +Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.] + +[Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the +propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, _ut supra.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats +in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.--_F_.] + + + + +ODE ON SCIENCE + +O, heavenly born! in deepest dells +If fairest science ever dwells + Beneath the mossy cave; +Indulge the verdure of the woods, +With azure beauty gild the floods, + And flowery carpets lave. + +For, Melancholy ever reigns +Delighted in the sylvan scenes + With scientific light; +While Dian, huntress of the vales, +Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales, + Though wrapt from mortal sight. + +Yet, goddess, yet the way explore +With magic rites and heathen lore + Obstructed and depress'd; +Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, +Untaught, not uninspired, to shine, + By Reason's power redress'd. + +When Solon and Lycurgus taught +To moralize the human thought + Of mad opinion's maze, +To erring zeal they gave new laws, +Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause + That blends congenial rays. + +Bid bright Astræa gild the morn, +Or bid a hundred suns be born, + To hecatomb the year; +Without thy aid, in vain the poles, +In vain the zodiac system rolls, + In vain the lunar sphere. + +Come, fairest princess of the throng, +Bring sweet philosophy along, + In metaphysic dreams; +While raptured bards no more behold +A vernal age of purer gold, + In Heliconian streams. + +Drive Thraldom with malignant hand, +To curse some other destined land, + By Folly led astray: +Iërne bear on azure wing; +Energic let her soar, and sing + Thy universal sway. + +So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre +To more majestic sound aspire, + Behold the madding throng, +In wonder and oblivion drown'd, +To sculpture turn'd by magic sound + And petrifying song. + + +[Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical +power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building +of the city.--Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] +FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND + +Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; +Gently fill the swelling sails. +Neptune, with thy trident long, +Trident three-fork'd, trident strong: +And ye Nereids fair and gay, +Fairer than the rose in May, +Nereids living in deep caves, +Gently wash'd with gentle waves; +Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep +Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep; +All around, in pompous state, +On this richer Argo wait: +Argo, bring my golden fleece, +Argo, bring him to his Greece. +Will Cadenus longer stay? +Come, Cadenus, come away; +Come with all the haste of love, +Come unto thy turtle-dove. +The ripen'd cherry on the tree +Hangs, and only hangs for thee, +Luscious peaches, mellow pears, +Ceres, with her yellow ears, +And the grape, both red and white, +Grape inspiring just delight; +All are ripe, and courting sue, +To be pluck'd and press'd by you. +Pinks have lost their blooming red, +Mourning hang their drooping head, +Every flower languid seems, +Wants the colour of thy beams, +Beams of wondrous force and power, +Beams reviving every flower. +Come, Cadenus, bless once more, +Bless again thy native shore, +Bless again this drooping isle, +Make its weeping beauties smile, +Beauties that thine absence mourn, +Beauties wishing thy return: +Come, Cadenus, come with haste, +Come before the winter's blast; +Swifter than the lightning fly, +Or I, like Vanessa, die. + + +[Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and +the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of +poetry.--_W. E. B._] + + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1] + +Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans +l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, +qui ne nous déplait pas." + +This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those +suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published +by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it +commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, +1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by +Swift.--_W. E. B._ + + +AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew +From nature, I believe 'em true: +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +"In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us." + If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. +We all behold with envious eyes +Our _equal_ raised above our _size._ +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +[2]But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post: +[3]Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in battle you should find +One whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion kill'd, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be overtopt, +Would you not wish his laurels cropt? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies rackt with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + What poet would not grieve to see +His breth'ren write as well as he? +But rather than they should excel, +He'd wish his rivals all in hell. + Her end when Emulation misses, +She turns to Envy, stings and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But with a sigh I wish it mine; +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six; +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" +[4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own hum'rous biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use. +St. John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortify'd my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + Thus much may serve by way of proem: +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + The time is not remote, when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +Tho' it is hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: +"See, how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind: +Forgets the place where last he din'd; +Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + "For poetry he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decay'd, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!" + And then their tenderness appears, +By adding largely to my years; +"He's older than he would be reckon'd, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!" +Then hug themselves, and reason thus: +"It is not yet so bad with us!" + In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes: +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, "_Worse and worse!_") +Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, +That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." +Then he, who prophecy'd the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +"You know I always fear'd the worst, +And often told you so at first." +He'd rather chuse that I should die, +Than his prediction prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept? +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. + My good companions, never fear; +For though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verify'd at last. + Behold the fatal day arrive! +"How is the Dean?"--"He's just alive." +Now the departing prayer is read; +"He hardly breathes."--"The Dean is dead." + Before the Passing-bell begun, +The news thro' half the town has run. +"O! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?"-- +"I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."-- +"To public use! a perfect whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" + Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; +With elegies the town is cloy'd: +Some paragraph in ev'ry paper +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5] + The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame: +"We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years; +For, when we open'd him, we found, +That all his vital parts were sound." + From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead." +Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. +He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: +I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was a princess then; +But now, as consort of a king, +You know, 'tis quite a different thing." +Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +"Why, is he dead without his shoes," +Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: +O, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will![11] +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!" +Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14] +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15] +Revive the libels born to die; +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + St. John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +"I'm sorry--but we all must die!" + Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When _we_ are lash'd, _they_ kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approach'd, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learn'd to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +"The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16] +Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend. +No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, +If he shou'd fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart,) +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come: he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place." + Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean; +Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, +Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." +Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; +He died a year ago."--"The same." +He searches all the shop in vain. +"Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18] +I sent them with a load of books, +Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past; +The town has got a better taste; +I keep no antiquated stuff, +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; +Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20] +And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21] +The hawkers have not got them yet: +Your honour please to buy a set? + "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down; +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour (who can read), +Are taught to use them for their creed.[23] +The rev'rend author's good intention +Has been rewarded with a pension. +He does an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he has not got a mitre!" + Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without, +One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill receiv'd at court. +As for his works in verse and prose +I own myself no judge of those; +Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: +But this I know, all people bought 'em. +As with a moral view design'd +To cure the vices of mankind: +And, if he often miss'd his aim, +The world must own it, to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +"Sir, I have heard another story: +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died." + Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!-- + "He should have left them for his betters, +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp--all one to him.-- + "But why should he, except he slobber't, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power +To save the nation every hour? +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels! +Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!" +His vein, ironically grave, +Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave. +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.[24] + "He never thought an honour done him, +Because a duke was proud to own him, +Would rather slip aside and chuse +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +Despised the fools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres.[25] +He never courted men in station, +_Nor persons held in admiration;_ +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succour'd virtue in distress, +And seldom fail'd of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + "With princes kept a due decorum, +But never stood in awe before 'em. +He follow'd David's lesson just; +_In princes never put thy trust:_ +And would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaim'd! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + "Had he but spared his tongue and pen +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant the wound: +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human kind: +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He labour'd many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair.[27] + "And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St. John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroy'd by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended.[28] +When up a dangerous faction starts,[29] +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +_By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,_ +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded Virtue stand! +With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the tower, +Himself[30] within the frown of power, +Pursued by base envenom'd pens, +Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31] +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. +"By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merits were, to be his foes; +When _ev'n his own familiar friends_, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +_Against him lifting up their heels._ + "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat;[32] +Taught fools their int'rest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy has own'd it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. + "To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state, +A wicked monster on the bench,[33] +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34] +Who long all justice had discarded, +_Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;_ +Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + "In exile,[35] with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. +Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into gen'ral odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown. +For party he would scarce have bled: +I say no more--because he's dead. +What writings has he left behind? +I hear, they're of a different kind; +A few in verse; but most in prose-- +Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never fav'ring the Pretender; +Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, +Against the court to show his spite; +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear: +But not one sermon, you may swear." +His friendships there, to few confined +Were always of the middling kind;[36] +No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power,[37] +And peerage is a wither'd flower; +He would have held it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain; +[Biennial[38]] squires to market brought; +Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought; +The [nation stripped,] go joyful back, +To *** the church, their tenants rack, +Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39] +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or barrack to repair; +And turn the tax for public roads, +Commodious to their own abodes.[40] + "Perhaps I may allow the Dean, +Had too much satire in his vein; +And seem'd determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lash'd the vice, but spared the name; +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant; +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump, or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offer'd to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confest, +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. + "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, +Must be or ridiculed or lash'd. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knew you nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a duke? + "He knew an hundred pleasant stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying day; +And friends would let him have his way. + "He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +And show'd by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better." +And, since you dread no farther lashes +Methinks you may forgive his ashes. + + + +[Footnote 1: This poem was first written about 1731 but was not then +intended to be published; and having been shown by Swift to all his +"common acquaintance indifferently," some "friend," probably +Pilkington, remembered enough of it to concoct the poem called "The Life +and Character of Dr. Swift, written by himself," which was published in +London in 1733, and reprinted in Dublin. In a letter to Pope, dated 1 +May, that year, the Dean complained seriously about the imposture, +saying, "it shall not provoke me to print the true one, which indeed is +not proper to be seen till I can be seen no more." See Swift to Pope, +in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 307. The poem was +subsequently published by Faulkner with the Dean's permission. It is now +printed from a copy of the original edition, with corrections in Swift's +hand, which I found in the Forster collection.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: _Var_. "But would not have him stop my view."] + +[Footnote 3: _Var_. "I ask but for an inch at most."] + +[Footnote 4: _Var_. "Why must I be outdone by Gay."] + +[Footnote 5: The author supposes that the scribblers of the prevailing +party, which he always opposed, will libel him after his death; but that +others will remember the service he had done to Ireland, under the name +of M. B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project of Wood's +halfpence, in five letters to the people of Ireland, at that time read +universally, and convincing every reader.] + +[Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.] + +[Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the +bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen, +then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her +commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his +friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very +graciously. He taxed her with a present worth £10, which she promised +before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals +were not ready. + +A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out +this note.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but +she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent +Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing +took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as +would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of +it; he did the former, it cost £35, but he said he would have nothing +except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as +usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in +England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her +intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her +Majesty's displeasure.] + +[Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a +footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland. +He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every +change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy +for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He +is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was +writ in.--_Dublin Edition,_ and see _ante_, p. 191.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the +Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, +with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with +him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great +friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would +see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert, +on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited +him again.] + +[Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate +friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined +with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the +Craftsman, which is still continued.] + +[Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to +Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius +in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously +working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said +lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.] + +[Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or +country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He +published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three +pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile +a manner.] + +[Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the +shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was +made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore, +whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of +Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."] + +[Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, +letters, and last wills and testaments of the nobility and ministers of +state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath +been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the +letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their +journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published, +without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.] + +[Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the +tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 17: See _post_, p. 267.] + +[Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.] + +[Footnote 19: See _ante_ "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet," +p. 192.] + +[Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but +write in his defence.] + +[Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to +get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, +formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set +times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his +associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling +each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported +crazy.] + +[Footnote 22: See _ante_, p. 188.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 23: See _ante_, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt +Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated," +was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Bethell in +Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix, +p. 149.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley: + "To him no author was unknown, + Yet what he wrote was all his own."] + +[Footnote 25: See _ante_, pp. 192 and 252.] + +[Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an +address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation, +promising £300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet +called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year +1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was +prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward +of £300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet, +called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive +project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the +Dean discovered.] + +[Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year +after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord +Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford, +for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher +every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that +endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired +to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned +to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new +people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.] + +[Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the +queen died.] + +[Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to +power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached +and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all +their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was +never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments +in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men. +Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved, +only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and +are likely to remain so.] + +[Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin +at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in +England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was +forced to be attended by his servants armed.] + +[Footnote 31: Ireland.] + +[Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for +coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of £108,000, which, in +the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The +Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before +prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the +people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury +down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to +bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer +of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or +swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part, +except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was +celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most +streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several +country towns. This note was written in 1734.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His +judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from +Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years +ago.] + +[Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile; +to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, +who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the Duchess of +Somerset.] + +[Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single +lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of +the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.] + +[Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single +act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the +least resentment or remonstrance.] + +[Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once +in two years, and after having given five times more than they can +afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and +oppressions of which some few are mentioned.] + +[Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there, +usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers +who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.] + +[Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building +and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to +that unhappy kingdom.] + + + + +ON POETRY +A RHAPSODY. 1733 + + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's universal passion, pride,[1] +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assign'd +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A founder'd horse will oft debate, +Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. +But man we find the only creature +Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates, +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedler Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews; +Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Has blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life, or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision: +Of state affairs you cannot smatter; +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; +For ever fix'd by right divine +(A monarch's right) on Grub Street line. + Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportion'd to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner, +Instructing thus a young beginner. + Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologue sent from hand unknown. +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + Your poem finish'd, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in _Italic_ type. +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: +But, when in capitals express'd, +The dullest reader smokes the jest: +Or else perhaps he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer more than Homer knew. + Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4] +But let no friend alive look into't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from the mint: +The product of your toil and sweating; +A bastard of your own begetting. + Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And, if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down. +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side: +For, poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse: +And since you ne'er provoke their spite, +Depend upon't their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; +Take courage and attempt a third. +But first with care employ your thoughts +Where critics mark'd your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder whom you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; +A prelate, who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pickpurse at the bar or bench, +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link, +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorlands of a different parish. +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds. +So geographers, in Afric maps, +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants for want of towns. + But, though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party merit seek support; +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck;[6] +And, though you never learn'd to scan verse +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concern'd about the sale, +He pays his workmen on the nail.[7] +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration. +Extol the bench of bishops round, +Who at them rail, bid ---- confound; +To bishop-haters answer thus: +(The only logic used by us) +What though they don't believe in ---- +Deny them Protestants--thou lyest. + A prince, the moment he is crown'd, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes, +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom; +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise, +Ascending, make one funeral blaze: +His panegyrics then are ceased, +He grows a tyrant, dunce, or beast. +As soon as you can hear his knell, +This god on earth turns devil in hell: +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; +Where in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple barking mouth to stop; +Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8] +Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes; +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your muse on kings alive; +With prudence gathering up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, form'd into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet: +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile, and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine: +I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath. +Your garland, in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's, the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed no further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon: +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time and place: +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer[10] oft review, +Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12] +Read all the prefaces of Dryden, +For these our critics much confide in; +Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling. + A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _peri hupsous_: +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation,[13] +And quote quotation on quotation. + At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus[14] from the table head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribe of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word be understood. +Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets (you can never want 'em) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15] +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls: +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learn'd to spell. + Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this, for epics claims the bays, +And that, for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius[16] in Wapping gains renown, +And Mævius[16] reigns o'er Kentish town: +Tigellius[17] placed in Phooebus' car +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;[18] +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves or lose his pension.[19] + But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art, +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature.[20] +The greater for the smaller watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs; +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit: +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + The vermin only teaze and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch. +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Has smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet, in his kind, +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can teaze, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors outsung us: +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country, like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place: +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allow'd them food. + Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard's[22] time, +How few have reach'd the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied: +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet[24] of the "Hollow Tree." +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown: +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a common weal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to descend. + In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though, in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite: +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance: when you rashly think, +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The Laureate leaves him far behind. +Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard, +Soars downward deeper by a yard. +Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops: +With heads to point the gulf they enter, +Link'd perpendicular to the centre; +And as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + O, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muses' name! +By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + Perhaps you say, Augustus shines, +Immortal made in Virgil's lines, +And Horace brought the tuneful quire, +To sing his virtues on the lyre; +Without reproach for flattery, true, +Because their praises were his due. +For in those ages kings, we find, +Were animals of human kind. +But now, go search all _Europe_ round +Among the _savage monsters_ ---- +With vice polluting every _throne_, +(I mean all thrones except our own;) +In vain you make the strictest view +To find a ---- in all the crew, +With whom a footman out of place +Would not conceive a high disgrace, +A burning shame, a crying sin, +To take his morning's cup of gin. + Thus all are destined to obey +Some beast of burthen or of prey. + 'Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man, +Through all the brutal species ran, +Each proper quality to find +Adapted to a human mind; +A mingled mass of good and bad, +The best and worst that could be had; +Then from a clay of mixture base +He shaped a ---- to rule the race, +Endow'd with gifts from every brute +That best the * * nature suit. +Thus think on ----s: the name denotes +Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats. +To represent in figure just, +Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust; +Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers, +What herds of ----s would turn to grazers! + Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive binds his hands, +Confess'd the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes,[28] Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes. +From him the Tartar and Chinese, +Short by the knees,[29] entreat for peace. +The consort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred, +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence, and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,[30] +(Late, very late, O may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown, +Then think, what wonders will be done +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood. +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive. +Now sing the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court: +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius,[31] by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director; +Of wit and learning chief protector, +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of the peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage. +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St. George beheld thee with delight, +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breast and sides Herculean, +He fix'd the star and string cerulean. + Say, poet, in what other nation +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Lewis all his bards bestow'd +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Lewis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in Heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share.[32] +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter-weight. +And reason good; for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. +_Caetera desiderantur_. + + +[Footnote 1: See Young's "Satires," and "Life" by +Johnson.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The prison or house of correction to which harlots were +often consigned. See Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress," and "A beautiful +young Nymph," _ante_, p. 201.--_W. R. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Colley Cibber, born in 1671, died in 1757; famous as a +comedian and dramatist, and immortalized by Pope as the hero of the +"Dunciad"; appointed Laureate in December, 1730, in succession to Eusden, +who died in September that year. See Cibber's "Apology for his Life"; +Disraeli's "Quarrels of Authors," edit. 1859.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Barnaby Bernard Lintot, publisher and bookseller, noted for +adorning his shop with titles in red letters. In the Prologue to the +"Satires" Pope says: "What though my name stood rubric on the walls"; and +in the "Dunciad," book i, "Lintot's rubric post." He made a handsome +fortune, and died High Sheriff of Sussex in 1736, aged +sixty-one.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: The coffee-house most frequented by the wits and poets of +that time.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See _ante_, p. 192, "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher +Poet."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: Allusion to the large sums paid by Walpole to scribblers in +support of his party.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: + "Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur + Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus Vmbris: + Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto; + Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes." + VIRG., _Aen._, vi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: See the "South Sea Project," _ante_, p. 120.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: Thomas Rymer, archaeologist and critic. The allusion is to +his "Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age," on which see Johnson's +"Life of Dryden" and Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 173. Rymer is best known by +his work entitled "Foedera," consisting of leagues, treaties, etc., made +between England and other kingdoms.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 11: John Dennis, born 1657, died 1734. He is best remembered as +"The Critic." See Swift's "Thoughts on various subjects," "Prose Works," +i, 284; Disraeli, "Calamities of Authors: Influence of a bad Temper in +Criticism"; Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, +_passim._--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 12: Highly esteemed as a French critic by Dryden and +Pope.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 13: By Leonard Welsted, who, in 1712, published the work of +"Longinus on the Sublime," stated to be "translated from the Greek." He +is better known through his quarrel with Pope. See the "Prologue to the +Satires."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 14: Dryden, whose armed chair at Will's was in the winter +placed by the fire, and in the summer in the balcony. Malone's "Life of +Dryden," p. 485. Why Battus? Battus was a herdsman who, because he +Betrayed Mercury's theft of some cattle, was changed by the god into a +Stone Index. Ovid, "Metam.," ii, 685.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 15: The ancient name of London, also called Troynovant. See +Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 249; and Cunningham's "Handbook of +London," introduction.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 16: The two bad Roman poets, hateful and inimical to Virgil and +Horace: Virg., "Ecl." iii, 90; Horat., "Epod." x. The names have been +well applied in our time by Gifford in his satire entitled "The Baviad +and Maeviad."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 17: A musician, also a censurer of Horace. See "Satirae," lib. +1. iii, 4.--_--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 18: In consequence of "Polly," the supplement to the "Beggar's +Opera," but which obtained him the friendship of the Duke and Duchess of +Queensberry.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 19: The grant of two hundred a year, which he obtained from the +Crown, and retained till his death in 1765.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 20: See "Leviathan," Part I, chap, xiii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 21: Richard Flecknoe, poet and dramatist, died 1678, of whom it +has been written that "whatever may become of his own pieces, his name +will continue, whilst Dryden's satire, called 'Mac Flecknoe,' shall +remain in vogue." Dryden's Poetical Works, edit. Warton, ii, +169.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 22: Hon. Edward Howard, author of some indifferent plays and +poems. See "Dict. Nat. Biog."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 23: Richard Blackmore, physician and very voluminous writer in +prose and verse. In 1697 he was appointed physician to William III, when +he was knighted. See Pope, "Imitations of Horace," book ii, epist. 1, +387.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by +his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow +Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's +malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works, +edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of +miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299, +304, _ut supra.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate +assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto, +Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 27: + "Fertur Prometheus, addere principi + Limo coactus particulam undique + Desectam, et insani leonis + Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro." + HORAT., _Carm._ I, xvi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 28: + "---- super et Garamantas et Indos, + Proferet imperium; ---- + ---- jam nunc et Caspia regna + Responsis horrent divom." + Virg., _Aen._, vi.] + +[Footnote 29: + "---- genibus minor."] + +[Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of +Wales, father of George III.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 31: + "Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem." + Virg., _Aen._, vi, 847.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."] + + + + +VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND. +BY DR. J. SICAN[1] + + +(Horace speaking.) + +You've read, sir, in poetic strain, +How Varus and the Mantuan swain +Have on my birth-day been invited, +(But I was forced in verse to write it,) +Upon a plain repast to dine, +And taste my old Campanian wine; +But I, who all punctilios hate, +Though long familiar with the great, +Nor glory in my reputation, +Am come without an invitation; +And, though I'm used to right Falernian, +I'll deign for once to taste Iërnian; +But fearing that you might dispute +(Had I put on my common suit) +My breeding and my politesse, +I visit in my birth-day dress: +My coat of purest Turkey red, +With gold embroidery richly spread; +To which I've sure as good pretensions, +As Irish lords who starve on pensions. +What though proud ministers of state +Did at your antichamber wait; +What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns, +Have at your levee paid attendance, +And Peterborough and great Ormond, +With many chiefs who now are dormant, +Have laid aside the general's staff, +And public cares, with you to laugh; +Yet I some friends as good can name, +Nor less the darling sons of fame; +For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas +Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as +Either your Bolingbroke or Harley, +Though they made Lewis beg a parley; +And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero, +I'll match him with my Drusus Nero. +You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope; +But Virgil is as good, I hope. +I own indeed I can't get any +To equal Helsham and Delany; +Since Athens brought forth Socrates, +A Grecian isle, Hippocrates; +Since Tully lived before my time, +And Galen bless'd another clime. + You'll plead, perhaps, at my request, +To be admitted as a guest, +"Your hearing's bad!"--But why such fears? +I speak to eyes, and not to ears; +And for that reason wisely took +The form you see me in, a book. +Attack'd by slow devouring moths, +By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths; +By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, +By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose; +I found my boasted wit and fire +In their rude hands almost expire: +Yet still they but in vain assail'd; +For, had their violence prevail'd, +And in a blast destroy'd my frame, +They would have partly miss'd their aim; +Since all my spirit in thy page +Defies the Vandals of this age. +'Tis yours to save these small remains +From future pedant's muddy brains, +And fix my long uncertain fate, +You best know how--"which way?"--TRANSLATE. + + +[Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in +Italy.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, _ante_, +p. 48.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and +Horace.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace, +done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with +the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by +the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote: + "O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain, + And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain." +_Dict. Nat. Biog.--W. E. B._] + + + + +EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER +INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733 + +"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, +How vice and folly have debased mankind; +Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; +Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: +While bold and free the glowing colours strike; +Blame not the picture, if the picture's like." + + + + +ON PSYCHE[1] + +At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, +Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: +So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; +Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? +Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, +Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. +She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; +But ever with prudence takes care of the main. +To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; +For her taste is almost as refined as her wit. +To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, +It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. +Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, +She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears. + + +[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of +the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and +Stella.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE DEAN AND DUKE +1734 + + +James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; +James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: +But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke, +For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke. +Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks, +Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2] +His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain +With bands of fiddlers to extend his train. +Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel, +The duke and dean seem near upon a level. +O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, +From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free. +A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown: +Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown. +Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king: +O! would his majesty but add a string! + + +[Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and +built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in +his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the +building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers' +edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second +Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house +he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance +hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his _Canonical_ +pillars.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure +of his speculative investments.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.--_N_.] + + + + +WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734 + + +Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; +Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, +Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, +Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures. + + +THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED + +DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. +ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. +DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. +ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. + Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, + You may have company enough. +DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, + Than if it rang out for my knell. +ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. +DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, + Than at the rumbling of a cart. +ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f--t. +DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! + No more I hear a woman's clack. +ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, + Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; + But louder than a bell, or thunder: + That does, I own, increase my wonder. + + + + +THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING + +On rainy days alone I dine +Upon a chick and pint of wine. +On rainy days I dine alone, +And pick my chicken to the bone; +But this my servants much enrages, +No scraps remain to save board-wages. +In weather fine I nothing spend, +But often spunge upon a friend; +Yet, where he's not so rich as I, +I pay my club, and so good b'ye. + + + + +EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + +"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" + + +Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, + Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. +Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: + Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. +Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; + Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem. + + + + +VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN + +APPLES + +Come buy my fine wares, +Plums, apples, and pears. +A hundred a penny, +In conscience too many: +Come, will you have any? +My children are seven, +I wish them in Heaven; +My husband a sot, +With his pipe and his pot, +Not a farthing will gain them, +And I must maintain them. + + + +ASPARAGUS + + Ripe 'sparagrass + Fit for lad or lass, +To make their water pass: + O, 'tis pretty picking + With a tender chicken! + + + +ONIONS + + + Come, follow me by the smell, + Here are delicate onions to sell; + I promise to use you well. + They make the blood warmer, + You'll feed like a farmer; +For this is every cook's opinion, +No savoury dish without an onion; +But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, +Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: + Or else you may spare + Your mistress a share, +The secret will never be known: + She cannot discover + The breath of her lover, +But think it as sweet as her own. + + + +OYSTERS + + Charming oysters I cry: + My masters, come buy, + So plump and so fresh, + So sweet is their flesh, + No Colchester oyster + Is sweeter and moister: + Your stomach they settle, + And rouse up your mettle: + They'll make you a dad + Of a lass or a lad; + And madam your wife + They'll please to the life; + Be she barren, be she old, + Be she slut, or be she scold, +Eat my oysters, and lie near her, +She'll be fruitful, never fear her. + + + +HERRINGS + + Be not sparing, + Leave off swearing. + Buy my herring +Fresh from Malahide,[1] +Better never was tried. +Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, +Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. +Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, +Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. + +[Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for +oysters.--_F_.] + + + +ORANGES + +Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, +And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; +Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup, +They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. + + + + +ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL + +INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1] + +Happiest of the spaniel race, +Painter, with thy colours grace: +Draw his forehead large and high, +Draw his blue and humid eye; +Draw his neck so smooth and round, +Little neck with ribbons bound! +And the muscly swelling breast, +Where the Loves and Graces rest; +And the spreading even back, +Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; +And the tail that gently twines, +Like the tendrils of the vines; +And the silky twisted hair, +Shadowing thick the velvet ear; +Velvet ears, which, hanging low, +O'er the veiny temples flow. + With a proper light and shade, +Let the winding hoop be laid; +And within that arching bower, +(Secret circle, mystic power,) +In a downy slumber place +Happiest of the spaniel race; +While the soft respiring dame, +Glowing with the softest flame, +On the ravish'd favourite pours +Balmy dews, ambrosial showers. + With thy utmost skill express +Nature in her richest dress, +Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, +Orchards by those rivers blowing; +Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, +And the gay enamell'd mead; +Where the linnets sit and sing, +Little sportlings of the spring; +Where the breathing field and grove +Soothe the heart and kindle love. +Here for me, and for the Muse, +Colours of resemblance choose, +Make of lineaments divine, +Daply female spaniels shine, +Pretty fondlings of the fair, +Gentle damsels' gentle care; +But to one alone impart +All the flattery of thy art. +Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, +Which complete the desperate face; +Let the spotted wanton dame +Feel a new resistless flame! +Let the happiest of his race +Win the fair to his embrace. +But in shade the rest conceal, +Nor to sight their joys reveal, +Lest the pencil and the Muse +Loose desires and thoughts infuse. + + +[Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret, +daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop +Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one +Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of +Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS + +SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726 + + +I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN + +We fly from luxury and wealth, +To hardships, in pursuit of health; +From generous wines, and costly fare, +And dozing in an easy-chair; +Pursue the goddess Health in vain, +To find her in a country scene, +And every where her footsteps trace, +And see her marks in every face; +And still her favourites we meet, +Crowding the roads with naked feet. +But, oh! so faintly we pursue, +We ne'er can have her full in view. + + +II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND + +The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, + Dims and obscures our sight; +So, when our passions Love has stirr'd, + It darkens Reason's light. + + +III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES +IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, WARWICKSHIRE + +Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, +Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four. + + +IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + +The church and clergy here, no doubt, + Are very near a-kin; +Both weather-beaten are without, + And empty both within. + + +V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + +My landlord is civil, +But dear as the d--l: +Your pockets grow empty +With nothing to tempt ye; +The wine is so sour, +'Twill give you a scour, +The beer and the ale +Are mingled with stale. +The veal is such carrion, +A dog would be weary on. +All this I have felt, +For I live on a smelt. + + +VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + + The walls of this town + Are full of renown, +And strangers delight to walk round 'em: + But as for the dwellers, + Both buyers and sellers, +For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em. + + +VII. ANOTHER +WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE + +Thanks to my stars, I once can see +A window here from scribbling free! +Here no conceited coxcombs pass, +To scratch their paltry drabs on glass; +Nor party fool is calling names, +Or dealing crowns to George and James. + + +VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS + +The sage, who said he should be proud + Of windows in his breast,[1] +Because he ne'er a thought allow'd + That might not be confest; +His window scrawl'd by every rake, + His breast again would cover, +And fairly bid the devil take + The diamond and the lover. + +[Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii, +497.--_W. E. B._] + + +IX. ANOTHER + +By Satan taught, all conjurors know +Your mistress in a glass to show, +And you can do as much: +In this the devil and you agree; +None e'er made verses worse than he, + And thine, I swear, are such. + + +X. ANOTHER + +That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; + Those rhymers abundantly show it: +They swear that they all by love are inspired, + And the devil's a damnable poet. + + +XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1] + +O Neptune! Neptune! must I still +Be here detain'd against my will? +Is this your justice, when I'm come +Above two hundred miles from home; +O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains, +Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains, +Only your godship to implore, +To let me kiss your other shore? +A boon so small! but I may weep, +While you're like Baal, fast asleep. + +[Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's +enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's +Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works," +vol. xi.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 + +Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! +Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; +To oblige your crony Swift, +Bring our dame a new year's gift; +She has got but half a face; +Janus, since thou hast a brace, +To my lady once be kind; +Give her half thy face behind. + God of Time, if you be wise, +Look not with your future eyes; +What imports thy forward sight? +Well, if you could lose it quite. +Can you take delight in viewing +This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin, +When thy retrospection vast +Sees the glorious ages past? +Happy nation, were we blind, +Or had only eyes behind! + Drown your morals, madam cries, +I'll have none but forward eyes; +Prudes decay'd about may tack, +Strain their necks with looking back. +Give me time when coming on; +Who regards him when he's gone? +By the Dean though gravely told, +New-years help to make me old; +Yet I find a new-year's lace +Burnishes an old-year's face. +Give me velvet and quadrille, +I'll have youth and beauty still. + +[Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis +Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores +Instituunt."--HOR., _Sat_., ii, vi, 20.] + +[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_H_.] + + + + +A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD + +WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE + +Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, +From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece; +We comb the wool, refine the stuff, +For modern Jasons, that's enough. +Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1] +Old Jason would have less to brag on. + +[Footnote 1: England.--_H_.] + + +TO A FRIEND +WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS + +The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night +And fortune help the murderer in his flight; +The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, +Yet safe from injured innocence escape; +And calumny, by working under ground, +Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. + What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose +To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? +By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road, +Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd? +Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, +And buy distinction at the dearest rate. + +[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 160, the poem entitled "On +Censure."--_W. E. B._.] + + + + +CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] + +Lesbia for ever on me rails, +To talk of me she never fails. +Now, hang me, but for all her art, +I find that I have gain'd her heart. +My proof is this: I plainly see, +The case is just the same with me; +I curse her every hour sincerely, +Yet, hang me but I love her dearly. + + +[Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam +De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. +Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam +Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo." + _Catulli Carmina, xcii.--W. E. B._] + + + + +ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY + +I marched three miles through scorching sand, +With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; +I rode four more to Great St. Mary, +Using four legs, when two were weary: +To three fair virgins I did tie men, +In the close bands of pleasing Hymen; +I dipp'd two babes in holy water, +And purified their mother after. +Within an hour and eke a half, +I preach'd three congregations deaf; +Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded, +I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded. +My emblem, the laborious sun, +Saw all these mighty labours done +Before one race of his was run. +All this perform'd by Robert Hewit: +What mortal else could e'er go through it! + + + + +TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE + +Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, +Never may the Muse forget ye, +How thy face charms every shepherd, +Spotted over like a leopard! +And thy freckled neck, display'd, +Envy breeds in every maid; +Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, +Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; +Or a tawny speckled pippin, +Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping. + And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, +Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd. + Sets of phrases, cut and dry, +Evermore thy tongue supply; +And thy memory is loaded +With old scraps from plays exploded; +Stock'd with repartees and jokes, +Suited to all Christian folks: +Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, +Blunder'd out a thousand times; +Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, +Which can ne'er be worse for wearing. +Picking wit among collegians, +In the playhouse upper regions; +Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, +Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery. +But thy merit is thy failing, +And thy raillery is railing. + Thus with talents well endued +To be scurrilous and rude; +When you pertly raise your snout, +Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; +This among Hibernian asses +For sheer wit and humour passes. +Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, +Swears you have a world of wit. + + + +EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] + +Who can believe with common sense, +A bacon slice gives God offence; +Or, how a herring has a charm +Almighty vengeance to disarm? +Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, +Does he regard on what we dine? + + +[Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, +called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved +him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which +are translated above: + "Peut-on croire avec bon sens + Qu'un lardon le mil en colère, + Ou, que manger un hareng, + C'est un secret pour lui plaire? + En sa gloire envelopé, + Songe-t-il bien de nos soupés?"--_H_.] + + + +EPIGRAM[1] + +As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, +He took to the street, and fled for his life: +Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, +And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; +Then ventured to give him some sober advice-- +But Tom is a person of honour so nice, +Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, +That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. +Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; +Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. + +[Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by +Stella.--_Forster_.] + + + +EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] + +When Margery chastises Ned, +She calls it combing of his head; +A kinder wife was never born: +She combs his head, and finds him horn. + +[Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's +volume.--_Forster._] + + + +JOAN CUDGELS NED + +Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; +Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. +Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, +She dares not say her life's her own. +Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, +And every day she combs his head. + + + +VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS + +Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise +With lofty branches to the skies, +Have large proportion'd roots that grow +With equal longitude below: +Two bards that now in fashion reign, +Most aptly this device explain: +If this to clouds and stars will venture, +That creeps as far to reach the centre; +Or, more to show the thing I mean, +Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen +A skill'd mechanic, that has stood +High on a length of prostrate wood, +Who hired a subterraneous friend +To take his iron by the end; +But which excell'd was never found, +The man above or under ground. + The moral is so plain to hit, +That, had I been the god of wit, +Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, +Should Young and Philips drudge together. + + + +EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + +Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. +Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; +For Dick without Doll thought living a folly. + +Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: +But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; +A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear. + +Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; +Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; +The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most. + +Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried: +To live without both full three days he tried; +But liked neither loss, and so quietly died. + +Dick left a pattern few will copy after: +Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; +For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter. +Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; +The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; +And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate. + +Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, +Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, +And here rest----_sic transit gloria mundi_! + + +[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.--_F._] + +[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married +to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived +her but two days.--_F_. + The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in +his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy +Stopford's Chair." See _ante_, p.85.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest +daughter.--_F._] + + + + +VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT + +My latest tribute here I send, +With this let your collection end. +Thus I consign you down to fame +A character to praise or blame: +And if the whole may pass for true, +Contented rest, you have your due. +Give future time the satisfaction, +To leave one handle for detraction. + + + + +DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY + +Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, +That you, who know music no more than an ass, +That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, +Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? +To act such an opera once in a year, +So offensive to every true Protestant ear, +With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, +Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, +No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, +Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: +How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, +To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets! + +[The rest is wanting.] + + + + +AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION + +The furniture that best doth please +St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: +The knife and fork with which I eat; +And next the pot that boils the meat; +The next to be preferr'd, I think, +Is the glass in which I drink; +The shelves on which my books I keep +And the bed on which I sleep; +An antique elbow-chair between, +Big enough to hold the Dean; +And the stove that gives delight +In the cold bleak wintry night: +To these we add a thing below, +More for use reserved than show: +These are what the Dean do please; +All superfluous are but these. + + + + +EPITAPH +INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + +H. S. E. + +[*text centered] +CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, +Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE, +Et BRUCE, è nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques, +Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis +Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus; +Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus. +Siquidem a GULIELMO III° ad ordines foederati Belgii +Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius +Rebus, non Britanniae tantùm, sed totius fere Europae +(Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit, +Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata, +Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre, +In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit. +Fuit à sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae +E proregibus Hiberniae secundus, +Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens, +Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus +Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus +Forestae de Dean. +Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem +Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset, +Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias +Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo. +Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera, +Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius +Quòd veritatem evangelicam seriò amplexus; +Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus, +Adversùs omnes aequus et benevolus, +In Christo jam placidè obdormit +Cum eodem olim regnaturus unà. +Natus VIII° April. MDCXLIX. denatus +XXIV° Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII. + + + + +EPITAPH + +ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1] + +[*text centered] +Hic infra situm est corpus +FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. +ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690. +DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam +atque etiam petierunt, +UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum +In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent: +Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos, +diu ac saepè orando nil profecêre; +Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt, +Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes, +Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres +delitescunt +"Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos, +Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos." +A.D. 1731. + +[Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne, +July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and +chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own +expense.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph +were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellulâ tanti +ductoris cineres delitescunt."--_N._] + + + + +VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND + + +As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals +against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from +his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to +himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier +Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the +Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High +Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The +task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of +Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was +equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux +esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of +a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. +These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here +thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.--_Scott._ + + + +AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET + + +A lady, wise as well as fair, +Whose conscience always was her care, +Thoughtful upon a point of moment, +Would have the text as well as comment: +So hearing of a grave divine, +She sent to bid him come to dine. +But, you must know he was not quite +So grave as to be unpolite: +Thought human learning would not lessen +The dignity of his profession: +And if you'd heard the man discourse, +Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. +He long had bid the court farewell, +Retreating silent to his cell; +Suspected for the love he bore +To one who sway'd some time before; +Which made it more surprising how +He should be sent for thither now. + The message told, he gapes, and stares, +And scarce believes his eyes or ears: +Could not conceive what it should mean, +And fain would hear it told again. +But then the squire so trim and nice, +'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; +So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; +And would not fail to wait upon her. +His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, +Away he trudges into town; +Passes the lower castle yard, +And now advancing to the guard, +He trembles at the thoughts of state; +For, conscious of his sheepish gait, +His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; +He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. + What was the message I received? +Why certainly the captain raved? +To dine with her! and come at three! +Impossible! it can't be me. +Or maybe I mistook the word; +My lady--it must be my lord. + My lord 's abroad; my lady too: +What must the unhappy doctor do? +"Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"--"No." +"Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." +Am I awake, or do I dream? +I'm sure he call'd me by my name; +Named me as plain as he could speak; +And yet there must be some mistake. +Why, what a jest should I have been, +Had now my lady been within! +What could I've said? I'm mighty glad +She went abroad--she'd thought me mad. +The hour of dining now is past: +Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: +And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff, +I think I'm very fairly off. +My lady now returning home, +Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" +He had not heard of him--"Pray see, +'Tis now a quarter after three." +The captain walks about, and searches +Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; +Examines all the servants round, +In vain--no doctor's to be found. +My lady could not choose but wonder; +"Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; +But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; +I'll try his manners once again; +If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, +My son shall never see a college." + The captain was a man of reading, +And much good sense, as well as breeding; +Who, loath to blame, or to incense, +Said little in his own defence. +Next day another message brought; +The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, +Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, +Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, +Panting--and faltering--humm'd and ha'd, +"Her ladyship was gone abroad: +The captain too--he did not know +Whether he ought to stay or go;" +Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, +My lady, pitying his confusion, +Call'd her good nature to relieve him; +Told him, she thought she might believe him; +And would not only grant his suit, +But visit him, and eat some fruit, +Provided, at a proper time, +He told the real truth in rhyme; +'Twas to no purpose to oppose, +She'd hear of no excuse in prose. +The Doctor stood not to debate, +Glad to compound at any rate; +So, bowing, seemingly complied; +Though, if he durst, he had denied. +But first, resolved to show his taste, +Was too refined to give a feast; +He'd treat with nothing that was rare, +But winding walks and purer air; +Would entertain without expense, +Or pride or vain magnificence: +For well he knew, to such a guest +The plainest meals must be the best. +To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare +Simplicity alone is rare; +While high, and nice, and curious meats +Are really but vulgar treats. +Instead of spoils of Persian looms, +The costly boast of regal rooms, +Thought it more courtly and discreet +To scatter roses at her feet; +Roses of richest dye, that shone +With native lustre, like her own; +Beauty that needs no aid of art +Through every sense to reach the heart. +The gracious dame, though well she knew +All this was much beneath her due, +Liked everything--at least thought fit +To praise it _par manière d'acquit_. +Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear +The scorching sun, or chilling air; +Disturb'd alike at both extremes, +Whether he shows or hides his beams: +Though seeming pleased at all she sees, +Starts at the ruffling of the trees, +And scarce can speak for want of breath, +In half a walk fatigued to death. +The Doctor takes his hint from hence, +T' apologize his late offence: +"Madam, the mighty power of use +Now strangely pleads in my excuse; +If you unused have scarcely strength +To gain this walk's untoward length; +If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, +Through long disuse of solitude; +If, long confined to fires and screens, +You dread the waving of these greens; +If you, who long have breathed the fumes +Of city fogs and crowded rooms, +Do now solicitously shun +The cooler air and dazzling sun; +If his majestic eye you flee, +Learn hence t' excuse and pity me. +Consider what it is to bear +The powder'd courtier's witty sneer; +To see th' important man of dress +Scoffing my college awkwardness; +To be the strutting cornet's sport, +To run the gauntlet of the court, +Winning my way by slow approaches, +Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches, +From the first fierce cockaded sentry, +Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry; +To pass so many crowded stages, +And stand the staring of your pages: +And after all, to crown my spleen, +Be told--'You are not to be seen:' +Or, if you are, be forced to bear +The awe of your majestic air. +And can I then be faulty found, +In dreading this vexatious round? +Can it be strange, if I eschew +A scene so glorious and so new? +Or is he criminal that flies +The living lustre of your eyes?" + + +[Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.--_Scott._] + + + + +THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE + +INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1] +1724 + +Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.--VIRG., _Aen._, v, 344. + +Once on a time, a righteous sage, +Grieved with the vices of the age, +Applied to Jove with fervent prayer-- +"O Jove, if Virtue be so fair +As it was deem'd in former days, +By Plato and by Socrates, +Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, +Only for want of outward shape; +Make then its real excellence, +For once the theme of human sense; +So shall the eye, by form confined, +Direct and fix the wandering mind, +And long-deluded mortals see, +With rapture, what they used to flee!" + Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, +And bids him bless and mend the earth. +Behold him blooming fresh and fair, +Now made--ye gods--a son and heir; +An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, +An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2] +But prodigies are wrought to prove +Nothing impossible to Jove. + Virtue was for this sex design'd, +In mild reproof to womankind; +In manly form to let them see +The loveliness of modesty, +The thousand decencies that shone +With lessen'd lustre in their own; +Which few had learn'd enough to prize, +And some thought modish to despise. + To make his merit more discern'd, +He goes to school--he reads--is learn'd; +Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, +He shines distinguish'd in a college; +Resolved nor honour, nor estate, +Himself alone should make him great. +Here soon for every art renown'd, +His influence is diffused around; +The inferior youth to learning led, +Less to be famed than to be fed, +Behold the glory he has won, +And blush to see themselves outdone; +And now, inflamed with rival rage, +In scientific strife engage, +Engage; and, in the glorious strife +The arts new kindle into life. + Here would our hero ever dwell, +Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: +Contented to be truly great, +In Virtue's best beloved retreat; +Contented he--but Fate ordains, +He now shall shine in nobler scenes, +Raised high, like some celestial fire, +To shine the more, still rising higher; +Completely form'd in every part, +To win the soul, and glad the heart. +The powerful voice, the graceful mien, +Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; +The outward form and inward vie, +His soul bright beaming from his eye, +Ennobling every act and air, +With just, and generous, and sincere. + Accomplish'd thus, his next resort +Is to the council and the court, +Where Virtue is in least repute, +And interest the one pursuit; +Where right and wrong are bought and sold, +Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; +Here Manly Virtue, even here, +Pleased in the person of a peer, +A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, +Who talk'd of justice and of truth, +Of innocence the surest guard, +Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; +That he alone deserved esteem, +Who was the man he wish'd to seem; +Call'd it unmanly and unwise, +To lurk behind a mean disguise; +(Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, +'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) +Call'd want of shame a want of sense, +And found, in blushes, eloquence. + Thus acting what he taught so well, +He drew dumb merit from her cell, +Led with amazing art along +The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; +And, while he made her value known, +Yet more display'd and raised his own. + Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, +He rises to the highest stations; +For where high honour is the prize, +True Virtue has a right to rise: +Let courtly slaves low bend the knee +To Wealth and Vice in high degree: +Exalted Worth disdains to owe +Its grandeur to its greatest foe. + Now raised on high, see Virtue shows +The godlike ends for which he rose; +For him, let proud Ambition know +The height of glory here below, +Grandeur, by goodness made complete! +To bless, is truly to be great! +He taught how men to honour rise, +Like gilded vapours to the skies, +Which, howsoever they display +Their glory from the god of day, +Their noblest use is to abate +His dangerous excess of heat, +To shield the infant fruits and flowers, +And bless the earth with genial showers. + Now change the scene; a nobler care +Demands him in a higher sphere:[3] +Distress of nations calls him hence, +Permitted so by Providence; +For models, made to mend our kind, +To no one clime should be confined; +And Manly Virtue, like the sun, +His course of glorious toils should run: +Alike diffusing in his flight +Congenial joy, and life, and light. +Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, +And Discord in his presence dies; +Oppression hides with guilty dread, +And Merit rears her drooping head; +The arts revive, the valleys sing, +And winter softens into spring: +The wondering world, where'er he moves, +With new delight looks up, and loves; +One sex consenting to admire, +Nor less the other to desire; +While he, though seated on a throne, +Confines his love to one alone; +The rest condemn'd with rival voice +Repining, do applaud his choice. + Fame now reports, the Western isle +Is made his mansion for a while, +Whose anxious natives, night and day, +(Happy beneath his righteous sway,) +Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer, +To bless him, and to keep him there; +And claim it as a debt from Fate, +Too lately found, to lose him late. + + +[Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works," +vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of +Lord Chesterfield."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord +Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of +age.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, +with Denmark, and with the Czar.--_H._] + + + + +ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729 + +As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, +Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, +Above the door, at country fair, +Betokens entertainment there; +So bays on poets' brows have been +Set, for a sign of wit within. +And as ill neighbours in the night +Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; +The laurel so, by poets worn, +Is by the teeth of Envy torn; +Envy, a canker-worm, which tears +Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. + And now, t'exemplify this moral: +Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, +(Which, measured on his head, was found +Not long enough to reach half round, +But, like a girl's cockade, was tied, +A trophy, on his temple-side,) +Paddy repined to see him wear +This badge of honour in his hair; +And, thinking this cockade of wit +Would his own temples better fit, +Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, +Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, +Pelts him by turns with verse and prose +Hums like a hornet at his nose. +At length presumes to vent his satire on +The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron. +The eagle in the tale, ye know, +Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, +Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest +Securely in the thunderer's breast: +In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, +The spiteful insect stung the god. + + +[Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, +Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems +To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even +from Delany. Hence this poem.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET +BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1] + + Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, + Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat. +MART., _Epig._, lib. ix, 22. + +Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, +Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; +When next your generous soul shall condescend +T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; +Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, +On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; +Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, +How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: +Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, +Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; +When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, +Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine: +Nor with less praise the conversation guide, +Than in the public councils you decide: +Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, +Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; +You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) +With soft concessions shortening the dispute; +Then close with kind inquiries of my state, +"How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? +Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, +There are not many better in the nation! +This, with your other things, must yield you clear +Some six--at least five hundred pounds a-year." + Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom +To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; +You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, +And, if you please, my lady shall decide. + "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, +And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; +But you'll forgive me, if I own the event +Is short, is very short, of your intent: +At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, +My income less, and my expenses more." + "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector! +A dignitary! with a city lecture! +What glebes--what dues--what tithes--what fines--what rent! +Why, doctor!--will you never be content?" +"Would my good Lord but cast up the account, +And see to what my revenues amount;[2] +My titles ample; but my gain so small, +That one good vicarage is worth them all: +And very wretched, sure, is he that's double +In nothing but his titles and his trouble. +And to this crying grievance, if you please, +My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; +Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, +Where every step endangers every bone; +And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, +Two churches--twelve Hibernian miles asunder: +With complicated cures, I labour hard in, +Beside whole summers absent from--my garden! +But that the world would think I play'd the fool, +I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3] +What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, +Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake! +There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, +Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4] +There's not a better steerer in the realm; +I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."-- + "Doctor--a glorious scheme to ease your grief! +When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief. +You cannot fail of being happy there, +The lake will be the Lethe of your care: +The scheme is for your honour and your ease: +And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please. +Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, +Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; +Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, +And you've enough to gratify them all: +You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: +And what would a philosopher have more? +You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks--" + "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books-- +Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, +Are there no wants I should regard beside? +Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, +Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? +Who can be happy--who should wish to live, +And want the godlike happiness to give? +That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: +I had it once--and I'm debarr'd it now. +Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, +Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!" + "'Tis true--but, doctor, let us wave all that-- +Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?" + "Excuse me, good my lord--I won't be sounded, +Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. +My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, +Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. +Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, +(Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)-- +My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe-- +I'd wish besides--to build and to bestow." + + +[Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through +the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of +Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship +of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of +which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the +Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge +was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory +divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation +in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following +verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who +thought he was too amply provided for.--_Scott._ See the "Vindication," +"Prose Works," vii, p. 244.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication +of Lord Carteret," amounted only to £300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, +p. 245.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, +Esq.--_Scott._] + +[Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of +Erin.--_F._] + +[Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man +should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the +incumbent.--_H._] + + + + +AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE + +FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. +BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY + + +As Jove will not attend on less, +When things of more importance press: +You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, +That you, a low Hibernian bard, +Should cool your heels a while, and wait +Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; +And would my lord vouchsafe to grant +This one poor humble boon I want, +Free leave to play his secretary, +As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] +I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, +Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." +And, after several readings over, +It shines most in the marble cover. + How could so fine a taste dispense +With mean degrees of wit and sense? +Nor will my lord so far beguile +The wise and learned of our isle; +To make it pass upon the nation, +By dint of his sole approbation. +The task is arduous, patrons find, +To warp the sense of all mankind: +Who think your Muse must first aspire, +Ere he advance the doctor higher. + You've cause to say he meant you well: +That you are thankful, who can tell? +For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) +Of his intent: you mean your merit. + Ah! _quanto rectius, tu adepte, +Qui nil moliris tarn inepte_?[2] +Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, +"When thou thy humble lay dost offer +To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, +Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: +Content with what his bounty gave, +No larger income dost thou crave." + But you must have cascades, and all +Iërne's lake, for your canal, +Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on +All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] +It's pity that he can't bestow you +Twelve commoners in caps to row you. +Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] +Held monarchs labouring at the oar; +And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, +Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. + How different is this from Smedley! +(His name is up, he may in bed lie) +"Who only asks some pretty cure, +In wholesome soil and ether pure: +The garden stored with artless flowers, +In either angle shady bowers: +No gay parterre with costly green +Must in the ambient hedge be seen; +But Nature freely takes her course, +Nor fears from him ungrateful force: +No shears to check her sprouting vigour, +Or shape the yews to antic figure." + But you, forsooth, your all must squander +On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; +And when you've been at vast expenses +In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, +Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; +Nor farther buildings, farther planting: +No wonder, when you raise and level, +Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. +Here a convenient box you found, +Which you demolish'd to the ground: +Then built, then took up with your arbour, +And set the house to Rupert Barber. +You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy +Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. +You change a circle to a square, +Then to a circle as you were: +Who can imagine whence the fund is, +That you _quadrata_ change _rotundis_? + To Fame a temple you erect, +A Flora does the dome protect; +Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow +You place the Muses and Apollo; +There shining 'midst his train, to grace +Your whimsical poetic place. + These stories were of old design'd +As fables: but you have refined +The poets mythologic dreams, +To real Muses, gods, and streams. +Who would not swear, when you contrive thus, +That you're Don Quixote redivivus? +Beneath, a dry canal there lies, +Which only Winter's rain supplies. +O! couldst thou, by some magic spell, +Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6] +Here may it reassume its stream, +And take a greater Patrick's name! + If your expenses rise so high; +What income can your wants supply? +Yet still you fancy you inherit +A fund of such superior merit, +That you can't fail of more provision, +All by my lady's kind decision. +For, the more livings you can fish up, +You think you'll sooner be a bishop: +That could not be my lord's intent, +Nor can it answer the event. +Most think what has been heap'd on you +To other sort of folk was due: +Rewards too great for your flim-flams, +Epistles, riddles, epigrams. + Though now your depth must not be sounded, +The time was, when you'd have compounded +For less than Charley Grattan's school! +Five hundred pound a-year's no fool! +Take this advice then from your friend, +To your ambition put an end, +Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe, +Before you build and you bestow. +Be modest, nor address your betters +With begging, vain, familiar letters. + A passage may be found,[7] I've heard, +In some old Greek or Latian bard, +Which says, "Would crows in silence eat +Their offals, or their better meat, +Their generous feeders not provoking +By loud and inharmonious croaking, +They might, unhurt by Envy's claws, +Live on, and stuff to boot their maws." + + +[Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth," Part I, Act ii, +Scene 4.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Adapted from Hor., "Epist. ad Pisones," 140.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: See the "Petition to the Duke of Grafton," _post_, +p. 345.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Alluding to Dr. Delany's ambitious choice of fixing in the +island of the Lake of Erin, where Sir Ralph Gore had a villa.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 5: When residing at Chester, he obliged eight of his tributary +princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. Hume's "History of England," +vol. i, p. 106.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 6: Which had suddenly dried up. See _post_, vol. ii, "Verses on +the sudden drying up of St. Patrick's Well, near Trinity College, +Dublin."--_W.E.B._] + +[Footnote 7: Hor., "Epist.," lib. I, xvii, 50. + "Sed tacitus pasci si corvus posset, haberet + Plus dapis, et rixae multo minus invidiaeque." +I append the original, for the sake of Swift's very free +rendering.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A LIBEL +ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET +1729 + + +Deluded mortals, whom the great +Choose for companions _tête-à-tête_; +Who at their dinners, _en famille_, +Get leave to sit whene'er you will; +Then boasting tell us where you dined, +And how his lordship was so kind; +How many pleasant things he spoke; +And how you laugh'd at every joke: +Swear he's a most facetious man; +That you and he are cup and can; +You travel with a heavy load, +And quite mistake preferment's road. + Suppose my lord and you alone; +Hint the least interest of your own, +His visage drops, he knits his brow, +He cannot talk of business now: +Or, mention but a vacant post, +He'll turn it off with "Name your toast:" +Nor could the nicest artist paint +A countenance with more constraint. + For, as their appetites to quench, +Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench; +So men of wit are but a kind +Of panders to a vicious mind +Who proper objects must provide +To gratify their lust of pride, +When, wearied with intrigues of state, +They find an idle hour to prate. +Then, shall you dare to ask a place, +You forfeit all your patron's grace, +And disappoint the sole design, +For which he summon'd you to dine. + Thus Congreve spent in writing plays, +And one poor office, half his days: +While Montague,[1] who claim'd the station +To be Mæcenas of the nation, +For poets open table kept, +But ne'er consider'd where they slept: +Himself as rich as fifty Jews, +Was easy, though they wanted shoes; +And crazy Congreve scarce could spare +A shilling to discharge his chair: +Till prudence taught him to appeal +From Pæan's fire to party zeal; +Not owing to his happy vein +The fortunes of his later scene, +Took proper principles to thrive: +And so might every dunce alive.[2] + Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ, +And flourish'd by imputed wit, +From perils of a hundred jails, +Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales. + Thus Gay, the hare with many friends, +Twice seven long years the court attends: +Who, under tales conveying truth, +To virtue form'd a princely youth:[3] +Who paid his courtship with the crowd, +As far as modest pride allow'd; +Rejects a servile usher's place, +And leaves St. James's in disgrace.[4] + Thus Addison, by lords carest, +Was left in foreign lands distrest; +Forgot at home, became for hire +A travelling tutor to a squire: +But wisely left the Muses' hill, +To business shaped the poet's quill, +Let all his barren laurels fade, +Took up himself the courtier's trade, +And, grown a minister of state, +Saw poets at his levee wait.[5] + Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind +Detesting all the statesman kind, +Contemning courts, at courts unseen, +Refused the visits of a queen. +A soul with every virtue fraught, +By sages, priests, or poets taught; +Whose filial piety excels +Whatever Grecian story tells;[6] +A genius for all stations fit, +Whose meanest talent is his wit: +His heart too great, though fortune little, +To lick a rascal statesman's spittle: +Appealing to the nation's taste, +Above the reach of want is placed: +By Homer dead was taught to thrive, +Which Homer never could alive; +And sits aloft on Pindus' head, +Despising slaves that cringe for bread. + True politicians only pay +For solid work, but not for play: +Nor ever choose to work with tools +Forged up in colleges and schools, +Consider how much more is due +To all their journeymen than you: +At table you can Horace quote; +They at a pinch can bribe a vote: +You show your skill in Grecian story; +But they can manage Whig and Tory; +You, as a critic, are so curious +To find a verse in Virgil spurious; +But they can smoke the deep designs, +When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines. + Besides, your patron may upbraid ye, +That you have got a place already; +An office for your talents fit, +To flatter, carve, and show your wit; +To snuff the lights and stir the fire, +And get a dinner for your hire. +What claim have you to place or pension? +He overpays in condescension. + But, reverend doctor, you we know +Could never condescend so low; +The viceroy, whom you now attend, +Would, if he durst, be more your friend; +Nor will in you those gifts despise, +By which himself was taught to rise: +When he has virtue to retire, +He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, +And place you in a better station, +Although it might have pleased the nation. + This may be true--submitting still +To Walpole's more than royal will; +And what condition can be worse? +He comes to drain a beggar's purse; +He comes to tie our chains on faster, +And show us England is our master: +Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing, +To make them work their own undoing. +What has he else to bait his traps, +Or bring his vermin in, but scraps? +The offals of a church distrest; +A hungry vicarage at best; +Or some remote inferior post, +With forty pounds a-year at most? + But here again you interpose-- +Your favourite lord is none of those +Who owe their virtues to their stations, +And characters to dedications: +For, keep him in, or turn him out, +His learning none will call in doubt; +His learning, though a poet said it +Before a play, would lose no credit; +Nor Pope would dare deny him wit, +Although to praise it Philips writ. +I own he hates an action base, +His virtues battling with his place: +Nor wants a nice discerning spirit +Betwixt a true and spurious merit; +Can sometimes drop a voter's claim, +And give up party to his fame. +I do the most that friendship can; +I hate the viceroy, love the man. + But you, who, till your fortune's made, +Must be a sweetener by your trade, +Should swear he never meant us ill; +We suffer sore against his will; +That, if we could but see his heart, +He would have chose a milder part: +We rather should lament his case, +Who must obey, or lose his place. + Since this reflection slipt your pen, +Insert it when you write again; +And, to illustrate it, produce +This simile for his excuse: + "So, to destroy a guilty land +An [7]angel sent by Heaven's command, +While he obeys Almighty will, +Perhaps may feel compassion still; +And wish the task had been assign'd +To spirits of less gentle kind." + But I, in politics grown old, +Whose thoughts are of a different mould, +Who from my soul sincerely hate +Both kings and ministers of state; +Who look on courts with stricter eyes +To see the seeds of vice arise; +Can lend you an allusion fitter, +Though flattering knaves may call it bitter; +Which, if you durst but give it place, +Would show you many a statesman's face: +Fresh from the tripod of Apollo, +I had it in the words that follow: +Take notice to avoid offence, +I here except his excellence: + "So, to effect his monarch's ends, +From hell a viceroy devil ascends; +His budget with corruptions cramm'd, +The contributions of the damn'd; +Which with unsparing hand he strews +Through courts and senates as he goes; +And then at Beelzebub's black hall, +Complains his budget was too small." + Your simile may better shine +In verse, but there is truth in mine. +For no imaginable things +Can differ more than gods and kings: +And statesmen, by ten thousand odds, +Are angels just as kings are gods. + + +[Footnote 1: Earl of Halifax; see Johnson's "Life of +Montague."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The whole of this paragraph is unjust both to Halifax and +Congreve; for immediately after the production of Congreve's first play, +"The Old Bachelor," Halifax gave him a place in the Pipe Office, and +another in the Customs, of £600 a year. Ultimately he had at least four +sinecure appointments which together afforded him some £1,200 a year. See +Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: William, Duke of Cumberland, son to George II, "The +Butcher."] + +[Footnote 4: See _ante_, p. 215, note.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc. +ADDISON'S _Campaign_.] + + + + +TO DR. DELANY +ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM. 1729 + + --Tanti tibi non sit opaci +Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.--_Juv._ iii, 54. + +As some raw youth in country bred, +To arms by thirst of honour led, +When at a skirmish first he hears +The bullets whistling round his ears, +Will duck his head aside, will start, +And feel a trembling at his heart, +Till 'scaping oft without a wound +Lessens the terror of the sound; +Fly bullets now as thick as hops, +He runs into a cannon's chops. +An author thus, who pants for fame, +Begins the world with fear and shame; +When first in print you see him dread +Each pop-gun levell'd at his head: +The lead yon critic's quill contains, +Is destined to beat out his brains: +As if he heard loud thunders roll, +Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul! +Concluding that another shot +Will strike him dead upon the spot. +But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping, +He cannot see one creature dropping; +That, missing fire, or missing aim, +His life is safe, I mean his fame; +The danger past, takes heart of grace, +And looks a critic in the face. + Though splendour gives the fairest mark +To poison'd arrows in the dark, +Yet, in yourself when smooth and round, +They glance aside without a wound. + 'Tis said, the gods tried all their art, +How pain they might from pleasure part: +But little could their strength avail; +Both still are fasten'd by the tail; +Thus fame and censure with a tether +By fate are always link'd together. + Why will you aim to be preferr'd +In wit before the common herd; +And yet grow mortified and vex'd, +To pay the penalty annex'd? + 'Tis eminence makes envy rise; +As fairest fruits attract the flies. +Should stupid libels grieve your mind, +You soon a remedy may find; +Lie down obscure like other folks +Below the lash of snarlers' jokes. +Their faction is five hundred odds, +For every coxcomb lends them rods, +And sneers as learnedly as they, +Like females o'er their morning tea. + You say the Muse will not contain +And write you must, or break a vein. +Then, if you find the terms too hard, +No longer my advice regard: +But raise your fancy on the wing; +The Irish senate's praises sing; +How jealous of the nation's freedom, +And for corruptions how they weed 'em; +How each the public good pursues, +How far their hearts from private views; +Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys, +Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1] +Thus grown a member of the club, +No longer dread the rage of Grub. + How oft am I for rhyme to seek! +To dress a thought I toil a week: +And then how thankful to the town, +If all my pains will earn a crown! +While every critic can devour +My work and me in half an hour. +Would men of genius cease to write, +The rogues must die for want and spite; +Must die for want of food and raiment, +If scandal did not find them payment. +How cheerfully the hawkers cry +A satire, and the gentry buy! +While my hard-labour'd poem pines +Unsold upon the printer's lines. + A genius in the reverend gown +Must ever keep its owner down; +'Tis an unnatural conjunction, +And spoils the credit of the function. +Round all your brethren cast your eyes, +Point out the surest men to rise; +That club of candidates in black, +The least deserving of the pack, +Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud, +With grace and learning unendow'd, +Can turn their hands to every job, +The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2] +Will sooner coin a thousand lies, +Than suffer men of parts to rise; +They crowd about preferment's gate, +And press you down with all their weight; +For as of old mathematicians +Were by the vulgar thought magicians; +So academic dull ale-drinkers +Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers. + Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, +Disdains to serve ignoble ends. +Observe what loads of stupid rhymes +Oppress us in corrupted times; +What pamphlets in a court's defence +Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense? +For though the Muse delights in fiction, +She ne'er inspires against conviction. +Then keep your virtue still unmixt, +And let not faction come betwixt: +By party-steps no grandeur climb at, +Though it would make you England's primate; +First learn the science to be dull, +You then may soon your conscience lull; +If not, however seated high, +Your genius in your face will fly. + When Jove was from his teeming head +Of Wit's fair goddess[3] brought to bed, +There follow'd at his lying-in +For after-birth a sooterkin; +Which, as the nurse pursued to kill, +Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill, +There in the soil began to root, +And litter'd at Parnassus' foot. +From hence the critic vermin sprung, +With harpy claws and poisonous tongue: +Who fatten on poetic scraps, +Too cunning to be caught in traps. +Dame Nature, as the learned show, +Provides each animal its foe: +Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox +Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks +Thus Envy pleads a natural claim +To persecute the Muse's fame; +On poets in all times abusive, +From Homer down to Pope inclusive. + Yet what avails it to complain? +You try to take revenge in vain. +A rat your utmost rage defies, +That safe behind the wainscot lies. +Say, did you ever know by sight +In cheese an individual mite! +Show me the same numeric flea, +That bit your neck but yesterday: +You then may boldly go in quest +To find the Grub Street poet's nest; +What spunging-house, in dread of jail, +Receives them, while they wait for bail; +What alley are they nestled in, +To flourish o'er a cup of gin; +Find the last garret where they lay, +Or cellar where they starve to-day. +Suppose you have them all trepann'd, +With each a libel in his hand, +What punishment would you inflict? +Or call them rogues, or get them kickt? +These they have often tried before; +You but oblige them so much more: +Themselves would be the first to tell, +To make their trash the better sell. + You have been libell'd--Let us know, +What fool officious told you so? +Will you regard the hawker's cries, +Who in his titles always lies? +Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, +It might be something in your praise; +And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, +Would vex one more a thousand times. +Till critics blame, and judges praise, +The poet cannot claim his bays. +On me when dunces are satiric, +I take it for a panegyric. +Hated by fools, and fools to hate, +Be that my motto, and my fate. + + +[Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while +the new Parliament-house was building.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.] + +[Footnote 3: Pallas.] + + + + +DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + +To form a just and finish'd piece, +Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, +Whose godships are in chief request, +And fit your present subject best; +And, should it be your hero's case, +To have both male and female race, +Your business must be to provide +A score of goddesses beside. + Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, +For which they bring a modern pattern; +Because they might have heard of one,[1] +Who often long'd to eat his son; +But this I think will not go down, +For here the father kept his crown. + Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, +Who met his mother in a grove; +To this we freely shall consent, +Well knowing what the poets meant; +And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, +It may be literally true.[2] + Next, as the laws of verse require, +He must be greater than his sire; +For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, +Was able Saturn to depose; +And sure no Christian poet breathing +Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; +Or, if to blasphemy it tends. +That's but a trifle among friends. + Your hero now another Mars is, +Makes mighty armies turn their a--s: +Behold his glittering falchion mow +Whole squadrons at a single blow; +While Victory, with wings outspread, +Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; +His milk-white steed upon its haunches, +Or pawing into dead men's paunches; +As Overton has drawn his sire, +Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire. +Then from his arm hoarse thunder rolls, +As loud as fifty mustard bowls; +For thunder still his arm supplies, +And lightning always in his eyes. +They both are cheap enough in conscience, +And serve to echo rattling nonsense. +The rumbling words march fierce along, +Made trebly dreadful in your song. + Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, +To sing of wars, choose peaceful times. +What though, for fifteen years and more, +Janus has lock'd his temple-door; +Though not a coffeehouse we read in +Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; +Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, +Though fond of warlike lies as most men; +Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: +For, must thy hero not be dreadful? +Dismissing Mars, it next must follow +Your conqueror is become Apollo: +That he's Apollo is as plain as +That Robin Walpole is Mæcenas; +But that he struts, and that he squints, +You'd know him by Apollo's prints. +Old Phoebus is but half as bright, +For yours can shine both day and night. +The first, perhaps, may once an age +Inspire you with poetic rage; +Your Phoebus Royal, every day, +Not only can inspire, but pay. + Then make this new Apollo sit +Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. +"How from his altitude he stoops +To raise up Virtue when she droops; +On Learning how his bounty flows, +And with what justice he bestows; +Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam! +Be witness if I tell a flam, +What prodigies in arts we drain, +From both your streams, in George's reign. +As from the flowery bed of Nile"-- +But here's enough to show your style. +Broad innuendoes, such as this, +If well applied, can hardly miss: +For, when you bring your song in print, +He'll get it read, and take the hint; +(It must be read before 'tis warbled, +The paper gilt and cover marbled.) +And will be so much more your debtor, +Because he never knew a letter. +And, as he hears his wit and sense +(To which he never made pretence) +Set out in hyperbolic strains, +A guinea shall reward your pains; +For patrons never pay so well, +As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. +Next call him Neptune: with his trident +He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; +And, if provoked, he soundly firks his +Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes. +He would have seized the Spanish plate, +Had not the fleet gone out too late; +And in their very ports besiege them, +But that he would not disoblige them; +And make the rascals pay him dearly +For those affronts they give him yearly. + 'Tis not denied, that, when we write, +Our ink is black, our paper white: +And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, +We blacken what was white before: +I think this practice only fit +For dealers in satiric wit. +But you some white-lead ink must get +And write on paper black as jet; +Your interest lies to learn the knack +Of whitening what before was black. + Thus your encomium, to be strong, +Must be applied directly wrong. +A tyrant for his mercy praise, +And crown a royal dunce with bays: +A squinting monkey load with charms, +And paint a coward fierce in arms. +Is he to avarice inclined? +Extol him for his generous mind: +And, when we starve for want of corn, +Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3] +For all experience this evinces +The only art of pleasing princes: +For princes' love you should descant +On virtues which they know they want. +One compliment I had forgot, +But songsters must omit it not; +I freely grant the thought is old: +Why, then, your hero must be told, +In him such virtues lie inherent, +To qualify him God's vicegerent; +That with no title to inherit, +He must have been a king by merit. +Yet, be the fancy old or new, +Tis partly false, and partly true: +And, take it right, it means no more +Than George and William claim'd before. + Should some obscure inferior fellow, +Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4] +When all your list of Gods is out, +Presume to show his mortal snout, +And as a Deity intrude, +Because he had the world subdued; +O, let him not debase your thoughts, +Or name him but to tell his faults.-- + Of Gods I only quote the best, +But you may hook in all the rest. + Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed +To praise your empress and her breed; +First of the first, to vouch your lies, +Bring all the females of the skies; +The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, +Must venture down to entertain us: +With bended knees when they adore her, +What dowdies they appear before her! +Nor shall we think you talk at random, +For Venus might be her great-grandam: +Six thousand years has lived the Goddess, +Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; +Besides, your songsters oft have shown +That she has Graces of her own: +Three Graces by Lucina brought her, +Just three, and every Grace a daughter; +Here many a king his heart and crown +Shall at their snowy feet lay down: +In royal robes, they come by dozens +To court their English German cousins: +Beside a pair of princely babies, +That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. + Now see her seated in her throne +With genuine lustre, all her own: +Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, +Her splendour is but borrow'd light; +And only with her brother linkt +Can shine, without him is extinct. +But Carolina shines the clearer +With neither spouse nor brother near her: +And darts her beams o'er both our isles, +Though George is gone a thousand miles. +Thus Berecynthia takes her place, +Attended by her heavenly race; +And sees a son in every God, +Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod. + Now sing his little highness Freddy +Who struts like any king already: +With so much beauty, show me any maid +That could resist this charming Ganymede! +Where majesty with sweetness vies, +And, like his father, early wise. +Then cut him out a world of work, +To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: +Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, +And golden times, and halcyon days; +And swear his line shall rule the nation +For ever--till the conflagration. + But, now it comes into my mind, +We left a little duke behind; +A Cupid in his face and size, +And only wants, to want his eyes. +Make some provision for the younker, +Find him a kingdom out to conquer; +Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, +Make Gulliver his commodore; +Into whose pocket valiant Willy put, +Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. + A skilful critic justly blames +Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names +The sense can ne'er be too jejune, +But smooth your words to fit the tune. +Hanover may do well enough, +But George and Brunswick are too rough; +Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, +And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. +In vain are all attempts from Germany +To find out proper words for harmony: +And yet I must except the Rhine, +Because it clinks to Caroline. +Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes! +Be sung ten hundred thousand times; +Too happy were the poets' crew, +If their own happiness they knew: +Three syllables did never meet +So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: +Nine other tuneful words like that +Would prove even Homer's numbers flat. +Behold three beauteous vowels stand, +With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; +In concord here for ever fix'd, +No jarring consonant betwixt. + May Caroline continue long, +For ever fair and young!--in song. +What though the royal carcass must, +Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust? +Those elements her name compose, +Like atoms, are exempt from blows. + Though Caroline may fill your gaps, +Yet still you must consult your maps; +Find rivers with harmonious names, +Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, +Britannia long will wear like steel, +But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; +And Patience can endure no more +To hear the Belgic lion roar. +Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, +But proud Iberia soundly maul: +Restore the ships by Philip taken, +And make him crouch to save his bacon. +Nassau, who got the name of Glorious, +Because he never was victorious, +A hanger-on has always been; +For old acquaintance bring him in. + To Walpole you might lend a line, +But much I fear he's in decline; +And if you chance to come too late, +When he goes out, you share his fate, +And bear the new successor's frown; +Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. +Reject with scorn that stupid notion, +To praise your hero for devotion; +Nor entertain a thought so odd, +That princes should believe in God; +But follow the securest rule, +And turn it all to ridicule: +'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, +And gives the maids of honour sport; +For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5] +They now can venture in the dark: +That sound divine the truth has spoke all, +And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local. +This will not give them half the trouble +Of bargains sold, or meanings double. + Supposing now your song is done, +To Mynheer Handel next you run, +Who artfully will pare and prune +Your words to some Italian tune: +Then print it in the largest letter, +With capitals, the more the better. +Present it boldly on your knee, +And take a guinea for your fee. + + +[Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, +while the latter was Prince of Wales.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to +have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and +one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or +Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander +the Great.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, +distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St. +James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not +considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, +"Moral Essays," Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK +A FABLE BY DR. DELANY +1730 + +--quis iniquae +Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?--_-Juv._ i, 30. + +In ancient times, as bards indite, +(If clerks have conn'd the records right.) +A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway +His subjects with delight obey: +His tail was beauteous to behold, +Replete with goodly eyes and gold; +Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, +Whose train at once is rich and wise; +And princely ruled he many regions, +And statesmen wise, and valiant legions. + A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, +With every grace and talent blest, +Was sent to sway, with all his skill, +The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2] +No science was to him unknown, +For all the arts were all his own: +In all the living learned read, +Though more delighted with the dead: +For birds, if ancient tales say true, +Had then their Popes and Homers too; +Could read and write in prose and verse, +And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3] +He knew their voices, and their wings, +Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; +Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, +And who attain'd the true sublime. +Their merits he could well descry, +He had so exquisite an eye; +And when that fail'd to show them clear, +He had as exquisite an ear; +It chanced as on a day he stray'd +Beneath an academic shade, +He liked, amidst a thousand throats, +The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, +And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, +And took him home, and made him tame; +Found him on trial true and able, +So cheer'd and fed him at his table. + Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, +And cries out, "Better fed than taught"--Then +jests on game and tame, and reads, +And jests, and so my tale proceeds. + Long had he studied in the wood, +Conversing with the wise and good: +His soul with harmony inspired, +With love of truth and virtue fired: +His brethren's good and Maker's praise +Were all the study of his lays; +Were all his study in retreat, +And now employ'd him with the great. +His friendship was the sure resort +Of all the wretched at the court; +But chiefly merit in distress +His greatest blessing was to bless.-- + This fix'd him in his patron's breast, +But fired with envy all the rest: +I mean that noisy, craving crew, +Who round the court incessant flew, +And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, +To fill the maws of sons and cousins: +"Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood +To every thought of common good, +Confining every hope and care, +To their own low, contracted sphere." +These ran him down with ceaseless cry, +But found it hard to tell you why, +Till his own worth and wit supplied +Sufficient matter to deride: +"'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, +To hide her rage in ridicule: +The vulgar eye she best beguiles, +When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: +Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised! +Tormented most when seeming pleased!" +Their spite had more than half expired, +Had he not wrote what all admired; +What morsels had their malice wanted, +But that he built, and plann'd, and planted! +How had his sense and learning grieved them, +But that his charity relieved them! + "At highest worth dull malice reaches, +As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: +Envy defames, as harpies vile +Devour the food they first defile." + Now ask the fruit of all his favour-- +"He was not hitherto a saver."-- +What then could make their rage run mad? +"Why, what he hoped, not what he had." + "What tyrant e'er invented ropes, +Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes? +Th' inheritance of hope and fame +Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; +Or, if it were, is not so small, +But there is room enough for all." + If he but chance to breathe a song, +(He seldom sang, and never long,) +The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, +Where it was high, pronounced it loud: +Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, +Easy and Friendly was Familiar. + Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, +With solemn air to Virtue's praise, +Alike abusive and erroneous, +They call'd it hoarse and inharmonious. +Yet so it was to souls like theirs, +Tuneless as Abel to the bears! + A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw +Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6] +(Though some, who would be thought to know, +Are positive it was a crow:) +Jack Daw was seconded by Tit, +Tom Tit[7] could write, and so he writ; +A tribe of tuneless praters follow, +The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; +And twenty more their throats let loose, +Down to the witless, waddling Goose. + Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, +Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: +The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, +The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: +The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, +Swore all his singing was but croaking. +Some thought they meant to show their wit, +Might think so still--"but that they writ"-- +Could it be spite or envy?--"No-- +Who did no ill could have no foe."-- +So wise Simplicity esteem'd; +Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; +This question rightly understood, +"What more provokes than doing good? +A soul ennobled and refined +Reproaches every baser mind: +As strains exalted and melodious +Make every meaner music odious."-- +At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, +For voice and wisdom long revered, +Esteem'd of all the wise and good, +The Guardian Genius of the wood: +He long in discontent retired, +Yet not obscured, but more admired: +His brethren's servile souls disdaining, +He lived indignant and complaining: +They now afresh provoke his choler, +(It seems the Lark had been his scholar, +A favourite scholar always near him, +And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) +Enraged he canvasses the matter, +Exposes all their senseless chatter, +Shows him and them in such a light, +As more inflames, yet quells their spite. +They hear his voice, and frighted fly, +For rage had raised it very high: +Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, +They hide their heads, and hush their throats. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_F_] + +[Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in +Dublin.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 5: Dr. T----r.--_F._] + +[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.--_F._] + +[Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.--_F._] + +[Footnote 8: Dean Swift.--_F._] + + +ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK. +1730 + + +In ancient times, the wise were able +In proper terms to write a fable: +Their tales would always justly suit +The characters of every brute. +The ass was dull, the lion brave, +The stag was swift, the fox a knave; +The daw a thief, the ape a droll, +The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: +A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop, +Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up. +Far otherwise a great divine +Has learnt his fables to refine; +He jumbles men and birds together, +As if they all were of a feather: +You see him first the Peacock bring, +Against all rules, to be a king; +That in his tail he wore his eyes, +By which he grew both rich and wise. +Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, +A Peacock chose for flight and voice; +Did ever mortal see a peacock +Attempt a flight above a haycock? +And for his singing, doctor, you know +Himself complain'd of it to Juno. +He squalls in such a hellish noise, +He frightens all the village boys. +This Peacock kept a standing force, +In regiments of foot and horse: +Had statesmen too of every kind, +Who waited on his eyes behind; +And this was thought the highest post; +For, rule the rump, you rule the roast. +The doctor names but one at present, +And he of all birds was a Pheasant. +This Pheasant was a man of wit, +Could read all books were ever writ; +And, when among companions privy, +Could quote you Cicero and Livy. +Birds, as he says, and I allow, +Were scholars then, as we are now; +Could read all volumes up to folios, +And feed on fricassees and olios: +This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will, +Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; +And, as he wander'd in his park, +He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; +Was taken with his person outward, +So prettily he pick'd a cow-t--d: +Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, +And in his palace fed and taught him. +The moral of the tale is pleasant, +Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: +A lark he is, and such a lark +As never came from Noah's ark: +And though he had no other notion, +But building, planning, and devotion; +Though 'tis a maxim you must know, +"Who does no ill can have no foe;" +Yet how can I express in words +The strange stupidity of birds? +This Lark was hated in the wood, +Because he did his brethren good. +At last the Nightingale comes in, +To hold the doctor by the chin: +We all can find out what he means, +The worst of disaffected deans: +Whose wit at best was next to none, +And now that little next is gone; +Against the court is always blabbing, +And calls the senate-house a cabin; +So dull, that but for spleen and spite, +We ne'er should know that he could write +Who thinks the nation always err'd, +Because himself is not preferr'd; +His heart is through his libel seen, +Nor could his malice spare the queen; +Who, had she known his vile behaviour, +Would ne'er have shown him so much favour. +A noble lord[1] has told his pranks, +And well deserves the nation's thanks. +O! would the senate deign to show +Resentment on this public foe, +Our Nightingale might fit a cage; +There let him starve, and vent his rage: +Or would they but in fetters bind +This enemy of human kind! +Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, +Thou champion for the commonweal: +Nor on a theme like this repine, +For once to wet thy pen divine: +Bestow that libeller a lash, +Who daily vends seditious trash: +Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, +But in the praise of virtue is dumb: +That scribbler lash, who neither knows +The turn of verse, nor style of prose; +Whose malice, for the worst of ends, +Would have us lose our English friends:[3] +Who never had one public thought, +Nor ever gave the poor a groat. +One clincher more, and I have done, +I end my labours with a pun. +Jove send this Nightingale may fall, +Who spends his day and night in gall! +So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; +I see the greatest owls in you +That ever screech'd, or ever flew. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.--_F._] + +[Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.--_F._] + +[Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.--_F._] + + + +DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1] + +Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.--HOR. + _Epist._, I, ii, 47. + +It was, my lord, the dexterous shift +Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, +But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, +With silver verge, and surplice clean, +Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, +In looser rhyme to beg a place. +A place he got, yclept a stall, +And eke a thousand pounds withal; +And were he less a witty writer, +He might as well have got a mitre. + Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, +In humble lays my thanks to offer, +Approach your grace with grateful heart, +My thanks and verse both void of art, +Content with what your bounty gave, +No larger income do I crave: +Rejoicing that, in better times, +Grafton requires my loyal lines. +Proud! while my patron is polite, +I likewise to the patriot write! +Proud! that at once I can commend +King George's and the Muses' friend! +Endear'd to Britain; and to thee +(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) +Endear'd by twice three anxious years, +Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; +By love, by wisdom, and by skill; +For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will. + But where shall Smedley make his nest, +And lay his wandering head to rest? +Where shall he find a decent house, +To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? +O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, +In wholesome soil, and ether pure; +The garden stored with artless flowers, +In either angle shady bowers. +No gay parterre, with costly green, +Within the ambient hedge be seen: +Let Nature freely take her course, +Nor fear from me ungrateful force; +No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, +Nor shape the yews to antic figure: +A limpid brook shall trout supply, +In May, to take the mimic fly; +Round a small orchard may it run, +Whose apples redden to the sun. +Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; +For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, +A little Euston[2] may it be, +Euston I'll carve on every tree. +But then, to keep it in repair, +My lord--twice fifty pounds a-year +Will barely do; but if your grace +Could make them hundreds--charming place! +Thou then wouldst show another face. + Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, +'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: +One shivers with the arctic wind, +One hears the polar axis grind. +Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, +Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. +He has a purse to keep a table, +And eke a soul as hospitable. +My heart is good; but assets fail, +To fight with storms of snow and hail. +Besides, the country's thin of people, +Who seldom meet but at the steeple: +The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, +Ne'er named the thing without a frown, +When, much fatigued with sermon study, +He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; +No fit companion could be found, +To push the lazy bottle round: +Sure then, for want of better folks +To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. + Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, +Where beaux and belles in parties meet; +Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, +And jostle as they troll along; +Where tea and coffee hourly flow, +And gape-seed does in plenty grow; +And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, +Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!" +There Lady Luna in her sphere +Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; +But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, +Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. +There--but 'tis endless to write down +All the amusements of the town; +And spouse will think herself quite undone, +To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; +And care we must our wives to please, +Or else--we shall be ill at ease. + You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, +'Tis only some convenient tack, +Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, +To be my late, my last retreat; +A decent church, close by its side, +There, preaching, praying, to reside; +And as my time securely rolls, +To save my own and other souls. + + +[Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to +in the preceding poems.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.--_N._] + +[Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.--_H._] + +[Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there +are two deans.--_Scott_.] + + + + +THE DUKE'S ANSWER +BY DR. SWIFT + + +Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, +Where wit in all its glory shines; +Where compliments, with all their pride, +Are by their numbers dignified: +I hope to make you yet as clean +As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. +I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, +And may be something else withal; +And, were you not so good a writer, +I should present you with a mitre. +Write worse, then, if you can--be wise- +Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. +Talk not of making of thy nest: +Ah! never lay thy head to rest! +That head so well with wisdom fraught, +That writes without the toil of thought! +While others rack their busy brains, +You are not in the least at pains. +Down to your dean'ry now repair, +And build a castle in the air. +I'm sure a man of your fine sense +Can do it with a small expense. +There your dear spouse and you together +May breathe your bellies full of ether, +When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, +She'll help your wife when she's in labour, +Well skill'd in midwife artifices, +For she herself oft falls in pieces. +There you shall see a raree show +Will make you scorn this world below, +When you behold the milky-way, +As white as snow, as bright as day; +The glittering constellations roll +About the grinding arctic pole; +The lovely tingling in your ears, +Wrought by the music of the spheres-- +Your spouse shall then no longer hector, +You need not fear a curtain-lecture; +Nor shall she think that she is undone +For quitting her beloved London. +When she's exalted in the skies, +She'll never think of mutton-pies; +When you're advanced above Dean Viz, +You'll never think of Goody Griz; +But ever, ever live at ease, +And strive, and strive your wife to please; +In her you'll centre all your joys, +And get ten thousand girls and boys; +Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, +And they like stars shall rise and set. +While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon +Be a new sun and a new moon: +Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, +For then your horns shall be your pride. + + +[Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the +text.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, +WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1] + + +The very reverend Dean Smedley, +Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, +Was equally allow'd to shine +As poet, scholar, and divine; +With godliness could well dispense, +Would be a rake, but wanted sense; +Would strictly after Truth inquire, +Because he dreaded to come nigh her. +For Liberty no champion bolder, +He hated bailiffs at his shoulder. +To half the world a standing jest, +A perfect nuisance to the rest; +From many (and we may believe him) +Had the best wishes they could give him. +To all mankind a constant friend, +Provided they had cash to lend. +One thing he did before he went hence, +He left us a laconic sentence, +By cutting of his phrase, and trimming +To prove that bishops were old women. +Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, +She was so terrified at his. +He waded, without any shame, +Through thick and thin to get a name, +Tried every sharping trick for bread, +And after all he seldom sped. +When Fortune favour'd, he was nice; +He never once would cog the dice; +But, if she turn'd against his play, +He knew to stop _à quatre trois_. +Now sound in mind, and sound in _corpus_, +(Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise, +He hies from hence at forty-four +(But by his leave he sinks a score) +To the East Indies, there to cheat, +Till he can purchase an estate; +Where, after he has fill'd his chest, +He'll mount his tub, and preach his best, +And plainly prove, by dint of text, +This world is his, and theirs the next. +Lest that the reader should not know +The bank where last he set his toe, +'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship, +And gave his creditors the slip. +But lest chronology should vary, +Upon the ides of February, +In seventeen hundred eight-and-twenty, +To Fort St. George, a pedler went he. +Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent, +RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT! + + +[Footnote 1: INSCRIPTION, +BY DEAN SMEDLEY, 1729. + +[*text centered] +Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY, +Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus, +Politioribus excultus literis; +Parce pius, impius minime; +Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor; +Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam, +Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus, +Auctor hujus sententiae, PATRES SUNT VETULAE. +Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam; +Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus, +Mente Sana, sano corpore, volens, laetusque, +Lustris plus quam XI numeratis, +Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque, +Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales praedicandum, +_Grevae_, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, +Arcemque _Sancti_ petens _Georgii_, vernale per aequinoxium, +Anno Aerae Christianae MDCCXXVIII, +Transfretavit. +Fata vocant--revocentque precamur.] + + +END OF VOL. I + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., +VOLUME I (OF 2)*** + + +******* This file should be named 14353-8.txt or 14353-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/3/5/14353 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: +https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/old/14353-8.zip b/old/14353-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..acf6f3c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14353-8.zip diff --git a/old/14353-h.zip b/old/14353-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..62fdd05 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14353-h.zip diff --git a/old/14353-h/14353-h.htm b/old/14353-h/14353-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..28e70ea --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14353-h/14353-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17807 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + The Poems of Jonathan Swift, Volume I + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;] +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume I +(of 2), by Jonathan Swift, Edited by William Ernst Browning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume I (of 2) + +Author: Jonathan Swift + +Release Date: December 14, 2004 [eBook #14353] +Last Updated: March 14, 2019 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., +VOLUME I (OF 2)*** + + +E-text prepared by Clare Boothby, G. Graustein, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., VOLUME I + </h1> + <h2> + Edited By William Ernst Browning + </h2> + <h4> + London: G. Bell and Sons, Ltd. + </h4> + <h3> + 1910 + </h3> + <hr /> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ODE TO KING WILLIAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> TO MR. CONGREVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS + AND RECOVERY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE DISCOVERY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE PROBLEM, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> ON THE UNION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> THE REVERSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> APOLLO OUTWITTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> A GRUB-STREET ELEGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF + CASTLENOCK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> A CONFERENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> TO MR. DELANY,[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> AN ELEGY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> EPITAPH ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> VERSES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> NEWS FROM PARNASSUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> APOLLO'S EDICT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> THE PROGRESS OF POETRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> A PROLOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL2"> EPILOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> THE COUNTRY LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART"> PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> CARBERIAE RUPES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> CARBERY ROCKS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> ON DREAMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> THE ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> A PASTORAL DIALOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE + "DUNCIAD" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE + ATTORNEYS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> THE PUPPET-SHOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> THE LOGICIANS REFUTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> A DIALOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> ON BURNING A DULL POEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> ON STEPHEN DUCK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> CASSINUS AND PETER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> STREPHON AND CHLOE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> JUDAS. 1731 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> TO A LADY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. + 1732 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> ANOTHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> A CONCLUSION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN + OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. + SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF2"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> THE PARSON'S CASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> THE STORM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> ODE ON SCIENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> ON POETRY, A RHAPSODY. 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> ON PSYCHE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> THE DEAN AND DUKE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN + SEPTEMBER, 1734 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> ASPARAGUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> ONIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> OYSTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> HERRINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> ORANGES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> EPIGRAM[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> JOAN CUDGELS NED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S + ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] + 1729 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> A LIBEL ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS + EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> TO DR. DELANY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK, A FABLE BY DR. DELANY + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND + LARK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF + GRAFTON[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> THE DUKE'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + The works of Jonathan Swift in prose and verse so mutually illustrate each + other, that it was deemed indispensable, as a complement to the standard + edition of the Prose Works, to issue a revised edition of the Poems, freed + from the errors which had been allowed to creep into the text, and + illustrated with fuller explanatory notes. My first care, therefore, in + preparing the Poems for publication, was to collate them with the earliest + and best editions available, and this I have done. + </p> + <p> + But, thanks to the diligence of the late John Forster, to whom every lover + of Swift must confess the very greatest obligation, I have been able to do + much more. I have been able to enrich this edition with some pieces not + hitherto brought to light—notably, the original version of "Baucis + and Philemon," in addition to the version hitherto printed; the original + version of the poem on "Vanbrugh's House"; the verses entitled "May Fair"; + and numerous variations and corrections of the texts of nearly all the + principal poems, due to Forster's collation of them with the transcripts + made by Stella, which were found by him at Narford formerly the seat of + Swift's friend, Sir Andrew Fountaine—see Forster's "Life of Swift," + of which, unfortunately, he lived to publish only the first volume. From + Swift's own copy of the "Miscellanies in Prose and Verse," 1727-32, with + notes in his own handwriting, sold at auction last year, I was able to + make several corrections of the poems contained in those four volumes, + which serve to show how Swift laboured his works, and revised and improved + them whenever he had an opportunity of doing so. It is a mistake to + suppose that he was indifferent to literary fame: on the contrary, he kept + some of his works in manuscript for years in order to perfect them for + publication, of which "The Tale of a Tub," "Gulliver's Travels," and the + "Verses on his own Death" are examples. + </p> + <p> + I am indebted to Miss Wilmot-Chetwode, of Wordbrooke, for the loan of a + manuscript volume, from which I obtained some various readings. By the + advice of Mr. Elrington Ball, I applied to the librarians of Trinity + College and of the National Library, and from the latter I received a + number of pieces; but I found that the harvest had already been reaped so + fully, that there was nothing left to glean which could with certainty be + ascribed to Swift. On the whole, I believe that this edition of the Poems + will be found as complete as it is now possible to make it. + </p> + <p> + In the arrangement of the poems, I have adopted nearly the same order as + in the Aldine edition, for the pieces seem to fall naturally into those + divisions; but with this difference, that I have placed the pieces in + their chronological order in each division. With regard to the notes in + illustration of the text, many of them in the Dublin editions were + evidently written by Swift, especially the notes to the "Verses on his own + Death." And as to the notes of previous editors, I have retained them so + far as they were useful and correct: but to many of them I have made + additions or alterations wherever, on reference to the authorities cited, + or to other works, correction became necessary. For my own notes, I can + only say that I have sought to make them concise, appropriate to the text, + and, above all, accurate. + </p> + <p> + Swift and the educated men of his time thought in the classics, and his + poems, as well as those of his friends, abound with allusions to the Greek + and Roman authors, especially to the latter. I have given all the + references, and except in the imitations and paraphrases of so familiar a + writer as Horace, I have appended the Latin text. Moreover, Swift was, + like Sterne, very fond of curious and recondite reading, in which it is + not always easy to track him without some research; but I believe that I + have not failed to illustrate any matter that required elucidation. + </p> + <h3> + W. E. B. + </h3> + <p> + May 1910. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + Dr. Johnson, in his "Life of Swift," after citing with approval Delany's + character of him, as he describes him to Lord Orrery, proceeds to say: "In + the poetical works there is not much upon which the critic can exercise + his powers. They are often humorous, almost always light, and have the + qualities which recommend such compositions, easiness and gaiety. They + are, for the most part, what their author intended. The diction is + correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There seldom occurs + a hard laboured expression or a redundant epithet; all his verses + exemplify his own definition of a good style—they consist of 'proper + words in proper places.'" + </p> + <p> + Of his earliest poems it is needless to say more than that if nothing + better had been written by him than those Pindaric Pieces, after the + manner of Cowley—then so much in vogue—the remark of Dryden, + "Cousin Swift, you will never be a Poet," would have been fully justified. + But conventional praise and compliments were foreign to his nature, for + his strongest characteristic was his intense sincerity. He says of himself + that about that time he had writ and burnt and writ again upon all manner + of subjects more than perhaps any man in England; and it is certainly + remarkable that in so doing his true genius was not sooner developed, for + it was not till he became chaplain in Lord Berkeley's household that his + satirical humour was first displayed—at least in verse—in + "Mrs. Frances Harris' Petition."—His great prose satires, "The Tale + of a Tub," and "Gulliver's Travels," though planned, were reserved to a + later time.—In other forms of poetry he soon afterwards greatly + excelled, and the title of poet cannot be refused to the author of "Baucis + and Philemon"; the verses on "The Death of Dr. Swift"; the "Rhapsody on + Poetry"; "Cadenus and Vanessa"; "The Legion Club"; and most of the poems + addressed to Stella, all of which pieces exhibit harmony, invention, and + imagination. + </p> + <p> + Swift has been unduly censured for the coarseness of his language upon + Certain topics; but very little of this appears in his earlier poems, and + what there is, was in accordance with the taste of the period, which never + hesitated to call a spade a spade, due in part to the reaction from the + Puritanism of the preceding age, and in part to the outspeaking frankness + which disdained hypocrisy. It is shown in Dryden, Pope, Prior, of the last + of whom Johnson said that no lady objected to have his poems in her + library; still more in the dramatists of that time, whom Charles Lamb has + so humorously defended, and in the plays of Mrs. Aphra Behn, who, as Pope + says, "fairly puts all characters to bed." But whatever coarseness there + may be in some of Swift's poems, such as "The Lady's Dressing Room," and a + few other pieces, there is nothing licentious, nothing which excites to + lewdness; on the contrary, such pieces create simply a feeling of + repulsion. No one, after reading the "Beautiful young Nymph going to bed," + or "Strephon and Chloe," would desire any personal acquaintance with the + ladies, but there is a moral in these pieces, and the latter poem + concludes with excellent matrimonial advice. The coarseness of some of his + later writings must be ascribed to his misanthropical hatred of the + "animal called man," as expressed in his famous letter to Pope of + September 1725, aggravated as it was by his exile from the friends he + loved to a land he hated, and by the reception he met with there, about + which he speaks very freely in his notes to the "Verses on his own Death." + </p> + <p> + On the morning of Swift's installation as Dean, the following scurrilous + lines by Smedley, Dean of Clogher, were affixed to the doors of St. + Patrick's Cathedral: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To-day this Temple gets a Dean + Of parts and fame uncommon, + Us'd both to pray and to prophane, + To serve both God and mammon. + When Wharton reign'd a Whig he was; + When Pembroke—that's dispute, Sir; + In Oxford's time, what Oxford pleased, + Non-con, or Jack, or Neuter. + This place he got by wit and rhime, + And many ways most odd, + And might a Bishop be in time, + Did he believe in God. + Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray, + On thine own church and steeple; + Convert thy Dean on this great day, + Or else God help the people. + And now, whene'er his Deanship dies, + Upon his stone be graven, + A man of God here buried lies, + Who never thought of heaven. +</pre> + <p> + It was by these lines that Smedley earned for himself a niche in "The + Dunciad." For Swift's retaliation, see the poems relating to Smedley at + the end of the first volume, and in volume ii, at p. 124, note. + </p> + <p> + This bitterness of spirit reached its height in "Gulliver's Travels," + surely the severest of all satires upon humanity, and writ, as he tells + us, not to divert, but to vex the world; and ultimately, in the fierce + attack upon the Irish Parliament in the poem entitled "The Legion Club," + dictated by his hatred of tyranny and oppression, and his consequent + passion for exhibiting human nature in its most degraded aspect. + </p> + <p> + But, notwithstanding his misanthropical feelings towards mankind in + general, and his "scorn of fools by fools mistook for pride," there never + existed a warmer or sincerer friend to those whom he loved—witness + the regard in which he was held by Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, Gay, + Arbuthnot, and Congreve, and his readiness to assist those who needed his + help, without thought of party or politics. Although, in some of his + poems, Swift rather severely exposed the follies and frailties of the fair + sex, as in "The Furniture of a Woman's Mind," and "The Journal of a Modern + Lady," he loved the companionship of beautiful and accomplished women, + amongst whom he could count some of his dearest and truest friends; but + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He loved to be bitter at + A lady illiterate; +</pre> + <p> + and therefore delighted in giving them literary instruction, most notably + in the cases of Stella and Vanessa, whose relations with him arose + entirely from the tuition in letters which they received from him. Again, + when on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, he insisted upon making Lady + Acheson read such books as he thought fit to advise, and in the doggerel + verses entitled "My Lady's Lamentation," she is supposed to resent his + "very imperious" manner of instruction: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No book for delight + Must come in my sight; + But instead of new plays, + Dull Bacon's Essays, + And pore every day on + That nasty Pantheon. +</pre> + <p> + As a contrast to his imperiousness, there is an affectionate simplicity in + the fancy names he used to bestow upon his female friends. Sir William + Temple's wife, Dorothea, became Dorinda; Esther Johnson, Stella; Hester + Vanhomrigh, Vanessa; Lady Winchelsea, Ardelia; while to Lady Acheson he + gave the nicknames of Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean. But all was taken by + them in good part; for his rather dictatorial ways were softened by the + fascinating geniality and humour which he knew so well how to employ when + he used to "deafen them with puns and rhyme." + </p> + <p> + Into the vexed question of the relations between Swift and Stella I do not + purpose to enter further than to record my conviction that she was never + more to him than "the dearest friend that ever man had." The suggestion of + a concealed marriage is so inconsistent with their whole conduct to each + other from first to last, that if there had been such a marriage, instead + of Swift having been, as he was, a man of <i>intense sincerity</i>, he + must be held to have been a most consummate hypocrite. In my opinion, + Churton Collins settled this question in his essays on Swift, first + published in the "Quarterly Review," 1881 and 1882. Swift's relation with + Vanessa is the saddest episode in his life. The story is amply told in his + poem, "Cadenus and Vanessa," and in the letters which passed between them: + how the pupil became infatuated with her tutor; how the tutor endeavoured + to dispel her passion, but in vain, by reason; and how, at last, she died + from love for the man who was unable to give love in return. That Swift + ought, as soon as Hester disclosed her passion for him, at once to have + broken off the intimacy, must be conceded; but how many men possessed of + his kindness of heart would have had the courage to have acted otherwise + than he did? Swift seems, in fact, to have been constitutionally incapable + of the <i>passion</i> of love, for he says, himself, that he had never met + the woman he wished to marry. His annual tributes to Stella on her + birthdays express the strongest regard and esteem, but he "ne'er admitted + love a guest," and he had been so long used to this Platonic affection, + that he had come to regard women as friends, but never as lovers. Stella, + on her part, had the same feeling, for she never expressed the least + discontent at her position, or ever regarded Swift otherwise than as her + tutor, her counsellor, her friend. In her verses to him on his birthday, + 1721, she says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Long be the day that gave you birth + Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth; + Late dying may you cast a shred + Of your rich mantle o'er my head; + To bear with dignity my sorrow + One day alone, then die tomorrow. +</pre> + <p> + Stella naturally expected to survive Swift, but it was not to be. She died + in the evening of the 28th January 1727-8; and on the same night he began + the affecting piece, "On the Death of Mrs. Johnson." (See "Prose Works," + vol. xi.) + </p> + <p> + With the death of Stella, Swift's real happiness ended, and he became more + and more possessed by the melancholy which too often accompanies the + broadest humour, and which, in his case, was constitutional. It was, no + doubt, to relieve it, that he resorted to the composition of the doggerel + verses, epigrams, riddles, and trifles exchanged betwixt himself and + Sheridan, which induced Orrery's remark that "Swift composing Riddles is + Titian painting draught-boards;" on which Delany observes that "a Riddle + may be as fine painting as any other in the world. It requires as strong + an imagination, as fine colouring, and as exact a proportion and keeping + as any other historical painting"; and he instances "Pethox the Great," + and should also have alluded to the more learned example—"Louisa to + Strephon." + </p> + <p> + On Orrery's seventh Letter, Delany says that if some of the "coin is + base," it is the fine impression and polish which adds value to it, and + cites the saying of another nobleman, that "there is indeed some stuff in + it, but it is Swift's stuff." It has been said that Swift has never taken + a thought from any writer ancient or modern. This is not literally true, + but the instances are not many, and in my notes I have pointed out the + lines snatched from Milton, Denham, Butler—the last evidently a + great favourite. + </p> + <p> + It seems necessary to state shortly the causes of Swift not having + obtained higher preferment. Besides that Queen Anne would never be + reconciled to the author of the "Tale of a Tub"—the true purport of + which was so ill-understood by her—he made an irreconcilable enemy + of her friend, the Duchess of Somerset, by his lampoon entitled "The + Windsor Prophecy." But Swift seldom allowed prudence to restrain his wit + and humour, and admits of himself that he "had too much satire in his + vein"; and that "a genius in the reverend gown must ever keep its owner + down"; and says further: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; + He reconciled divinity and wit. +</pre> + <p> + But that was what his enemies could not do. + </p> + <p> + Whatever the excellences and defects of the poems, Swift has erected, not + only by his works, but by his benevolence and his charities, a <i>monumentum + aere perennius,</i> and his writings in prose and verse will continue to + afford instruction and delight when the malevolence of Jeffrey, the + misrepresentations of Macaulay, and the sneers and false statements of + Thackeray shall have been forgotten. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] + </h2> + <h3> + LATE LORD BISHOP OF CANTERBURY + </h3> + <p> + WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven, + Bright effluence of th'immortal ray, + Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven, + Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day; + First of God's darling attributes, + Thou daily seest him face to face, + Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance + Of time or place, + Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance; + How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes? + How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd, + Or a weak argument by force maintain'd? + In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words, + (For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,) + Contrived to tire all patience out, + And not to satisfy the doubt? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + But where is even thy Image on our earth? + For of the person much I fear, + Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth, + And God himself has said, He shall not find it here. + For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade, + By dark reverted rays from its reflection made; + Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass, + Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass; + Which all the mimic forms express, + Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress; + So when Cartesian artists try + To solve appearances of sight + In its reception to the eye, + And catch the living landscape through a scanty light, + The figures all inverted show, + And colours of a faded hue; + Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads, + And men seem walking on their heads; + There whole herds suspended lie, + Ready to tumble down into the sky; + Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go + To judge of things above by things below. + Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams, + Or images that sink in streams; + No wonder, then, we talk amiss + Of truth, and what, or where it is; + Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st, + Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be + (High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee, + If a mind fix'd to combat fate + With those two powerful swords, submission and humility, + Sounds truly good, or truly great; + Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest, + In the divinity of retreat, + Be not the brightest pattern earth can show + Of heaven-born Truth below; + But foolish man still judges what is best + In his own balance, false and light, + Following opinion, dark and blind, + That vagrant leader of the mind, + Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + And some, to be large ciphers in a state, + Pleased with an empty swelling to be counted great, + Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space, + Rapt through the wide expanse of thought, + And oft in contradiction's vortex caught, + To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place; + Errors like this did old astronomers misguide, + Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride, + Who, like hard masters, taught the sun + Through many a heedless sphere to run, + Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make, + And thousand incoherent journeys take, + Whilst all th'advantage by it got, + Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. + The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state + Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, + Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still; + But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate, + By gazing upward giddy grow, + And think the church itself does so; + Thus fools, for being strong and num'rous known, + Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own; + And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears, + Because 'tis opposite to theirs. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise, + Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies + In gath'ring follies from the wise; + Rather put on thy anger and thy spite, + And some kind power for once dispense + Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense, + To make them understand, and feel me when I write; + The muse and I no more revenge desire, + Each line shall stab, shall blast, like daggers and like fire; + Ah, Britain, land of angels! which of all thy sins, + (Say, hapless isle, although + It is a bloody list we know,) + Has given thee up a dwelling-place to fiends? + Sin and the plague ever abound + In governments too easy, and too fruitful ground; + Evils which a too gentle king, + Too flourishing a spring, + And too warm summers bring: + Our British soil is over rank, and breeds + Among the noblest flowers a thousand pois'nous weeds, + And every stinking weed so lofty grows, + As if 'twould overshade the Royal Rose; + The Royal Rose, the glory of our morn, + But, ah! too much without a thorn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + Forgive (original mildness) this ill-govern'd zeal, + 'Tis all the angry slighted Muse can do + In the pollution of these days; + No province now is left her but to rail, + And poetry has lost the art to praise, + Alas, the occasions are so few: + None e'er but you, + And your Almighty Master, knew + With heavenly peace of mind to bear + (Free from our tyrant passions, anger, scorn, or fear) + The giddy turns of popular rage, + And all the contradictions of a poison'd age; + The Son of God pronounced by the same breath + Which straight pronounced his death; + And though I should but ill be understood, + In wholly equalling our sin and theirs, + And measuring by the scanty thread of wit + What we call holy, and great, and just, and good, + (Methods in talk whereof our pride and ignorance make use,) + And which our wild ambition foolishly compares + With endless and with infinite; + Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say, + Among thy stubborn sons there haunts that spirit of the Jews, + That those forsaken wretches who to-day + Revile his great ambassador, + Seem to discover what they would have done + (Were his humanity on earth once more) + To his undoubted Master, Heaven's Almighty Son. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wondrous proud, + Though very turbulent and very loud; + The crazy composition shows, + Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes, + Made up of iron mixt with clay, + This crumbles into dust, + That moulders into rust, + Or melts by the first shower away. + Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know, + Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so; + And those, alas, do show, + Like all transcendent excellence below; + In both, false mediums cheat our sight, + And far exalted objects lessen by their height: + Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high + To be observed by vulgar eye, + And rolls the silent year + On his own secret regular sphere, + And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + Kind star, still may'st thou shed thy sacred influence here, + Or from thy private peaceful orb appear; + For, sure, we want some guide from Heaven, to show + The way which every wand'ring fool below + Pretends so perfectly to know; + And which, for aught I see, and much I fear, + The world has wholly miss'd; + I mean the way which leads to Christ: + Mistaken idiots! see how giddily they run, + Led blindly on by avarice and pride, + What mighty numbers follow them; + Each fond of erring with his guide: + Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son + In Caesar's court, or in Jerusalem: + Others, ignorantly wise, + Among proud doctors and disputing Pharisees: + What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn; + Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said + That Heaven's high Son was in a village born; + That the world's Saviour had been + In a vile manger laid, + And foster'd in a wretched inn? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, + Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state; + Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste, + To mend dilapidations in the last? + And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince, + Thinks Heaven has cancell'd all our sins, + And that his subjects share his happy influence; + Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should, + But wicked kings draw more examples than the good: + And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight + Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress'd, + Finding the mitre almost grown + A load as heavy as the crown, + Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state, + Nor hurricano from the crown, + Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late, + Which, in its dusky march along the plain, + Swept up whole churches as it list, + Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist; + Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, + And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. + Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne; + The mitre, which his sacred head has worn, + Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn. + Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last, + The bitter cup is from him past: + Fortune in both extremes + Though blasts from contrariety of winds, + Yet to firm heavenly minds, + Is but one thing under two different names; + And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seen, + Confesses ignorance to judge between; + And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, + To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, + Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat; + Short glimm'rings of the prelate glorified; + Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide. + Why should the Sun, alas! be proud + To lodge behind a golden cloud? + Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay, + 'Tis but a low-born vapour kindled by a ray: + At length 'tis overblown and past, + Puff'd by the people's spiteful blast, + The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, + No deflower'd eye can face the naked light: + Yet does this high perfection well proceed + From strength of its own native seed, + This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, + Bears one, and but one branch of gold, + Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove, + And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve, + To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; + For, whate'er theologic levellers dream, + There are degrees above, I know, + As well as here below, + (The goddess Muse herself has told me so), + Where high patrician souls, dress'd heavenly gay, + Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day. + There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given, + In the metropolis of Heaven; + Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, + Translated to archangel there. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + Since, happy saint, since it has been of late + Either our blindness or our fate, + To lose the providence of thy cares + Pity a miserable church's tears, + That begs the powerful blessing of thy prayers. + Some angel, say, what were the nation's crimes, + That sent these wild reformers to our times: + Say what their senseless malice meant, + To tear religion's lovely face: + Strip her of every ornament and grace; + In striving to wash off th'imaginary paint? + Religion now does on her death-bed lie, + Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy; + How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill, + And by their college arts methodically kill: + Reformers and physicians differ but in name, + One end in both, and the design the same; + Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean + Is but the patient's death, and gain— + Check in thy satire, angry Muse, + Or a more worthy subject choose: + Let not the outcasts of an outcast age + Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage, + Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, + Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd— + + [The rest of the poem is lost.] + + [Footnote 1: Born Jan., 1616-17; died 1693. For his life, see "Dictionary + of National Biography."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies! + Till its first emperor, rebellious man, + Deposed from off his seat, + It fell, and broke with its own weight + Into small states and principalities, + By many a petty lord possess'd, + But ne'er since seated in one single breast. + 'Tis you who must this land subdue, + The mighty conquest's left for you, + The conquest and discovery too: + Search out this Utopian ground, + Virtue's Terra Incognita, + Where none ever led the way, + Nor ever since but in descriptions found; + Like the philosopher's stone, + With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + We have too long been led astray; + Too long have our misguided souls been taught + With rules from musty morals brought, + 'Tis you must put us in the way; + Let us (for shame!) no more be fed + With antique relics of the dead, + The gleanings of philosophy; + Philosophy, the lumber of the schools, + The roguery of alchymy; + And we, the bubbled fools, + Spend all our present life, in hopes of golden rules. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? + We oddly Plato's paradox make good, + Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all; + Remembrance is our treasure and our food; + Nature's fair table-book, our tender souls, + We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, + Stale memorandums of the schools: + For learning's mighty treasures look + Into that deep grave, a book; + Think that she there does all her treasures hide, + And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since she died; + Confine her walks to colleges and schools; + Her priests, her train, and followers, show + As if they all were spectres too! + They purchase knowledge at th'expense + Of common breeding, common sense, + And grow at once scholars and fools; + Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, + Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility, + And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, + Which greedily they swallow down, + Still cast it up, and nauseate company. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! + (If it may lawful be + To curse our greatest enemy,) + Who learn'd himself that heresy first, + (Which since has seized on all the rest,) + That knowledge forfeits all humanity; + Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor, + And fling our scraps before our door! + Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest; + Those mighty epithets, learned, good, and great, + Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, + We find in you at last united grown. + You cannot be compared to one: + I must, like him that painted Venus' face, + Borrow from every one a grace; + Virgil and Epicurus will not do, + Their courting a retreat like you, + Unless I put in Caesar's learning too: + Your happy frame at once controls + This great triumvirate of souls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate; + He sav'd his country by delays, + But you by peace.[1] + You bought it at a cheaper rate; + Nor has it left the usual bloody scar, + To show it cost its price in war; + War, that mad game the world so loves to play, + And for it does so dearly pay; + For, though with loss, or victory, a while + Fortune the gamesters does beguile, + Yet at the last the box sweeps all away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + Only the laurel got by peace + No thunder e'er can blast: + Th'artillery of the skies + Shoots to the earth and dies: + And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, + Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. + About the head crown'd with these bays, + Like lambent fire, the lightning plays; + Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, + Makes up its solemn train with death; + It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks, + Which we call deep designs and politics, + (As in a theatre the ignorant fry, + Because the cords escape their eye, + Wonder to see the motions fly,) + Methinks, when you expose the scene, + Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; + Off fly the vizards, and discover all: + How plain I see through the deceit! + How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! + Look where the pulley's tied above! + Great God! (said I) what have I seen! + On what poor engines move + The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states! + What petty motives rule their fates! + How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake! + The mighty mountain labours with its birth, + Away the frighten'd peasants fly, + Scared at the unheard-of prodigy, + Expect some great gigantic son of earth; + Lo! it appears! + See how they tremble! how they quake! + Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + Then tell, dear favourite Muse! + What serpent's that which still resorts, + Still lurks in palaces and courts? + Take thy unwonted flight, + And on the terrace light. + See where she lies! + See how she rears her head, + And rolls about her dreadful eyes, + To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! + 'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence, + And though as some ('tis said) for their defence + Have worn a casement o'er their skin, + So wore he his within, + Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; + And though he oft renew'd the fight, + And almost got priority of sight, + He ne'er could overcome her quite, + In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite; + Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease, + Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat, + And in some untouch'd virgin strain, + Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; + Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields; + Go, publish o'er the plain + How mighty a proselyte you gain! + How noble a reprisal on the great! + How is the Muse luxuriant grown! + Whene'er she takes this flight, + She soars clear out of sight. + These are the paradises of her own: + Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse, + Though ne'er so gently led, + To the loved pastures where he used to feed, + Runs violent o'er his usual course. + Wake from thy wanton dreams, + Come from thy dear-loved streams, + The crooked paths of wandering Thames. + Fain the fair nymph would stay, + Oft she looks back in vain, + Oft 'gainst her fountain does complain, + And softly steals in many windings down, + As loth to see the hated court and town; + And murmurs as she glides away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + In this new happy scene + Are nobler subjects for your learned pen; + Here we expect from you + More than your predecessor Adam knew; + Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport, + Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court; + How that which we a kernel see, + (Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, + Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,) + Shall ere long grow into a tree; + Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, + Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth, + Where all the fruitful atoms lie; + How some go downward to the root, + Some more ambitious upwards fly, + And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. + You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain, + Your garden's better worth your nobler pain, + Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + Shall I believe a spirit so divine + Was cast in the same mould with mine? + Why then does Nature so unjustly share + Among her elder sons the whole estate, + And all her jewels and her plate? + Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, + Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: + Some she binds 'prentice to the spade, + Some to the drudgery of a trade: + Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, + Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw: + Some she condemns for life to try + To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy: + Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied: + In vain I strive to cross the spacious main, + In vain I tug and pull the oar; + And when I almost reach the shore, + Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again: + And yet, to feed my pride, + Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath, + With promise of a mad reversion after death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, + The tribute of an humble Muse, + 'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; + Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, + And kindled first with indolence and ease; + And since too oft debauch'd by praise, + 'Tis now grown an incurable disease: + In vain to quench this foolish fire I try + In wisdom and philosophy: + In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, + Where nought but weeds will grow + Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) + By an equivocal birth, + Seeds, and runs up to poetry. + + [Footnote 1: Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Holland, + and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty + of Nimeguen, 1679.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO KING WILLIAM + </h2> + <h3> + ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown, + Are arts peculiar to dissembling France; + You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown, + And solid virtue does your name advance. + + Your matchless courage with your prudence joins, + The glorious structure of your fame to raise; + With its own light your dazzling glory shines, + And into adoration turns our praise. + + Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown, + (Cowards are monarchs by that title made,) + Part of your merit Chance would call her own, + And half your virtues had been lost in shade. + + But now your worth its just reward shall have: + What trophies and what triumphs are your due! + Who could so well a dying nation save, + At once deserve a crown, and gain it too. + + You saw how near we were to ruin brought, + You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on; + And timely on the coming danger thought, + Which we could neither obviate nor shun. + + Britannia stripp'd of her sole guard, the laws, + Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice; + You straight stepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws + Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize. + + Nor this is all; as glorious is the care + To preserve conquests, as at first to gain: + In this your virtue claims a double share, + Which, what it bravely won, does well maintain. + + Your arm has now your rightful title show'd, + An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, + To which they look as to some guardian God, + That must their doubtful liberty defend. + + Amazed, thy action at the Boyne we see! + When Schomberg started at the vast design: + The boundless glory all redounds to thee, + The impulse, the fight, th'event, were wholly thine. + + The brave attempt does all our foes disarm; + You need but now give orders and command, + Your name shall the remaining work perform, + And spare the labour of your conquering hand. + + France does in vain her feeble arts apply, + To interrupt the fortune of your course: + Your influence does the vain attacks defy + Of secret malice, or of open force. + + Boldly we hence the brave commencement date + Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ; + William's the pledge and earnest given by fate, + Of England's glory, and her lasting joy. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Moor Park, Feb.</i> 14, 1691. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + As when the deluge first began to fall, + That mighty ebb never to flow again, + When this huge body's moisture was so great, + It quite o'ercame the vital heat; + That mountain which was highest, first of all + Appear'd above the universal main, + To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight; + And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height + It be as great as 'tis in fame, + And nigh to Heaven as is its name; + So, after the inundation of a war, + When learning's little household did embark, + With her world's fruitful system, in her sacred ark, + At the first ebb of noise and fears, + Philosophy's exalted head appears; + And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay, + But plumes her silver wings, and flies away; + And now a laurel wreath she brings from far, + To crown the happy conqueror, + To show the flood begins to cease, + And brings the dear reward of victory and peace. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline, + When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew, + When the bright sun of peace began to shine, + And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat, + On the high top of peaceful Ararat; + And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew, + The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,) + And thence, with joyful, nimble wing, + Flew dutifully back again, + And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2] + And the Dove-Muse is fled once more, + (Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war,) + And now discovers from afar + A peaceful and a flourishing shore: + No sooner did she land + On the delightful strand, + Than straight she sees the country all around, + Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile, + Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd, + And many a pleasant wood; + As if the universal Nile + Had rather water'd it than drown'd: + It seems some floating piece of Paradise, + Preserved by wonder from the flood, + Long wandering through the deep, as we are told + Famed Delos[3] did of old; + And the transported Muse imagined it + To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit, + Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove; + When, with amazing joy, she hears + An unknown music all around, + Charming her greedy ears + With many a heavenly song + Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love; + While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue. + In vain she catches at the empty sound, + In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, + And courts the wanton echoes as they fly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, + The wild excursions of a youthful pen; + Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse, + Whom blind and eager curiosity + (Yet curiosity, they say, + Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse) + Has forced to grope her uncouth way, + After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye: + No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense + For a dear ramble through impertinence; + Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind. + And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, + Though we be of two different factions still, + Both the good-natured and the ill, + Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find + We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit. + In me, who am of the first sect of these, + All merit, that transcends the humble rules + Of my own dazzled scanty sense, + Begets a kinder folly and impertinence + Of admiration and of praise. + And our good brethren of the surly sect, + Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: + For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made + Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; + Yet the same want of brains produces each effect. + And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud + From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd, + Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud, + Who both our follies and impertinences see, + Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + But censure's to be understood + Th'authentic mark of the elect, + The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good, + Our shallow search and judgment to direct. + The war, methinks, has made + Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; + Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy + A stock of wisdom and philosophy, + We fondly stay at home, in fear + Of every censuring privateer; + Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale, + And selling basely by retail. + The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, + Who fain would rule the pulpit, as they do the stage, + Wondrous refiners of philosophy, + Of morals and divinity, + By the new modish system of reducing all to sense, + Against all logic, and concluding laws, + Do own th'effects of Providence, + And yet deny the cause. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + This hopeful sect, now it begins to see + How little, very little, do prevail + Their first and chiefest force + To censure, to cry down, and rail, + Not knowing what, or where, or who you be, + Will quickly take another course: + And, by their never-failing ways + Of solving all appearances they please, + We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall, + And straight deny you to be men, or anything at all. + I laugh at the grave answer they will make, + Which they have always ready, general, and cheap: + 'Tis but to say, that what we daily meet, + And by a fond mistake + Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit, + And think, alas! to be by mortals writ, + Is but a crowd of atoms justling in a heap: + Which, from eternal seeds begun, + Justling some thousand years, till ripen'd by the sun: + They're now, just now, as naturally born, + As from the womb of earth a field of corn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + But as for poor contented me, + Who must my weakness and my ignorance confess, + That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to see; + Methinks I'm satisfied to guess, + That this new, noble, and delightful scene, + Is wonderfully moved by some exalted men, + Who have well studied in the world's disease, + (That epidemic error and depravity, + Or in our judgment or our eye,) + That what surprises us can only please. + We often search contentedly the whole world round, + To make some great discovery, + And scorn it when 'tis found. + Just so the mighty Nile has suffer'd in its fame, + Because 'tis said (and perhaps only said) + We've found a little inconsiderable head, + That feeds the huge unequal stream. + Consider human folly, and you'll quickly own, + That all the praises it can give, + By which some fondly boast they shall for ever live, + Won't pay th'impertinence of being known: + Else why should the famed Lydian king,[4] + (Whom all the charms of an usurped wife and state, + With all that power unfelt, courts mankind to be great, + Did with new unexperienced glories wait,) + Still wear, still dote on his invisible ring? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + Were I to form a regular thought of Fame, + Which is, perhaps, as hard t'imagine right, + As to paint Echo to the sight, + I would not draw the idea from an empty name; + Because, alas! when we all die, + Careless and ignorant posterity, + Although they praise the learning and the wit, + And though the title seems to show + The name and man by whom the book was writ, + Yet how shall they be brought to know, + Whether that very name was he, or you, or I? + Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise, + And water-colours of these days: + These days! where e'en th'extravagance of poetry + Is at a loss for figures to express + Men's folly, whimseys, and inconstancy, + And by a faint description makes them less. + Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it? + Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit, + Enthroned with heavenly Wit! + Look where you see + The greatest scorn of learned vanity! + (And then how much a nothing is mankind! + Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air, + Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; + And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, + Which yet whoe'er examines right will find + To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) + And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there, + Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: + And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + The juggling sea-god,[5] when by chance trepann'd + By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, + Impatient of all answers, straight became + A stealing brook, and strove to creep away + Into his native sea, + Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; + But disappointed of his fond desire, + Would vanish in a pyramid of fire. + This surly, slippery God, when he design'd + To furnish his escapes, + Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes + Than you, to please and satisfy mankind, + And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, + So well you answer all phenomena there: + Though madmen and the wits, philosophers and fools, + With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream, + And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; + Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame, + Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; + Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night, + The God of learning and of light + Would want a God himself to help him out. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Philosophy, as it before us lies, + Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste + Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, + From every age through which it pass'd, + But always with a stronger relish of the last. + This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd + To be the great original + For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, + In what mock habits have they put her since the fall! + More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages', + She seems a medley of all ages, + With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, + A new commode, a topknot, and a ruff, + Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry, + With a long sweeping train + Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, + All of old cut with a new dye: + How soon have you restored her charms, + And rid her of her lumber and her books, + Drest her again genteel and neat, + And rather tight than great! + How fond we are to court her to our arms! + How much of heaven is in her naked looks! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, + And ev'n my very thoughts transfers + And changes all to beauty and the praise + Of that proud tyrant sex of hers. + The rebel Muse, alas! takes part, + But with my own rebellious heart, + And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire + To fan th'unhappy fire. + Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? + Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! + Rather forgive what my first transport said: + May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, + Lie upon you and on your children's head! + For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see + The fatal time when that could be!) + Have even increased their pride and cruelty. + Woman seems now above all vanity grown, + Still boasting of her great unknown + Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, + Or the vast charges of a smile; + Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late + You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, + And which they've now the consciences to weigh + In the same balance with our tears, + And with such scanty wages pay + The bondage and the slavery of years. + Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; + And had they common generosity, + They would not use us thus. + Well—though you've raised her to this high degree, + Ourselves are raised as well as she; + And, spite of all that they or you can do, + 'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, + Still to be of the same exalted sex with you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + Alas, how fleeting and how vain + Is even the nobler man, our learning and our wit! + I sigh whene'er I think of it: + As at the closing an unhappy scene + Of some great king and conqueror's death, + When the sad melancholy Muse + Stays but to catch his utmost breath. + I grieve, this nobler work, most happily begun, + So quickly and so wonderfully carried on, + May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse. + There is a noontide in our lives, + Which still the sooner it arrives, + Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, + And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, + Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. + No conquest ever yet begun, + And by one mighty hero carried to its height, + E'er flourished under a successor or a son; + It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pass'd, + And vanish'd to an empty title in the last. + For, when the animating mind is fled, + (Which nature never can retain, + Nor e'er call back again,) + The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare + With what unhappy men shall dare + To be successors to these great unknown, + On learning's high-establish'd throne. + Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, + Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, + Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth + From Ignorance's universal North, + And with blind rage break all this peaceful government: + Yet shall the traces of your wit remain, + Like a just map, to tell the vast extent + Of conquest in your short and happy reign: + And to all future mankind shew + How strange a paradox is true, + That men who lived and died without a name + Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses, + said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this + denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to + Dryden."—Johnson in his "Life of Swift."—<i>W. E. B.</i> + + In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton, + the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and + Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was + prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became + fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana. + See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which + made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and + mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii, + 9.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR. CONGREVE + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, + The Muse was called in a poetic hour, + And insolently thrice the slighted maid + Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; + Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, + Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine. + Once highly honoured! false is the pretence + You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! + Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down + The most ungenerous vices of the town; + Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before + I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, + Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, + So much in mode, so very city-born; + 'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, + Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; + But find some new address, some fresh deceit, + Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; + These are the beaten methods of the stews, + Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, + Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, + By prostituting her they first debauch. + Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame + This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; + First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, + Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; + Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, + The greatest compliment she ever made, + And wisely judge, no power beneath divine + Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; + For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd + A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt. + Nor tax the goddess of a mean design + To praise your parts by publishing of mine; + That be my thought when some large bulky writ + Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; + There to surmount what bears me up, and sing + Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing. + This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, + Were my desires but heighten'd to my power. + Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, + Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; + Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride + That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; + A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, + Gets between them and my resentment's weight, + Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, + T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen. + Thus I look down with mercy on the age, + By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: + For never did poetic mind before + Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; + The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind + Serves by retail to furnish half mankind. + With indignation I behold your wit + Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, + By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain + From broken scraps and filings of your brain. + Through native dross your share is hardly known, + And by short views mistook for all their own; + So small the gains those from your wit do reap, + Who blend it into folly's larger heap, + Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass, + When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass. + Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, + Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal. + These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain + With those they rob, by what their trade does gain. + Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds + O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds, + Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam, + As ancient nature's modern masters dream; + This bids some curious praters here below + Call Titan sick, because their sight is so; + And well, methinks, does this allusion fit + To scribblers, and the god of light and wit; + Those who by wild delusions entertain + A lust of rhyming for a poet's vein, + Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night, + But can no more obscure my Congreve's light, + Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray + Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day. + What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit? + Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit? + How would you blush the shameful birth to hear + Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear; + For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since, + Round all the circles of impertinence, + Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie + Before it grew a city butterfly; + I'm sure I found them other kind of things + Than those with backs of silk and golden wings; + A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise + As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies: + For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread, + And court in prologues, all are country bred; + Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins + Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns; + Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux + Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows: + These are the lords of the poetic schools, + Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules; + Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds + O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods; + Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes, + Which worshipp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes; + And can you think the wise forbear to laugh + At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf? + Haply you judge these lines severely writ + Against the proud usurpers of the pit; + Stay while I tell my story, short, and true; + To draw conclusions shall be left to you; + Nor need I ramble far to force a rule, + But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school. + Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent + With other cattle to the city went; + Where having cast his coat, and well pursued + The methods most in fashion to be lewd, + Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down, + Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town; + A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit, + Confounded in that Babel of the pit; + Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild, + Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child; + Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts, + Before the play, or else between the acts; + Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds + Should spring such short and transitory kinds, + Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote, + Last just as long as every cuckoo's note: + What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate! + 'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate, + My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed + Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: + When man's ill genius to my presence sent + This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant; + Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace, + Squander'd his noisy talents to my face; + Named every player on his fingers' ends, + Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends; + Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease + Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2] + Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd, + Who heard you meant to write heroics next; + For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite, + And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night. + Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, + Rendering shades things, and substances of names; + Such high companions may delusion keep, + Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep. + As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, + Render'd the topping beauty of the town, + Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, + To boast of favours that he never got; + Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, + Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; + And not the meanest coxcomb you can find, + But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; + Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown + To every lewd pretender of the town. + Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, + You find, to be the fashionable wit; + These are the slaves whom reputation chains, + Whose maintenance requires no help from brains. + For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, + Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; + Whose name must not within my lines be shown, + Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4] + Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, + And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; + I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass, + Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass; + Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, + Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. + Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent + In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; + In how ill season her resentments rule, + What's that to her if mankind be a fool? + Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, + In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5] + Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, + She still is welcome with her innocent song; + Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, + What poor regards would merit all below! + How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, + And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet! + Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave + Gives murmuring passage to a lasting wave: + 'Tis the world's watery hour-glass streaming fast, + Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; + Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, + And the young Muse's early favour felt; + Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, + Confessing Albion once her darling seat; + Far in this primitive cell might we pursue + Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; + Here would we sing—But, ah! you think I dream, + And the bad world may well believe the same; + Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, + While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I. + Since thus I wander from my first intent, + Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, + Take this short lesson from the god of bays, + And let my friend apply it as he please: + Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, + But give the vigorous fancy room. + For when, like stupid alchymists, you try + To fix this nimble god, + This volatile mercury, + The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; + Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find + More than <i>fade</i> insipid mixture left behind.[6] + While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, + And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom; + The Muse like some bright country virgin shows + Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; + They, in their lewd and fashionable prate, + Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; + Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, + Current like copper, and as often paid: + She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep + Near better animals, her father's sheep, + Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, + To think what cattle she is got among; + But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, + In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid. + 'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, + The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; + Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, + Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies. + In this descending sheet you'll haply find + Some short refreshment for your weary mind, + Nought it contains is common or unclean, + And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an + estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor + Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and <i>post</i>, p. 43.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where + the wits of that time used to assemble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and + notes, edit. 1786.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite + multitude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name + mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together + with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.—<i>S.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently + gives the name of Apollo.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it + is lost.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of + "Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike + At distant hours the mind with forms so like! + Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain + Meets, and salutes her sister link again; + Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, + Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; + Or whether dead Imagination's ghost + Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; + Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, + Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; + Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride + O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: + Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, + Where her own Temple was her darling theme; + There first the visionary sound was heard, + When to poetic view the Muse appear'd. + Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray + Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; + Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, + Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; + Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show + Approaching joy at strife with parting woe. + As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, + Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, + Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, + Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; + When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, + A sign God's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: + Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine + Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine. + What mortal change does in thy face appear, + Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here! + With how undecent clouds are overcast + Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past! + Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, + Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: + As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, + Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, + And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear + Late I beheld on every face appear; + Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, + Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; + Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long + Not dared to injure with our lowly song; + Sprung from a better world, and chosen then + The best companion for the best of men: + As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, + Lives pious witness of a better age; + So men may see what once was womankind, + In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind. + You that would grief describe, come here and trace + Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: + Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart + Farther than its own palace in her heart: + Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, + At least confine the tyrant to his cell. + And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen + Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? + Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, + And grief flung sables on each menial look; + The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, + That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; + So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, + Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; + So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread + That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.— + Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ + The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; + And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, + Who dare revile the integrity of verse: + Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!— + But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; + Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect + Thy just submission for this bold neglect. + Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use + At the divine appearance of the Muse, + Which to divulge might shake profane belief, + And tell the irreligion of my grief; + Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, + And shaped my passion in such words as these! + Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, + Thou universal cause of all my woes; + Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late + A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; + The malice thou inspirest I never fail + On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; + Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, + Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: + Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, + Deals out to man the planet of his birth: + But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine, + And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: + Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, + That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, + But a wild form dependent on the brain, + Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; + Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, + Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; + Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, + Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: + In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, + A walking vapour, like thy sister fame. + But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, + A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; + Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, + So highly courted by the brisk and gay? + Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look + On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; + Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, + Assign'd for life to unremitting grief; + For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, + If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. + Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, + And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, + That we the wretched, creeping far behind, + Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; + Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born + With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3] + Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, + Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; + But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace + Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face. + Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows + Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: + See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, + These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; + Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, + Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; + March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, + Still scattering desolation where they go. + To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, + Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; + To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, + That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; + From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, + Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; + Such were thy rules to be poetically great: + "Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; + Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; + Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; + Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, + Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4] + And since unhappy distance thus denies + T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; + Since thy few ill-presented graces seem + To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem—" + Madness like this no fancy ever seized, + Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; + Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds + Is all the poor content delusion finds.— + There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour + I here renounce thy visionary power; + And since thy essence on my breath depends + Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter + Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to + Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at + Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died + in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and + amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his + wife.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "—when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main." + POPE, <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, 372-3.] + + [Footnote 4: "Hic murus aheneus esto, + Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa." + HOR., <i>Epist. 1</i>, I, 60.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, + And think thou seest my owner's heart, + Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite + As hard, as senseless, and as light; + Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes, + But hid with caution from the wise. + Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;" + Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:" + Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;" + There, in her own, "For an el breth:" + Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" + There, "A safe way to use perfume:" + Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; + On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"— + "Madam, I die without your grace"— + "Item, for half a yard of lace." + Who that had wit would place it here, + For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer? + To think that your brains' issue is + Exposed to th'excrement of his, + In pow'r of spittle and a clout, + Whene'er he please, to blot it out; + And then, to heighten the disgrace, + Clap his own nonsense in the place. + Whoe'er expects to hold his part + In such a book, and such a heart, + If he be wealthy, and a fool, + Is in all points the fittest tool; + Of whom it may be justly said, + He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This, the most humorous example of <i>vers de société</i> in the English + language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of + distinction at that period.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1] + The humble petition of Frances Harris, + Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; + Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber, + because I was cold; + And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, + (besides farthings) in money and gold; + So because I had been buying things for my lady last night, + I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right. + Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, + Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock, + I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock. + So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was + unript, + And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; + Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; + And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead. + So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light; + But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have + sunk outright. + "Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"—"Indeed," says I, "never worse: + But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?" + "Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!" + "Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case." + So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: + However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. + So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, + But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. + So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round, + And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was + found. + So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing: + Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing. + "Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have + had?" + "Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad: + For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail." + "Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." + Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years + come spring, + And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." + "Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord + Shrewsbury's, + Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of <i>gooseberries</i>." + So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief: + (Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:) + However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: + "Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out: + 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10] + But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. + 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole + in my wages: + Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. + Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands, + That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands." + "The <i>devil</i> take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!" + So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught. + So, you know, what could I say to her any more? + I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. + Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: + "No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon." + So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, + Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. + So, as the <i>devil</i> would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, + "<i>Parson</i>" said I, "can you cast a <i>nativity</i>, when a body's plunder'd?" + (Now you must know, he hates to be called <i>Parson</i>, like the <i>devil!</i>) + "Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; + If your money be gone, as a learned <i>Divine</i> says,[12] d'ye see, + You are no <i>text</i> for my handling; so take that from me: + I was never taken for a <i>Conjurer</i> before, I'd have you to know." + "Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; + You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife; + I never took one in <i>your coat</i> for a conjurer in all my life." + With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, + "Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. + Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do? + I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" + Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry; + I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will + I." + Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to? + For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. + The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' + protection, + And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; + And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, + With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: + And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, + Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his <i>trade</i>,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever + <i>pray</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.] + + [Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.] + + [Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.] + + [Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.] + + [Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.] + + [Footnote 6: Galway.] + + [Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed + the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.] + + [Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.] + + [Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st + Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p. + 79—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 11: Swift.] + + [Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.] + + [Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a <i>trade</i>. See his + letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver, + "Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, + Delivers cards about, + But the first knave does seldom fail + To find the doctor out. + + But then his honour cried, Gadzooks! + And seem'd to knit his brow: + For on a knave he never looks + But he thinks upon Jack How.[2] + + My lady, though she is no player, + Some bungling partner takes, + And, wedged in corner of a chair, + Takes snuff, and holds the stakes. + + Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense + For pair royals and sequents; + But, wisely cautious of her pence, + The castle seldom frequents. + + Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases, + I'd won it, on my word, + If I had but a pair of aces, + And could pick up a third. + + But Weston has a new-cast gown + On Sundays to be fine in, + And, if she can but win a crown, + 'Twill just new dye the lining. + + "With these is Parson Swift,[5] + Not knowing how to spend his time, + Does make a wretched shift, + To deafen them with puns and rhyme." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.] + + [Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.] + + [Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her, + <i>post</i>, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially + with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works," + ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.] + + [Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John + Germaine.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Once on a time, as old stories rehearse, + A friar would need show his talent in Latin; + But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse, + Because he could find no word to come pat in; + Then all in the place + He left a void space, + And so went to bed in a desperate case: + When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! + He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle. + CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; + Who would not write verses with such an assistant? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + This put me the friar into an amazement; + For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; + That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; + And it needs must be one that could both read and write; + Yet he did not know, + If it were friend or foe, + Or whether it came from above or below; + Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf, + For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains + In making a ballad, but was at a stand; + He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, + When he found a new help from invisible hand. + Then, good Doctor Swift + Pay thanks for the gift, + For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; + And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, + You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the + author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which + gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit + hand, as if a third person had done it.—<i>Swift</i>. + + The <i>Cut-Purse</i> is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in + Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the + ballad is: + "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse + Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DISCOVERY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] + Statesmen and mob expected wonders, + Nor thought to find so great a peer + Ere a week past committing blunders. + Till on a day cut out by fate, + When folks came thick to make their court, + Out slipt a mystery of state + To give the town and country sport. + Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, + His lordship's premier minister; + And who in all profound affairs, + Is held as needful as his clyster.[2] + With head reclining on his shoulder, + He deals and hears mysterious chat, + While every ignorant beholder + Asks of his neighbour, who is that? + With this he put up to my lord, + The courtiers kept their distance due, + He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; + Then to a corner both withdrew. + Imagine now my lord and Bush + Whispering in junto most profound, + Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3] + While all the rest stood gaping round. + At length a spark, not too well bred, + Of forward face and ear acute, + Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, + To overhear the grand dispute; + To learn what Northern kings design, + Or from Whitehall some new express, + Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; + For sure (thought he) it can't be less. + My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, + Disguised in two old threadbare coats, + Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy + How markets went for hay and oats. + With that he draws two handfuls out, + The one was oats, the other hay; + Puts this to's excellency's snout, + And begs he would the other weigh. + My lord seems pleased, but still directs + By all means to bring down the rates; + Then, with a congee circumflex, + Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. + Our listener stood awhile confused, + But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, + Enraged to see the world abused, + By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: To Ireland, as one of the Lords Justices.] + + [Footnote 2: Who, by insinuating that the post of secretary was + unsuitable for a clergyman, obtained it for himself, though it had been + promised to Swift; and when Swift claimed the Deanery of Derry, in virtue + of Lord Berkeley's promise of the "first good preferment that should fall + in his gift," the earl referred him to Bush, who told him that it was + promised to another, but that if he would lay down a thousand pounds for + it he should have the preference. Swift, enraged at the insult, + immediately left the castle; but was ultimately pacified by being + presented with the Rectory of Agher and the Vicarages of Laracor and + Rathbeggan. See Forster's "Life of Swift," p. 111; Birkbeck Hill's + "Letters of Swift," and "Prose Works," vol. xi, 380.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Always taken before my lord went to council.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal"; the celebrated farce + written by the Duke of Buckingham, in conjunction with Martin Clifford, + Butler, Sprat, and others, in ridicule of the rhyming tragedies then in + vogue, and especially of Dryden in the character of Bayes.—See Malone's + "Life of Dryden," p. 95.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal," Act I, Sc. 1; Act II, + Sc. 1; always whispering each other.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROBLEM, + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS WHEN HE IS IN LOVE" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did ever problem thus perplex, + Or more employ the female sex? + So sweet a passion who would think, + Jove ever form'd to make a stink? + The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, + Whether it be a truth or lie. + Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, + Works in my lord by stool and sweat, + Which brings a stink from every pore, + And from behind and from before; + Yet what is wonderful to tell it, + None but the favourite nymph can smell it. + But now, to solve the natural cause + By sober philosophic laws; + Whether all passions, when in ferment, + Work out as anger does in vermin; + So, when a weasel you torment, + You find his passion by his scent. + We read of kings, who, in a fright, + Though on a throne, would fall to sh—. + Beside all this, deep scholars know, + That the main string of Cupid's bow, + Once on a time was an a— gut; + Now to a nobler office put, + By favour or desert preferr'd + From giving passage to a t—; + But still, though fix'd among the stars, + Does sympathize with human a—. + Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech, + Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch, + Till the kind looseness comes, and then, + Conclude the bow relax'd again. + And now, the ladies all are bent, + To try the great experiment, + Ambitious of a regent's heart, + Spread all their charms to catch a f— + Watching the first unsavoury wind, + Some ply before, and some behind. + My lord, on fire amid the dames, + F—ts like a laurel in the flames. + The fair approach the speaking part, + To try the back-way to his heart. + For, as when we a gun discharge, + Although the bore be none so large, + Before the flame from muzzle burst, + Just at the breech it flashes first; + So from my lord his passion broke, + He f—d first and then he spoke. + The ladies vanish in the smother, + To confer notes with one another; + And now they all agreed to name + Whom each one thought the happy dame. + Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, + I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink. + You smell the stink! by G—d, you lie, + Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. + Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear; + Let's not fall out; we all had share; + And, by the most I can discover, + My lord's a universal lover. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. x, 67; lib. xxix. + + As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are + Call'd <i>Pompey, Scipio</i>, and <i>Caesar;</i> + As pies and daws are often styl'd + With Christian nicknames, like a child; + As we say <i>Monsieur</i> to an ape, + Without offence to human shape; + So men have got, from bird and brute, + Names that would best their nature suit. + The <i>Lion, Eagle, Fox</i>, and <i>Boar</i>, + Were heroes' titles heretofore, + Bestow'd as hi'roglyphics fit + To show their valour, strength, or wit: + For what is understood by <i>fame</i>, + Besides the getting of a <i>name?</i> + But, e'er since men invented guns, + A diff'rent way their fancy runs: + To paint a hero, we inquire + For something that will conquer <i>fire.</i> + Would you describe <i>Turenne</i>[1] or <i>Trump?</i>[2] + Think of a <i>bucket</i> or a <i>pump.</i> + Are these too low?—then find out grander, + Call my LORD CUTTS a <i>Salamander.</i>[3] + 'Tis well;—but since we live among + Detractors with an evil tongue, + Who may object against the term, + Pliny shall prove what we affirm: + Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply, + And I'll be judg'd by standers by. + First, then, our author has defined + This reptile of the serpent kind, + With gaudy coat, and shining train; + But loathsome spots his body stain: + Out from some hole obscure he flies, + When rains descend, and tempests rise, + Till the sun clears the air; and then + Crawls back neglected to his den.[4] + So, when the war has raised a storm, + I've seen a snake in human form, + All stain'd with infamy and vice, + Leap from the dunghill in a trice, + Burnish and make a gaudy show, + Become a general, peer, and beau, + Till peace has made the sky serene, + Then shrink into its hole again. + "All this we grant—why then, look yonder, + Sure that must be a Salamander!" + Further, we are by Pliny told, + This serpent is extremely cold; + So cold, that, put it in the fire, + 'Twill make the very flames expire: + Besides, it spues a filthy froth + (Whether thro' rage or lust or both) + Of matter purulent and white, + Which, happening on the skin to light, + And there corrupting to a wound, + Spreads leprosy and baldness round.[5] + So have I seen a batter'd beau, + By age and claps grown cold as snow, + Whose breath or touch, where'er he came, + Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame: + And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel, + Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel, + Receive the filth which he ejects, + She soon would find the same effects + Her tainted carcass to pursue, + As from the Salamander's spue; + A dismal shedding of her locks, + And, if no leprosy, a pox. + "Then I'll appeal to each bystander, + If this be not a Salamander?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The famous Mareschal Turenne, general of the French forces, + called the greatest commander of the age.] + + [Footnote 2: Admiral of the States General in their war with England, + eminent for his courage and his victories.] + + [Footnote 3: Who obtained this name from his coolness under fire at the + siege of Namur. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. + 267.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: "Animal lacertae figura, stellatum, numquam nisi magnis + imbribus proveniens et serenitate desinens."—Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. + x, 67.] + + [Footnote 5: "Huic tantus rigor ut ignem tactu restinguat non alio modo + quam glacies. ejusdem sanie, quae lactea ore vomitur, quacumque parte + corporis humani contacta toti defluunt pili, idque quod contactum est + colorem in vitiliginem mutat."—Lib. x, 67. "Inter omnia venenata + salamandrae scelus maximum est. . . . nam si arbori inrepsit omnia poma + inficit veneno, et eos qui ederint necat frigida vi nihil aconito + distans."—Lib. xxix, 4, 23.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mordanto fills the trump of fame, + The Christian world his deeds proclaim, + And prints are crowded with his name. + + In journeys he outrides the post, + Sits up till midnight with his host, + Talks politics, and gives the toast. + + Knows every prince in Europe's face, + Flies like a squib from place to place, + And travels not, but runs a race. + + From Paris gazette à-la-main, + This day arriv'd, without his train, + Mordanto in a week from Spain. + + A messenger comes all a-reek + Mordanto at Madrid to seek; + He left the town above a week. + + Next day the post-boy winds his horn, + And rides through Dover in the morn: + Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. + + Mordanto gallops on alone, + The roads are with his followers strewn, + This breaks a girth, and that a bone; + + His body active as his mind, + Returning sound in limb and wind, + Except some leather lost behind. + + A skeleton in outward figure, + His meagre corps, though full of vigour, + Would halt behind him, were it bigger. + + So wonderful his expedition, + When you have not the least suspicion, + He's with you like an apparition. + + Shines in all climates like a star; + In senates bold, and fierce in war; + A land commander, and a tar: + + Heroic actions early bred in, + Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, + But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden.[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Who in the year 1705 took Barcelona, and in the winter + following with only 280 horse and 900 foot enterprized and accomplished + the conquest of Valentia.—<i>Pope</i>. + + "—he whose lightning pierc'd th'Iberian lines, + Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, + Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain + Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." + POPE, <i>Imitations of Horace</i>, ii, Sat. 1. + + Lord Peterborough seems to have been equally famous for his skill in + cookery. See note to above Satire, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and + Courthope, iii, 298.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: See Voltaire's "History of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden." + "He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale." + JOHNSON, <i>Vanity of Human Wishes</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE UNION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The queen has lately lost a part + Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart, + For want of which, by way of botch, + She pieced it up again with SCOTCH. + Blest revolution! which creates + Divided hearts, united states! + See how the double nation lies, + Like a rich coat with skirts of frize: + As if a man, in making posies, + Should bundle thistles up with roses. + Who ever yet a union saw + Of kingdoms without faith or law?[2] + Henceforward let no statesman dare + A kingdom to a ship compare; + Lest he should call our commonweal + A vessel with a double keel: + Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd, + And got about a league from land, + By change of wind to leeward side, + The pilot knew not how to guide. + So tossing faction will o'erwhelm + Our crazy double-bottom'd realm. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: <i>I.e.</i>, Differing in religion and law.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; + </h2> + <h3> + OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. 1707 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat + To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a + country scene, + Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: + From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy + Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. + The Graces from the court did next provide + Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: + These Venus cleans'd from ev'ry spurious grain + Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. + Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; + Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE REVERSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR, MRS. CLUDD + + Venus one day, as story goes, + But for what reason no man knows, + In sullen mood and grave deport, + Trudged it away to Jove's high court; + And there his Godship did entreat + To look out for his best receipt: + And make a monster strange and odd, + Abhorr'd by man and every god. + Jove, ever kind to all the fair, + Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, + Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took + A neatly bound and well-gilt book; + Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, + But what was very choice and rare. + Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,— + It might be more, for aught I knew; + But, be the matter more or less, + 'Mong friends 'twill break no squares, I guess. + Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, + Here's one will fit you to a T. + But, as the writing doth prescribe, + 'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. + Away he went, and search'd the stews, + And every street about the Mews; + Diseases, impudence, and lies, + Are found and brought him in a trice. + From Hackney then he did provide, + A clumsy air and awkward pride; + From lady's toilet next he brought + Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. + These Jove put in an old close-stool, + And with them mix'd the vain, the fool. + But now came on his greatest care, + Of what he should his paste prepare; + For common clay or finer mould + Was much too good, such stuff to hold. + At last he wisely thought on mud; + So raised it up, and call'd it—<i>Cludd.</i> + With this, the lady well content, + Low curtsey'd, and away she went. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO OUTWITTED + </h2> + <h3> + TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,[1] UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Phoebus, now short'ning every shade, + Up to the northern <i>tropic</i> came, + And thence beheld a lovely maid, + Attending on a royal dame. + + The god laid down his feeble rays, + Then lighted from his glitt'ring coach; + But fenc'd his head with his own bays, + Before he durst the nymph approach. + + Under those sacred leaves, secure + From common lightning of the skies, + He fondly thought he might endure + The flashes of Ardelia's eyes. + + The nymph, who oft had read in books + Of that bright god whom bards invoke, + Soon knew Apollo by his looks, + And guess'd his business ere he spoke. + + He, in the old celestial cant, + Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, + Whate'er she would desire, to grant— + But wise Ardelia knew his tricks. + + Ovid had warn'd her to beware + Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, + Under pretence of taking air, + To pick up sublunary ladies. + + Howe'er, she gave no flat denial, + As having malice in her heart; + And was resolv'd upon a trial, + To cheat the god in his own art. + + "Hear my request," the virgin said; + "Let which I please of all the Nine + Attend, whene'er I want their aid, + Obey my call, and only mine." + + By vow oblig'd, by passion led, + The god could not refuse her prayer: + He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, + Thrice mutter'd something to the air. + + And now he thought to seize his due; + But she the charm already try'd: + Thalia heard the call, and flew + To wait at bright Ardelia's side. + + On sight of this celestial <i>prude</i>, + Apollo thought it vain to stay; + Nor in her presence durst be rude, + But made his leg and went away. + + He hop'd to find some lucky hour, + When on their queen the Muses wait; + But Pallas owns Ardelia's power: + For vows divine are kept by Fate. + + Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke: + "Deceitful nymph! I see thy art; + And, though I can't my gift revoke, + I'll disappoint its nobler part. + + "Let stubborn pride possess thee long, + And be thou negligent of fame; + With ev'ry Muse to grace thy song, + May'st thou despise a poet's name! + + "Of modest poets be thou first; + To silent shades repeat thy verse, + Till Fame and Echo almost burst, + Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. + + "And last, my vengeance to compleat, + May you descend to take renown, + Prevail'd on by the thing you hate, + A Whig! and one that wears a gown!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Afterwards Countess of Winchelsea.—<i>Scott</i>. See + Journal to Stella Aug. 7, 1712. The Countess was one of Swift's intimate + friends and correspondents. See "Prose Works," xi, 121.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] + </h2> + <h3> + NOW FIRST PUBLISHED + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + In pity to the empty'ng Town, + Some God May Fair invented, + When Nature would invite us down, + To be by Art prevented. + + II + + What a corrupted taste is ours + When milk maids in mock state + Instead of garlands made of Flowers + Adorn their pails with plate. + + III + + So are the joys which Nature yields + Inverted in May Fair, + In painted cloth we look for fields, + And step in Booths for air. + + IV + + Here a Dog dancing on his hams + And puppets mov'd by wire, + Do far exceed your frisking lambs, + Or song of feather'd quire. + + V + Howe'er, such verse as yours I grant + Would be but too inviting: + Were fair Ardelia not my Aunt, + Or were it Worsley's writing.[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Some ladies, among whom were Mrs. Worsley and Mrs. Finch, to + the latter of whom Swift addressed, under the name of Ardelia, the + preceding poem, appear to have written verses to him from May Fair, + offering him such temptations as that fashionable locality supplied to + detain him from the country and its pleasures: and thus he + replies.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 1: There is some playful allusion in this last stanza, not now + decipherable.—<i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In times of old, when Time was young, + And poets their own verses sung, + A verse would draw a stone or beam, + That now would overload a team; + Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, + Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. + Each number had its diff'rent power; + Heroic strains could build a tower; + Sonnets and elegies to Chloris, + Might raise a house about two stories; + A lyric ode would slate; a catch + Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + Now Poets feel this art is lost, + Both to their own and landlord's cost. + Not one of all the tuneful throng + Can hire a lodging for a song. + For Jove consider'd well the case, + That poets were a numerous race; + And if they all had power to build, + The earth would very soon be fill'd: + Materials would be quickly spent, + And houses would not give a rent. + The God of Wealth was therefore made + Sole patron of the building trade; + Leaving to wits the spacious air, + With license to build castles there: + In right whereof their old pretence + To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + There is a worm by Phoebus bred, + By leaves of mulberry is fed, + Which unprovided where to dwell, + Conforms itself to weave a cell; + Then curious hands this texture take, + And for themselves fine garments make. + Meantime a pair of awkward things + Grow to his back instead of wings; + He flutters when he thinks he flies, + Then sheds about his spawn and dies. + Just such an insect of the age + Is he that scribbles for the stage; + His birth he does from Phoebus raise, + And feeds upon imagin'd bays; + Throws all his wit and hours away + In twisting up an ill spun Play: + This gives him lodging and provides + A stock of tawdry shift besides. + With the unravell'd shreds of which + The under wits adorn their speech: + And now he spreads his little fans, + (For all the Muses Geese are Swans) + And borne on Fancy's pinions, thinks + He soars sublimest when he sinks: + But scatt'ring round his fly-blows, dies; + Whence broods of insect-poets rise. + Premising thus, in modern way, + The greater part I have to say; + Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, + In higher strain than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) + Is both a Herald and a Poet; + No wonder then if nicely skill'd + In each capacity to build. + As Herald, he can in a day + Repair a house gone to decay; + Or by achievements, arms, device, + Erect a new one in a trice; + And poets, if they had their due, + By ancient right are builders too: + This made him to Apollo pray + For leave to build—the poets way. + His prayer was granted, for the God + Consented with the usual nod. + After hard throes of many a day + Van was delivered of a play, + Which in due time brought forth a house, + Just as the mountain did the mouse. + One story high, one postern door, + And one small chamber on a floor, + Born like a phoenix from the flame: + But neither bulk nor shape the same; + As animals of largest size + Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; + A type of modern wit and style, + The rubbish of an ancient pile; + So chemists boast they have a power, + From the dead ashes of a flower + Some faint resemblance to produce, + But not the virtue, taste, nor juice. + So modern rhymers strive to blast + The poetry of ages past; + Which, having wisely overthrown, + They from its ruins build their own. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is the earlier version of the Poem discovered by + Forster at Narford, the residence of Mr. Fountaine. See Forster's "Life + of Swift," p. 163.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] + </h2> + <h3> + BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In times of old, when Time was young, + And poets their own verses sung, + A verse would draw a stone or beam, + That now would overload a team; + Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, + Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. + Each number had its diff'rent power; + Heroic strains could build a tower; + Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, + Might raise a house about two stories; + A lyric ode would slate; a catch + Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + But, to their own or landlord's cost, + Now Poets feel this art is lost. + Not one of all our tuneful throng + Can raise a lodging for a song. + For Jove consider'd well the case, + Observed they grew a numerous race; + And should they build as fast as write, + 'Twould ruin undertakers quite. + This evil, therefore, to prevent, + He wisely changed their element: + On earth the God of Wealth was made + Sole patron of the building trade; + Leaving the Wits the spacious air, + With license to build castles there: + And 'tis conceived their old pretence + To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + Premising thus, in modern way, + The better half we have to say; + Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, + In higher strains than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) + Is both a Herald[2] and a Poet; + No wonder then if nicely skill'd + In both capacities to build. + As Herald, he can in a day + Repair a house gone to decay; + Or, by achievements, arms, device, + Erect a new one in a trice; + And as a poet, he has skill + To build in speculation still. + "Great Jove!" he cried, "the art restore + To build by verse as heretofore, + And make my Muse the architect; + What palaces shall we erect! + No longer shall forsaken Thames + Lament his old Whitehall in flames; + A pile shall from its ashes rise, + Fit to invade or prop the skies." + Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god, + Consenting with the usual nod, + Told Van, he knew his talent best, + And left the choice to his own breast. + So Van resolved to write a farce; + But, well perceiving wit was scarce, + With cunning that defect supplies: + Takes a French play as lawful prize;[3] + Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, + Not once suspecting Jove would smoke; + And (like a wag set down to write) + Would whisper to himself, "a <i>bite</i>." + Then, from this motley mingled style, + Proceeded to erect his pile. + So men of old, to gain renown, did + Build Babel with their tongues confounded. + Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best + To turn the matter to a jest; + Down from Olympus' top he slides, + Laughing as if he'd burst his sides: + Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks, + Why then old plays deserve old bricks; + And since you're sparing of your stuff, + Your building shall be small enough. + He spake, and grudging, lent his aid; + Th'experienced bricks, that knew their trade, + (As being bricks at second hand,) + Now move, and now in order stand. + The building, as the Poet writ, + Rose in proportion to his wit— + And first the prologue built a wall; + So wide as to encompass all. + The scene, a wood, produc'd no more + Than a few scrubby trees before. + The plot as yet lay deep; and so + A cellar next was dug below; + But this a work so hard was found, + Two acts it cost him under ground. + Two other acts, we may presume, + Were spent in building each a room. + Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift + To raise a roof with act the fift. + The epilogue behind did frame + A place, not decent here to name. + Now, Poets from all quarters ran, + To see the house of brother Van; + Looked high and low, walk'd often round; + But no such house was to be found. + One asks the watermen hard by, + "Where may the Poet's palace lie?" + Another of the Thames inquires, + If he has seen its gilded spires? + At length they in the rubbish spy + A thing resembling a goose-pie. + Thither in haste the Poets throng, + And gaze in silent wonder long, + Till one in raptures thus began + To praise the pile and builder Van: + "Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trail + Thy house about thee like a snail: + Or harness'd to a nag, at ease + Take journeys in it like a chaise; + Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt, + Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt! + Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all + Thou'rt well contrived, tho' thou art small: + For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isle + May lodge within thy spacious pile. + Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign, + Thy mother burnt, art born again, + Born like a phoenix from the flame: + But neither bulk nor shape the same; + As animals of largest size + Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; + A type of modern wit and style, + The rubbish of an ancient pile; + So chemists boast they have a power, + From the dead ashes of a flower + Some faint resemblance to produce, + But not the virtue, taste, or juice. + So modern rhymers wisely blast + The poetry of ages past; + Which, after they have overthrown, + They from its ruins build their own." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in + all editions of Swift's works.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of + Clarencieux king of arms.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from + Molière.—<i>Scott</i>. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was + indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only + one taken from Molière was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Dépit + Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked + Wife," were original.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + </h2> + <p> + ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF + CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In ancient time, as story tells, + The saints would often leave their cells, + And stroll about, but hide their quality, + To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter's night, + As authors of the legend write, + Two brother hermits, saints by trade, + Taking their tour in masquerade, + Came to a village hard by Rixham,[2] + Ragged and not a groat betwixt 'em. + It rain'd as hard as it could pour, + Yet they were forced to walk an hour + From house to house, wet to the skin, + Before one soul would let 'em in. + They call'd at every door: "Good people, + My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple! + Here we lie starving in the street, + 'Twould grieve a body's heart to see't, + No Christian would turn out a beast, + In such a dreadful night at least; + Give us but straw and let us lie + In yonder barn to keep us dry." + Thus in the stroller's usual cant, + They begg'd relief, which none would grant. + No creature valued what they said, + One family was gone to bed: + The master bawled out half asleep, + "You fellows, what a noise you keep! + So many beggars pass this way, + We can't be quiet, night nor day; + We cannot serve you every one; + Pray take your answer, and be gone." + One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks; + A third could not forbear his mocks; + But bawl'd as loud as he could roar + "You're on the wrong side of the door!" + One surly clown look't out and said, + "I'll fling the p—pot on your head: + You sha'nt come here, nor get a sous! + You look like rogues would rob a house. + Can't you go work, or serve the King? + You blind and lame! 'Tis no such thing. + That's but a counterfeit sore leg! + For shame! two sturdy rascals beg! + If I come down, <i>I'll</i> spoil your trick, + And cure you both with a good stick." + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, + Treated at this ungodly rate, + Having thro' all the village past, + To a small cottage came at last + Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, + Call'd thereabout good man Philemon; + Who kindly did the saints invite + In his poor house to pass the night; + And then the hospitable sire + Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; + Whilst he from out the chimney took + A flitch of bacon off the hook, + And freely from the fattest side + Cut out large slices to be fry'd; + Which tost up in a pan with batter, + And served up in an earthen platter, + Quoth Baucis, "This is wholesome fare, + Eat, honest friends, and never spare, + And if we find our victuals fail, + We can but make it out in ale." + To a small kilderkin of beer, + Brew'd for the good time of the year, + Philemon, by his wife's consent, + Stept with a jug, and made a vent, + And having fill'd it to the brink, + Invited both the saints to drink. + When they had took a second draught, + Behold, a miracle was wrought; + For, Baucis with amazement found, + Although the jug had twice gone round, + It still was full up to the top, + As they ne'er had drunk a drop. + You may be sure so strange a sight, + Put the old people in a fright: + Philemon whisper'd to his wife, + "These men are—Saints—I'll lay my life!" + The strangers overheard, and said, + "You're in the right—but be'nt afraid: + No hurt shall come to you or yours: + But for that pack of churlish boors, + Not fit to live on Christian ground, + They and their village shall be drown'd; + Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, + And grow a church before your eyes." + Scarce had they spoke, when fair and soft, + The roof began to mount aloft; + Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; + The heavy wall went clambering after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, + Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, + And there stood fastened to a joist, + But with the upside down, to show + Its inclination for below: + In vain; for a superior force + Applied at bottom stops its course: + Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, + 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + The wooden jack, which had almost + Lost by disuse the art to roast, + A sudden alteration feels, + Increas'd by new intestine wheels; + But what adds to the wonder more, + The number made the motion slower. + The flyer, altho't had leaden feet, + Would turn so quick you scarce could see't; + But, now stopt by some hidden powers, + Moves round but twice in twice twelve hours, + While in the station of a jack, + 'Twas never known to turn its back, + A friend in turns and windings tried, + Nor ever left the chimney's side. + The chimney to a steeple grown, + The jack would not be left alone; + But, up against the steeple rear'd, + Became a clock, and still adher'd; + And still its love to household cares, + By a shrill voice at noon declares, + Warning the cookmaid not to burn + That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, + Like a huge insect, up the wall; + There stuck, and to a pulpit grew, + But kept its matter and its hue, + And mindful of its ancient state, + Still groans while tattling gossips prate. + The mortar only chang'd its name, + In its old shape a font became. + The porringers, that in a row, + Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, + To a less noble substance chang'd, + Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, + Of Chevy Chase, and English Mall,[3] + Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, + The little Children in the Wood, + Enlarged in picture, size, and letter, + And painted, lookt abundance better, + And now the heraldry describe + Of a churchwarden, or a tribe. + A bedstead of the antique mode, + Composed of timber many a load, + Such as our grandfathers did use, + Was metamorphos'd into pews; + Which yet their former virtue keep + By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, with such feats as these, + Grown to a church by just degrees, + The holy men desired their host + To ask for what he fancied most. + Philemon, having paused a while, + Replied in complimental style: + "Your goodness, more than my desert, + Makes you take all things in good part: + You've raised a church here in a minute, + And I would fain continue in it; + I'm good for little at my days, + Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels + His grazier's coat reach down his heels; + The sleeves new border'd with a list, + Widen'd and gather'd at his wrist, + But, being old, continued just + As threadbare, and as full of dust. + A shambling awkward gait he took, + With a demure dejected look, + Talk't of his offerings, tythes, and dues, + Could smoke and drink and read the news, + Or sell a goose at the next town, + Decently hid beneath his gown. + Contriv'd to preach old sermons next, + Chang'd in the preface and the text. + At christ'nings well could act his part, + And had the service all by heart; + Wish'd women might have children fast, + And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; + Against dissenters would repine. + And stood up firm for "right divine;" + Carried it to his equals higher, + But most obedient to the squire. + Found his head fill'd with many a system; + But classic authors,—he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, + Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. + Instead of homespun coifs, were seen + Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;[4] + Her petticoat, transform'd apace, + Became black satin, flounced with lace. + "Plain Goody" would no longer down, + 'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. + Philemon was in great surprise, + And hardly could believe his eyes. + Amaz'd to see her look so prim, + And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, + Were several years this man and wife: + When on a day, which prov'd their last, + Discoursing o'er old stories past, + They went by chance, amidst their talk, + To the churchyard, to take a walk; + When Baucis hastily cry'd out, + "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"— + "Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? + I hope you don't believe me jealous! + But yet, methinks, I feel it true, + And really yours is budding too— + Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot; + It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, + In short, they both were turn'd to yews. + Old Goodman Dobson of the Green + Remembers he the trees has seen; + He'll talk of them from noon till night, + And goes with folk to show the sight; + On Sundays, after evening prayer, + He gathers all the parish there; + Points out the place of either yew, + Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: + Till once a parson of our town, + To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; + At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd + How much the other tree was griev'd, + Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, + So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster + found in Swift's handwriting at Narford; and which has never been + published. It is well known that, at Addison's suggestion, Swift made + extensive changes in this, "one of the happiest of his poems," concerning + which Forster says, in his "Life of Swift," at p. 165: "The poem, as + printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I + found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the + latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has + been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the + addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two. The question + can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and, + in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison."—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The "village hard by Rixham" of the original has as little + connection with "Chilthorne" as the "village down in Kent" of the altered + version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for + either.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See the next poem for note on this line. Chevy Chase seems + more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered + version.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M. + Colbert Planché's "Costume," p. 395.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + </h2> + <p> + ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF + CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In ancient times, as story tells, + The saints would often leave their cells, + And stroll about, but hide their quality, + To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter night, + As authors of the legend write, + Two brother hermits, saints by trade, + Taking their tour in masquerade, + Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went + To a small village down in Kent; + Where, in the strollers' canting strain, + They begg'd from door to door in vain, + Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win; + But not a soul would let them in. + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, + Treated at this ungodly rate, + Having thro' all the village past, + To a small cottage came at last + Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, + Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; + Who kindly did these saints invite + In his poor hut to pass the night; + And then the hospitable sire + Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; + While he from out the chimney took + A flitch of bacon off the hook, + And freely from the fattest side + Cut out large slices to be fry'd; + Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink, + Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, + And saw it fairly twice go round; + Yet (what was wonderful) they found + 'Twas still replenished to the top, + As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. + The good old couple were amaz'd, + And often on each other gaz'd; + For both were frighten'd to the heart, + And just began to cry, "What <i>art</i>!" + Then softly turn'd aside, to view + Whether the lights were burning blue. + The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, + Told them their calling and their errand: + "Good folk, you need not be afraid, + We are but saints," the hermits said; + "No hurt shall come to you or yours: + But for that pack of churlish boors, + Not fit to live on Christian ground, + They and their houses shall be drown'd; + While you shall see your cottage rise, + And grow a church before your eyes." + They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, + The roof began to mount aloft; + Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; + The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher + Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, + And there stood fasten'd to a joist, + But with the upside down, to show + Its inclination for below: + In vain; for a superior force + Applied at bottom stops its course: + Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, + 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + A wooden jack, which had almost + Lost by disuse the art to roast, + A sudden alteration feels, + Increas'd by new intestine wheels; + And, what exalts the wonder more, + The number made the motion slower. + The flyer, though it had leaden feet, + Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; + But, slacken'd by some secret power, + Now hardly moves an inch an hour. + The jack and chimney, near ally'd, + Had never left each other's side; + The chimney to a steeple grown, + The jack would not be left alone; + But, up against the steeple rear'd, + Became a clock, and still adher'd; + And still its love to household cares, + By a shrill voice at noon, declares, + Warning the cookmaid not to burn + That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, + Like an huge snail, half up the wall; + There stuck aloft in public view, + And with small change, a pulpit grew. + The porringers, that in a row + Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, + To a less noble substance chang'd, + Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, + Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3] + Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, + The little Children in the Wood, + Now seem'd to look abundance better, + Improved in picture, size, and letter: + And, high in order plac'd, describe + The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4] + A bedstead of the antique mode, + Compact of timber many a load, + Such as our ancestors did use, + Was metamorphos'd into pews; + Which still their ancient nature keep + By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, by such feats as these, + Grown to a church by just degrees, + The hermits then desired their host + To ask for what he fancy'd most. + Philemon, having paused a while, + Return'd them thanks in homely style; + Then said, "My house is grown so fine, + Methinks, I still would call it mine. + I'm old, and fain would live at ease; + Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels + His grazier's coat fall down his heels: + He sees, yet hardly can believe, + About each arm a pudding sleeve; + His waistcoat to a cassock grew, + And both assumed a sable hue; + But, being old, continued just + As threadbare, and as full of dust. + His talk was now of tithes and dues: + Could smoke his pipe, and read the news; + Knew how to preach old sermons next, + Vamp'd in the preface and the text; + At christ'nings well could act his part, + And had the service all by heart; + Wish'd women might have children fast, + And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; + Against dissenters would repine, + And stood up firm for "right divine;" + Found his head fill'd with many a system; + But classic authors,—he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, + Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. + Instead of homespun coifs, were seen + Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; + Her petticoat, transform'd apace, + Became black satin, flounced with lace. + "Plain Goody" would no longer down, + 'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. + Philemon was in great surprise, + And hardly could believe his eyes. + Amaz'd to see her look so prim, + And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, + Were several years this man and wife: + When on a day, which prov'd their last, + Discoursing o'er old stories past, + They went by chance, amidst their talk, + [5]To the churchyard to take a walk; + When Baucis hastily cry'd out, + "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"— + "Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? + I hope you don't believe me jealous! + But yet, methinks, I feel it true, + And really yours is budding too—Nay,—now + I cannot stir my foot; + It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, + In short, they both were turn'd to yews. + Old Goodman Dobson of the Green + Remembers he the trees has seen; + He'll talk of them from noon till night, + And goes with folk to show the sight; + On Sundays, after evening prayer, + He gathers all the parish there; + Points out the place of either yew, + Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: + Till once a parson of our town, + To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; + At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd + How much the other tree was griev'd, + Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, + So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in + accordance with Addison's suggestions.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orléans. See "Hudibras," "Lady's Answer," verse + 285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular + ballad was written. The line in the text is from "Hudibras," Part I, + c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla: + "A bold virago, stout and tall, + As Joan of France, or English Mall." + The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii, + 239.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country + churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE + 1708 + + When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, + And call'd to take the cards away, + Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, + How Miss pick'd every painted card, + And, busy both with hand and eye, + Soon rear'd a house two stories high. + Van's genius, without thought or lecture + Is hugely turn'd to architecture: + He view'd the edifice, and smiled, + Vow'd it was pretty for a child: + It was so perfect in its kind, + He kept the model in his mind. + But, when he found the boys at play + And saw them dabbling in their clay, + He stood behind a stall to lurk, + And mark the progress of their work; + With true delight observed them all + Raking up mud to build a wall. + The plan he much admired, and took + The model in his table-book: + Thought himself now exactly skill'd, + And so resolved a house to build: + A real house, with rooms and stairs, + Five times at least as big as theirs; + Taller than Miss's by two yards; + Not a sham thing of play or cards: + And so he did; for, in a while, + He built up such a monstrous pile, + That no two chairmen could be found + Able to lift it from the ground. + Still at Whitehall it stands in view, + Just in the place where first it grew; + There all the little schoolboys run, + Envying to see themselves outdone. + From such deep rudiments as these, + Van is become, by due degrees, + For building famed, and justly reckon'd, + At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3] + No wonder, since wise authors show, + That best foundations must be low: + And now the duke has wisely ta'en him + To be his architect at Blenheim. + But raillery at once apart, + If this rule holds in every art; + Or if his grace were no more skill'd in + The art of battering walls than building, + We might expect to see next year + A mouse-trap man chief engineer. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See <i>ante</i>, p. 51, "The Reverse."—<i>W, E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De + Architectura."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of + his majesty's works.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A GRUB-STREET ELEGY + </h2> + <h3> + ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, + Though we all took it for a jest: + Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd, + Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd. + Strange, an astrologer should die + Without one wonder in the sky; + Not one of all his crony stars + To pay their duty at his hearse! + No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! + No comet with a flaming beard! + The sun hath rose and gone to bed, + Just as if Partridge were not dead; + Nor hid himself behind the moon + To make a dreadful night at noon. + He at fit periods walks through Aries, + Howe'er our earthly motion varies; + And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator, + As if there had been no such matter. + Some wits have wonder'd what analogy + There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology; + How Partridge made his optics rise + From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. + A list the cobbler's temples ties, + To keep the hair out of his eyes; + From whence 'tis plain the diadem + That princes wear derives from them; + And therefore crowns are now-a-days + Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; + Which plainly shows the near alliance + 'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science. + Besides, that slow-paced sign Böötes, + As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis; + But Partridge ended all disputes; + He knew his trade, and call'd it <i>boots</i>.[3] + The horned moon,[4] which heretofore + Upon their shoes the Romans wore, + Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, + And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, + Shows how the art of cobbling bears + A near resemblance to the spheres. + A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, + (A great refiner in barometry,) + Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; + And what is parchment else but leather? + Which an astrologer might use + Either for almanacks or shoes. + Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, + At once did practise both these arts: + And as the boding owl (or rather + The bat, because her wings are leather) + Steals from her private cell by night, + And flies about the candle-light; + So learned Partridge could as well + Creep in the dark from leathern cell, + And in his fancy fly as far + To peep upon a twinkling star. + Besides, he could confound the spheres, + And set the planets by the ears; + To show his skill, he Mars could join + To Venus in aspect malign; + Then call in Mercury for aid, + And cure the wounds that Venus made. + Great scholars have in Lucian read, + When Philip King of Greece was dead + His soul and spirit did divide, + And each part took a different side; + One rose a star; the other fell + Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5] + Thus Partridge still shines in each art, + The cobbling and star-gazing part, + And is install'd as good a star + As any of the Caesars are. + Triumphant star! some pity show + On cobblers militant below, + Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, + Torment by pissing out their lights, + Or through a chink convey their smoke, + Enclosed artificers to choke. + Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, + May'st follow still thy calling there. + To thee the Bull will lend his hide, + By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd; + For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, + And scrape her pitchy sides for wax: + Then Ariadne kindly lends + Her braided hair to make thee ends; + The points of Sagittarius' dart + Turns to an awl by heavenly art; + And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, + Will forge for thee a paring-knife. + For want of room by Virgo's side, + She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride, + To take thee kindly in between; + And then the Signs will be Thirteen. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by + Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 <i>et seq.—W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See his Almanack.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver + which distinguished the wearer as a senator. + "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."—Juvenal, <i>Sat</i>. vii, 192; and + Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.] + + [Footnote 6: + "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens + Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit." + VIRG., <i>Georg.</i>, i, 34.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EPITAPH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here, five feet deep, lies on his back + A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; + Who to the stars, in pure good will, + Does to his best look upward still. + Weep, all you customers that use + His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; + And you that did your fortunes seek, + Step to his grave but once a-week; + This earth, which bears his body's print, + You'll find has so much virtue in't, + That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell + Whate'er concerns you full as well, + In physic, stolen goods, or love, + As he himself could, when above. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach + Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. + Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, + And softly stole to discompose her own; + The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door + Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. + Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, + Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. + The youth with broomy stumps began to trace + The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2] + The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, + Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: + Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; + And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. + The turnkey now his flock returning sees, + Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3] + The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, + And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, + 1786.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: To find old nails.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the + prison.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Careful observers may foretell the hour, + (By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower. + While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er + Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. + Returning home at night, you'll find the sink + Strike your offended sense with double stink. + If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: + You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. + A coming shower your shooting corns presage, + Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; + Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; + He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. + Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, + A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, + That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, + And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. + Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, + While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; + Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean + Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: + You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop + To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. + Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, + But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, + And wafted with its foe by violent gust, + 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3] + Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, + When dust and rain at once his coat invade? + Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, + Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! + Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, + Threatening with deluge this <i>devoted</i> town. + To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, + Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. + The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, + Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. + The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, + While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. + Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, + Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. + Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5] + Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. + Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, + While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, + And ever and anon with frightful din + The leather sounds; he trembles from within. + So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, + Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, + (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, + Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) + Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear, + And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. + Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, + And bear their trophies with them as they go: + Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell + What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell. + They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, + From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, + And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, + Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7] + Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, + Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, + Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in + the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis + the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of + Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: + "there never was such a Shower since Danäe's," etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost + the right pronunciation, have <i>aches</i> as one syllable; and then to + complete the metre have foisted in "aches <i>will</i> throb." Thus, what the + poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See + Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81, + edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line + 407, where persons are mentioned who + "Can by their Pangs and <i>Aches</i> find + All turns and changes of the wind."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S + <i>Dispensary</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the + "Miscellanies": + "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, + Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.] + + [Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in + "The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of + Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition + of Pope, 8vo, 1751.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK + </h2> + <h3> + 1710 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whoever pleases to inquire + Why yonder steeple wants a spire, + The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1] + The philosophic cause will show. + Once on a time a western blast, + At least twelve inches overcast, + Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all, + Which came with a prodigious fall; + And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, + Lit with its bottom on the ground: + For, by the laws of gravitation, + It fell into its proper station. + This is the little strutting pile + You see just by the churchyard stile; + The walls in tumbling gave a knock, + And thus the steeple got a shock; + From whence the neighbouring farmer calls + The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2] + The vicar once a-week creeps in, + Sits with his knees up to his chin; + Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, + Till the small ragged flock is met. + A traveller, who by did pass, + Observed the roof behind the grass; + On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, + And saw the parson creeping out: + Was much surprised to see a crow + Venture to build his nest so low. + A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought + The crib was down, the blackbird caught. + A third, who lost his way by night, + Was forced for safety to alight, + And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, + His horse had like to spoil his hoof. + Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, + This building was design'd a model; + Or of a pigeon-house or oven, + To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. + Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, + And every one was pleased that heard it; + All that you make this stir about + Is but a still which wants a spout. + The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd + More probably than all the rest; + He said, but that it wanted room, + It might have been a pigmy's tomb. + The doctor's family came by, + And little miss began to cry, + Give me that house in my own hand! + Then madam bade the chariot stand, + Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, + Pray, reach that thing here to the child: + That thing, I mean, among the kale; + And here's to buy a pot of ale. + The clerk said to her in a heat, + What! sell my master's country seat, + Where he comes every week from town! + He would not sell it for a crown. + Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; + In half an hour thou'lt make another. + Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss + A finer house ten times than this; + The dean will give me willow sticks, + And Joe my apron-full of bricks. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, + for venerable white locks.—<i>Scott</i>. He had a claim on the Irish + Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works," + vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire + for a collector's place.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.] + + [Footnote 4: Stella.] + + [Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.] + + [Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Scene, the Royal Exchange</i> + + CORYDON + + Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, + No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, + While other girls confess the genial spring, + And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, + Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, + And throw each useless chafing-dish away; + Why sits my Phillis discontented here, + Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? + Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, + Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play? + + PHILLIS + + Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, + Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: + Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, + Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; + Then how you swore, how many vows you made! + Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, + Waft the soft accents to the gods above. + Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) + I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame. + + CORYDON + + When I forget the favour you bestow'd, + Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road: + Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, + And mass be sung where operas are seen. + The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, + Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; + Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, + At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum. + + PHILLIS + + But what to me does all that love avail, + If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, + Each night with wine and wenches you regale? + My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, + And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. + On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, + And with shrill voice invite them as they go. + Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine, + And unregarded wave upon the twine. + The week flies round, and when my profit's known, + I hardly clear enough to change a crown. + + CORYDON + + Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, + Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; + As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, + And ruddy peaches them; as first in place + Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, + And ice on that: so Phillis does appear + In playhouse and in Park, above the rest + Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest. + + PHILLIS + + And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, + Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, + And views me hourly with a scornful eye. + + CORYDON + + She might as well with bright Cleora vie. + + PHILLIS + + With this large petticoat I strive in vain + To hide my folly past, and coming pain; + 'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, + Observe the symptoms I had once before: + A second babe at Wapping must be placed, + When I scarce bear the charges of the last. + + CORYDON + + What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, + Five shillings, and a coral for his gums; + To-morrow I intend him something more. + + PHILLIS + + I sent a frock and pair of shoes before. + + CORYDON + + However, you shall home with me to-night, + Forget your cares, and revel in delight, + I have in store a pint or two of wine, + Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine. + + And now on either side, and all around, + The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; + Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, + And ties her hood, preparing to be gone. + + L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals," + and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed + by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CONFERENCE + </h2> + <h3> + BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CHARIOT + + My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, + To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; + Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day + At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; + And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion + Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;— + Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love + As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; + Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, + I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; + And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, + Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together. + + CHAIR + + By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, + With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry. + By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; + He that makes love to me, must make it in French. + Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, + Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit? + Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, + No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix: + Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, + With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat. + Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat, + And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat. + You may think that you make a figure most shining, + But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining. + Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry, + To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry? + If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due + In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to. + + CHARIOT + + Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; + Is it your French breeding has made you so pert? + Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: + Who is it that values your —— or your fox? + Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed + His bloody red hand to her bloody red head. + You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail + Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; + And although it may pass for gold on a ninny, + Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea. + Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, + Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket. + I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; + Your velvet was wore before in a mant, + On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,— + The fire she carries hath changed its colour. + Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, + If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; + They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, + Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare. + We know how your lady was on you befriended; + You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: + But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; + She is two or three years above being out. + Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour + On one he can't hope of e'er making <i>bigger</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom + Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll + of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, + whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery." + See, <i>post</i>, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + OCTOBER 31, 1713 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Among the numbers who employ + Their tongues and pens to give you joy, + Dear Harley! generous youth, admit + What friendship dictates more than wit. + Forgive me, when I fondly thought + (By frequent observations taught) + A spirit so inform'd as yours + Could never prosper in amours. + The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, + With all acquired and natural parts, + Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, + Was an unfortunate gallant. + Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, + The nymph had soon been brought to yield; + Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, + The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. + Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, + Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; + For such is all the sex's flight, + They fly from learning, wit, and light; + They fly, and none can overtake + But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. + How then, dear Harley, could I guess + That you should meet, in love, success? + For, if those ancient tales be true, + Phoebus was beautiful as you; + Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, + For wit and learning spoil'd his face. + And since the same resemblance held + In gifts wherein you both excell'd, + I fancied every nymph would run + From you, as from Latona's son. + Then where, said I, shall Harley find + A virgin of superior mind, + With wit and virtue to discover, + And pay the merit of her lover? + This character shall Ca'endish claim, + Born to retrieve her sex's fame. + The chief among the glittering crowd, + Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, + (As fools are insolent and vain) + Madly aspired to wear her chain; + But Pallas, guardian of the maid, + Descending to her charge's aid, + Held out Medusa's snaky locks, + Which stupified them all to stocks. + The nymph with indignation view'd + The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; + For Pallas, with celestial light, + Had purified her mortal sight; + Show'd her the virtues all combined, + Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. + Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, + Display their various nets for hearts: + Their looks are all by method set, + When to be prude, and when coquette; + Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, + Their only pride is to refuse. + But, when a goddess would bestow + Her love on some bright youth below, + Round all the earth she casts her eyes; + And then, descending from the skies, + Makes choice of him she fancies best, + And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. + Thus the bright empress of the morn[3] + Chose for her spouse a mortal born: + The goddess made advances first; + Else what aspiring hero durst? + Though, like a virgin of fifteen, + She blushes when by mortals seen; + Still blushes, and with speed retires, + When Sol pursues her with his fires. + Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen + Struck with Endymion's graceful mien + Down from her silver chariot came, + And to the shepherd own'd her flame. + Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, + And chaster than the Queen of Night + Descended from her sphere to find + A mortal of superior kind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married + Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of + Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the + Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and + Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel + tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven; + hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Desponding Phyllis was endu'd + With ev'ry talent of a prude: + She trembled when a man drew near; + Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: + If o'er against her you were placed, + She durst not look above your waist: + She'd rather take you to her bed, + Than let you see her dress her head; + In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, + Repeat the absolution loud: + In church, secure behind her fan, + She durst behold that monster man: + There practis'd how to place her head, + And bite her lips to make them red; + Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, + Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. + And heave her bosom unaware, + For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare. + At length a lucky lover came, + And found admittance to the dame, + Suppose all parties now agreed, + The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, + The vicar and the ring bespoke: + Guess, how could such a match be broke? + See then what mortals place their bliss in! + Next morn betimes the bride was missing: + The mother scream'd, the father chid; + Where can this idle wench be hid? + No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, + And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; + Because her father used to say, + The girl had such a bashful way! + Now John the butler must be sent + To learn the road that Phyllis went: + The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; + For John must neither light nor stop, + But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, + And bring her back alive or dead. + See here again the devil to do! + For truly John was missing too: + The horse and pillion both were gone! + Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. + Old Madam, who went up to find + What papers Phyl had left behind, + A letter on the toilet sees, + "To my much honour'd father—these—" + ('Tis always done, romances tell us, + When daughters run away with fellows,) + Fill'd with the choicest common-places, + By others used in the like cases. + "That long ago a fortune-teller + Exactly said what now befell her; + And in a glass had made her see + A serving-man of low degree. + It was her fate, must be forgiven; + For marriages were made in Heaven: + His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, + She'd do't if 'twere to do again: + Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin; + For John was come of honest kin. + Love never thinks of rich and poor; + She'd beg with John from door to door. + Forgive her, if it be a crime; + She'll never do't another time. + She ne'er before in all her life + Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife." + One argument she summ'd up all in, + "The thing was done and past recalling; + And therefore hoped she should recover + His favour when his passion's over. + She valued not what others thought her, + And was—his most obedient daughter." + Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, + Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: + Away they rode in homely sort, + Their journey long, their money short; + The loving couple well bemir'd; + The horse and both the riders tir'd: + Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; + Phyl cried! and John began to curse: + Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, + When first she ventured out with him; + John wish'd that he had broke a leg, + When first for her he quitted Peg. + But what adventures more befell 'em, + The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; + How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, + Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd: + How oft she broke her marriage vows, + In kindness to maintain her spouse, + Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; + For now the surgeon must be paid, + To whom those perquisites are gone, + In Christian justice due to John. + When food and raiment now grew scarce, + Fate put a period to the farce, + And with exact poetic justice; + For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; + They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, + Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.—<i>Swift</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX + </h2> + <h3> + ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Virtue conceal'd within our breast + Is inactivity at best: + But never shall the Muse endure + To let your virtues lie obscure; + Or suffer Envy to conceal + Your labours for the public weal. + Within your breast all wisdom lies, + Either to govern or advise; + Your steady soul preserves her frame, + In good and evil times, the same. + Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, + Stand in your sacred presence awed; + Your hand alone from gold abstains, + Which drags the slavish world in chains. + Him for a happy man I own, + Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2] + And happy he who wisely knows + To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; + Or, if it please the powers divine, + Can suffer want and not repine. + The man who infamy to shun + Into the arms of death would run; + That man is ready to defend, + With life, his country or his friend. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less + friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, <i>passim</i>; and + an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 2: + "Non possidentem multa vocaveris + recte beatum: rectius occupat + nomen beati, qui deorum + muneribus sapienter uti + duramque callet pauperiem pati, + pejusque leto flagitium timet."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR. DELANY,[1] + </h2> + <h3> + OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To you whose virtues, I must own + With shame, I have too lately known; + To you, by art and nature taught + To be the man I long have sought, + Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, + Placed you in life too far behind: + Or, what I should repine at more, + Placed me in life too far before: + To you the Muse this verse bestows, + Which might as well have been in prose; + No thought, no fancy, no sublime, + But simple topics told in rhyme. + Three gifts for conversation fit + Are humour, raillery, and wit: + The last, as boundless as the wind, + Is well conceived, though not defined; + For, sure by wit is only meant + Applying what we first invent. + What humour is, not all the tribe + Of logic-mongers can describe; + Here only nature acts her part, + Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: + For wit and humour differ quite; + That gives surprise, and this delight, + Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, + Only by affectation spoil'd; + 'Tis never by invention got, + Men have it when they know it not. + Our conversation to refine, + True humour must with wit combine: + From both we learn to rally well, + Wherein French writers most excel; + [2]Voiture, in various lights, displays + That irony which turns to praise: + His genius first found out the rule + For an obliging ridicule: + He flatters with peculiar air + The brave, the witty, and the fair: + And fools would fancy he intends + A satire where he most commends. + But as a poor pretending beau, + Because he fain would make a show, + Nor can afford to buy gold lace, + Takes up with copper in the place: + So the pert dunces of mankind, + Whene'er they would be thought refined, + Because the diff'rence lies abstruse + 'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, + To show their parts will scold and rail, + Like porters o'er a pot of ale. + Such is that clan of boisterous bears, + Always together by the ears; + Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe + That meet for nothing but to gibe; + Who first run one another down, + And then fall foul on all the town; + Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, + And call'd by excellence The Club. + I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, + All special friends, and always jar. + The mettled and the vicious steed + Do not more differ in their breed, + Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, + As rudeness is to repartee. + If what you said I wish unspoke, + 'Twill not suffice it was a joke: + Reproach not, though in jest, a friend + For those defects he cannot mend; + His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, + If named with scorn, gives just offence. + What use in life to make men fret, + Part in worse humour than they met? + Thus all society is lost, + Men laugh at one another's cost: + And half the company is teazed + That came together to be pleased: + For all buffoons have most in view + To please themselves by vexing you. + When jests are carried on too far, + And the loud laugh begins the war, + You keep your countenance for shame, + Yet still you think your friend to blame; + For though men cry they love a jest, + 'Tis but when others stand the test; + And (would you have their meaning known) + They love a jest when 'tis their own. + You wonder now to see me write + So gravely where the subject's light; + Some part of what I here design + Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; + Who full of humour, fire, and wit, + Not always judges what is fit, + But loves to take prodigious rounds, + And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, + You must, although the point be nice, + Venture to give him some advice; + Few hints from you will set him right, + And teach him how to be polite. + Bid him like you, observe with care, + Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; + Nor indiscreetly to suppose + All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose. + To study the obliging jest, + By reading those who teach it best; + For prose I recommend Voiture's, + For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. + He'll find the secret out from thence, + To rhyme all day without offence; + And I no more shall then accuse + The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse. + If he be guilty, you must mend him; + If he be innocent, defend him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, + born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged + Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. + Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too + hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died + 1648.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.] + + [Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively + party, <i>post</i>, p. 137.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ELEGY[1] + </h2> + <p> + ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, + By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; + Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound + Redeem him from his prison underground. + His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst + Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. + Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know + His faithful steward in the shades below. + He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; + He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: + And by his looks, had he held out his palms, + He might be thought an object fit for alms. + So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, + He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself. + Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; + Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; + And under hand and seal, the Irish nation + Were forc'd to own to him their obligation. + He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, + In half a minute is not worth a groat. + His coffers from the coffin could not save, + Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave. + A golden monument would not be right, + Because we wish the earth upon him light. + Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, + Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; + He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; + The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. + Old as he was, no vulgar known disease + On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; + "[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight + Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; + And, as he saw his darling money fail, + Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." + He who so long was current, 'twould be strange + If he should now be cry'd down since his change. + The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; + Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! + A dismal banker must that banker be, + Who gives no bills but of mortality! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who + died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be + in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was + brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the + company.—<i>C. Walker</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath this verdant hillock lies + Demar, the wealthy and the wise, + His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, + Have put his carcass in a chest; + The very chest in which, they say, + His other self, his money, lay. + And, if his heirs continue kind + To that dear self he left behind, + I dare believe, that four in five + Will think his better self alive. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: + "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd + His money bags together sew'd + And that he might securely rest," + Variation—From the Chetwode MS.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, + </h2> + <h3> + ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You always are making a god of your spouse; + But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; + Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, + And you adore him, because he adores you. + Your argument's weak, and so you will find; + For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? + Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. + In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, + You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. + In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, + You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. + O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, + Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request! + Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, + Instead of the deans, make the deanery double. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St. + Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his + hospitality. See Journal to Stella, <i>passim</i>, "Prose Works," vol. + ii—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, + Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, + Found out a new method at once of confessing, + And making the most of so mighty a blessing: + To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse, + By making his patron preside in his house; + And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, + That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense; + So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat + With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. + Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, + Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as + appears from the verses which follow.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Right Trusty, and so forth—we let you know + We are very ill used by you mortals below. + For, first, I have often by chemists been told, + (Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold; + Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it, + That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it. + Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine, + I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine; + To me the good fellows apply for relief, + Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef: + Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards + Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards. + That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think, + And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink. + But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd, + I alone can inspire the poetical crowd: + This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College, + Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge. + This every pretender in rhyme will admit, + Without troubling his head about judgment or wit. + These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom, + And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em. + They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls, + And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls. + But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany, + Whom I for your sake have used better than any, + And, of my mere motion, and special good grace, + Intended in time to succeed in your place, + On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came, + With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name, + To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass, + Where for fear of the cold I never can pass, + Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil, + Of value five shillings, in English a pencil, + Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write, + While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light. + My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath, + That she stopt in her course to look at them both; + That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding; + And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading: + That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day, + But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey: + And by the description, I certainly know, + 'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago; + Whom when I with the best of my talents endued, + On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude: + That some verses were writ with felonious intent, + Direct to the North, where I never once went: + That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane, + But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again; + Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4] + And presently guessed the fancy was mine. + She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen + At night between Cavan Street and College Green. + Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown, + The reason is plain, they are none of his own; + And observe while you live that no man is shy + To discover the goods he came honestly by. + If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it, + And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it. + Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark, + There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark; + And let them be seen by the world if he dare, + I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware. + But as for the poem he writ on your sash, + I think I have now got him under my lash; + My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow, + And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow. + Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread + In all parts of the globe where your language is read. + He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal, + When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual: + But the secret is this; I did lately intend + To write a few verses on you as my friend: + I studied a fortnight, before I could find, + As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind, + And resolved the next winter (for that is my time, + When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme; + Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus; + When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us, + Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick + (For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,) + And from my own stock provided with topics, + He gets to a window beyond both the tropics, + There out of my sight, just against the north zone, + Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own; + And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow: + Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo? + High treason by statute! yet here you object, + He only stole hints, but the verse is correct; + Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd; + So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd. + Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance, + We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence. + Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire, + To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire; + We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen, + To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. + And we order our subjects of every degree + To believe all his verses were written by me: + And under the pain of our highest displeasure, + To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure. + And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime, + I'm too much revenged already by Time, + In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases, + But will now be her friend whenever she pleases. + And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover + Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also + with the copy transcribed by Stella.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Diana.] + + [Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran: + "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line + And found by the wit the Fancy was mine + For none of his poems were ever yet shown + Which he in his conscience could claim for his own." + <i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NEWS FROM PARNASSUS + </h2> + <h3> + BY DR. DELANY + </h3> + <h3> + OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. + The poets assembled here on the eleventh, + Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know + He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below; + But declared that no bard should this honour inherit, + Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit: + Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case, + For each bard believed he'd a right to the place; + So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate, + He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate: + 'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose, + Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose; + Till at length he determined that every bard + Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard. + First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1] + Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration: + "Since the soul of great Milton was given to me, + I hope the convention will quickly agree."— + "Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool? + Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school? + Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time, + And given in return neither reason nor rhyme." + To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you, + I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you: + Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd, + Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd; + That at my instigation, a poem you writ, + Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit; + That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice, + Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice. + Jove sent her to me, her power to try; + The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny? + She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire. + Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher." + The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding, + For he merited much for his wit and his breeding. + 'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him, + He else might expect they should pay what they owe him. + And therefore they prudently chose to discard + The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward: + The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance, + "You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France: + You bend your ambition to rise in the state; + I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great." + Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3] + "The convention allows me a versificator." + Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit; + By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit. + I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth, + The greatest objection against you's your youth; + Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside; + If you live you shall certainly one day preside." + Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets, + "'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4] + You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before; + But give me the bard that can teach them to soar. + Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess, + Who lately attempted my style with success; + Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit, + And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit: + Who makes it appear, by all he has writ, + His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit; + Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease, + But excels even Virgil in elegant praise: + Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due + Yet writes in a manner entirely new; + Though none with more ease their depths can explore, + Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store; + Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see, + In scorning to borrow from any but me: + It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays + Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays. + This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift: + The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No. + 66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir + Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift + writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and + he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into + blank verse.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a + "formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a + "pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and + "Odyssey."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Diana.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO'S EDICT + </h2> + <h3> + OCCASIONED BY "NEWS FROM PARNASSUS" + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ireland is now our royal care, + We lately fix'd our viceroy there. + How near was she to be undone, + Till pious love inspired her son! + What cannot our vicegerent do, + As poet and as patriot too? + Let his success our subjects sway, + Our inspirations to obey, + And follow where he leads the way: + Then study to correct your taste; + Nor beaten paths be longer traced. + No simile shall be begun, + With rising or with setting sun; + And let the secret head of Nile + Be ever banish'd from your isle. + When wretched lovers live on air, + I beg you'll the chameleon spare; + And when you'd make a hero grander, + Forget he's like a salamander.[1] + No son of mine shall dare to say, + Aurora usher'd in the day, + Or ever name the milky-way. + You all agree, I make no doubt, + Elijah's mantle is worn out. + The bird of Jove shall toil no more + To teach the humble wren to soar. + Your tragic heroes shall not rant, + Nor shepherds use poetic cant. + Simplicity alone can grace + The manners of the rural race. + Theocritus and Philips be + Your guides to true simplicity. + When Damon's soul shall take its flight, + Though poets have the second-sight, + They shall not see a trail of light. + Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, + Nor a new star adorn the skies: + For who can hope to place one there, + As glorious as Belinda's hair? + Yet, if his name you'd eternize, + And must exalt him to the skies; + Without a star this may be done: + So Tickell mourn'd his Addison. + If Anna's happy reign you praise, + Pray, not a word of halcyon days: + Nor let my votaries show their skill + In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2] + For know I cannot bear to hear + The mimicry of "deep, yet clear." + Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, + Against the phoenix I protest. + When poets soar in youthful strains, + No Phaethon to hold the reins. + When you describe a lovely girl, + No lips of coral, teeth of pearl. + Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, + However beauteous, for his mother; + Nor shall his darts at random fly + From magazine in Celia's eye. + With woman compounds I am cloy'd, + Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3] + For foreign aid what need they roam, + Whom fate has amply blest at home? + Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, + Has form'd a model for your land, + Whom Jove endued with every grace; + The glory of the Granard race; + Now destined by the powers divine + The blessing of another line. + Then, would you paint a matchless dame, + Whom you'd consign to endless fame? + Invoke not Cytherea's aid, + Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; + Nor need you on the Graces call; + Take qualities from Donegal.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," <i>ante</i>, p. + 46.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.] + + [Footnote 3: <i>Ante</i>, p. 50.] + + [Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of + Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen + Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was + composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having + reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he + executed the following very spirited translation.—<i>W. E. B.</i> + + TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720 + + O'ROURKE'S noble fare + Will ne'er be forgot, + By those who were there, + Or those who were not. + + His revels to keep, + We sup and we dine + On seven score sheep, + Fat bullocks, and swine. + + Usquebaugh to our feast + In pails was brought up, + A hundred at least, + And a madder[1] our cup. + + O there is the sport! + We rise with the light + In disorderly sort, + From snoring all night. + + O how was I trick'd! + My pipe it was broke, + My pocket was pick'd, + I lost my new cloak. + + I'm rifled, quoth Nell, + Of mantle and kercher,[2] + Why then fare them well, + The de'el take the searcher. + + Come, harper, strike up; + But, first, by your favour, + Boy, give us a cup: + Ah! this hath some savour. + + O'Rourke's jolly boys + Ne'er dreamt of the matter, + Till, roused by the noise, + And musical clatter, + + They bounce from their nest, + No longer will tarry, + They rise ready drest, + Without one Ave-Mary. + + They dance in a round, + Cutting capers and ramping; + A mercy the ground + Did not burst with their stamping. + + The floor is all wet + With leaps and with jumps, + While the water and sweat + Splish-splash in their pumps. + + Bless you late and early, + Laughlin O'Enagin![3] + But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. + Margery Grinagin.[5] + + Bring straw for our bed, + Shake it down to the feet, + Then over us spread + The winnowing sheet. + + To show I don't flinch, + Fill the bowl up again: + Then give us a pinch + Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6] + + Good lord! what a sight, + After all their good cheer, + For people to fight + In the midst of their beer! + + They rise from their feast, + And hot are their brains, + A cubit at least + The length of their skeans.[7] + + What stabs and what cuts, + What clattering of sticks; + What strokes on the guts, + What bastings and kicks! + + With cudgels of oak, + Well harden'd in flame, + A hundred heads broke, + A hundred struck lame. + + You churl, I'll maintain + My father built Lusk, + The castle of Slane, + And Carrick Drumrusk: + + The Earl of Kildare, + And Moynalta his brother, + As great as they are, + I was nurst by their mother.[8] + + Ask that of old madam: + She'll tell you who's who, + As far up as Adam, + She knows it is true. + + Come down with that beam, + If cudgels are scarce, + A blow on the weam, + Or a kick on the a——se. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the + women.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: An Irish oath.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; + their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or + foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When first Diana leaves her bed, + Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, + A frowzy dirty-colour'd red + Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face: + + But by degrees, when mounted high, + Her artificial face appears + Down from her window in the sky, + Her spots are gone, her visage clears. + + 'Twixt earthly females and the moon, + All parallels exactly run; + If Celia should appear too soon, + Alas, the nymph would be undone! + + To see her from her pillow rise, + All reeking in a cloudy steam, + Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, + Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme! + + The soot or powder which was wont + To make her hair look black as jet, + Falls from her tresses on her front, + A mingled mass of dirt and sweat. + + Three colours, black, and red, and white + So graceful in their proper place, + Remove them to a different light, + They form a frightful hideous face: + + For instance, when the lily slips + Into the precincts of the rose, + And takes possession of the lips, + Leaving the purple to the nose: + + So Celia went entire to bed, + All her complexion safe and sound; + But, when she rose, the black and red, + Though still in sight, had changed their ground. + + The black, which would not be confined, + A more inferior station seeks, + Leaving the fiery red behind, + And mingles in her muddy cheeks. + + The paint by perspiration cracks, + And falls in rivulets of sweat, + On either side you see the tracks + While at her chin the conflu'nts meet. + + A skilful housewife thus her thumb, + With spittle while she spins anoints; + And thus the brown meanders come + In trickling streams betwixt her joints. + + But Celia can with ease reduce, + By help of pencil, paint, and brush, + Each colour to its place and use, + And teach her cheeks again to blush. + + She knows her early self no more, + But fill'd with admiration stands; + As other painters oft adore + The workmanship of their own hands. + + Thus, after four important hours, + Celia's the wonder of her sex; + Say, which among the heavenly powers + Could cause such wonderful effects? + + Venus, indulgent to her kind, + Gave women all their hearts could wish, + When first she taught them where to find + White lead, and Lusitanian dish. + + Love with white lead cements his wings; + White lead was sent us to repair + Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things, + A lady's face, and China-ware. + + She ventures now to lift the sash; + The window is her proper sphere; + Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash, + Nor let the beaux approach too near. + + Take pattern by your sister star; + Delude at once and bless our sight; + When you are seen, be seen from far, + And chiefly choose to shine by night. + + In the Pall Mall when passing by, + Keep up the glasses of your chair, + Then each transported fop will cry, + "G——d d——n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!" + + But art no longer can prevail, + When the materials all are gone; + The best mechanic hand must fail, + Where nothing's left to work upon. + + Matter, as wise logicians say, + Cannot without a form subsist; + And form, say I, as well as they, + Must fail if matter brings no grist. + + And this is fair Diana's case; + For, all astrologers maintain, + Each night a bit drops off her face, + When mortals say she's in her wane: + + While Partridge wisely shows the cause + Efficient of the moon's decay, + That Cancer with his pois'nous claws + Attacks her in the milky way: + + But Gadbury,[2] in art profound, + From her pale cheeks pretends to show + That swain Endymion is not sound, + Or else that Mercury's her foe. + + But let the cause be what it will, + In half a month she looks so thin, + That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill, + See but her forehead and her chin. + + Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, + Till midnight never shows her head; + So rotting Celia strolls the street, + When sober folks are all a-bed: + + For sure, if this be Luna's fate, + Poor Celia, but of mortal race, + In vain expects a longer date + To the materials of her face. + + When Mercury her tresses mows, + To think of oil and soot is vain: + No painting can restore a nose, + Nor will her teeth return again. + + Two balls of glass may serve for eyes, + White lead can plaister up a cleft; + But these, alas, are poor supplies + If neither cheeks nor lips be left. + + Ye powers who over love preside! + Since mortal beauties drop so soon, + If ye would have us well supplied, + Send us new nymphs with each new moon! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with the copy transcribed by + Stella.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of + ephemerides.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in + August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see + "Dictionary of National Biography."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, + A reverend Dean began to woo[2] + A handsome, young, imperious girl, + Nearly related to an earl.[3] + Her parents and her friends consent; + The couple to the temple went: + They first invite the Cyprian queen; + 'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" + But Cupid in disdain could scarce + Forbear to bid them kiss his —— + The Graces next, and all the Muses, + Were bid in form, but sent excuses. + Juno attended at the porch, + With farthing candle for a torch; + While mistress Iris held her train, + The faded bow bedropt with rain. + Then Hebe came, and took her place, + But show'd no more than half her face. + Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, + In joy the marriage-day was spent; + The marriage-<i>day</i>, you take me right, + I promise nothing for the night. + The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, + Assumes an artificial vigour; + A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace + His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; + Like the faint red upon a pippin, + Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. + And thus set out this happy pair, + The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; + But, what I gladly would forget, + The swain is old, the nymph coquette. + Both from the goal together start; + Scarce run a step before they part; + No common ligament that binds + The various textures of their minds; + Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, + Less corresponding than their years. + The Dean desires his coffee soon, + She rises to her tea at noon. + While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, + She at the glass consults her looks; + While Betty's buzzing at her ear, + Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! + So odd a choice how could she make! + Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. + Then, on her finger ends she counts, + Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. + The Dean, she heard her uncle say, + Is sixty, if he be a day; + His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; + You see the crow's feet round his eyes. + At one she rambles to the shops, + To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; + Or calls a council of her maids, + And tradesmen, to compare brocades. + Her weighty morning business o'er, + Sits down to dinner just at four; + Minds nothing that is done or said, + Her evening work so fills her head. + The Dean, who used to dine at one, + Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; + In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, + Looks like the chaplain of the household; + Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, + In French brocades, and Flanders lace; + He wonders what employs her brain, + But never asks, or asks in vain; + His mind is full of other cares, + And, in the sneaking parson's airs, + Computes, that half a parish dues + Will hardly find his wife in shoes. + Canst thou imagine, dull divine, + 'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? + Hath she no other wants beside? + You feed her lust as well as pride, + Enticing coxcombs to adore, + And teach her to despise thee more. + If in her coach she'll condescend + To place him at the hinder end, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose, + His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] + She drops him at the church, to pray, + While she drives on to see the play. + He like an orderly divine, + Comes home a quarter after nine, + And meets her hasting to the ball: + Her chairmen push him from the wall. + The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, + And calls the family to prayers; + Then goes alone to take his rest + In bed, where he can spare her best. + At five the footmen make a din, + Her ladyship is just come in; + The masquerade began at two, + She stole away with much ado; + And shall be chid this afternoon, + For leaving company so soon: + She'll say, and she may truly say't, + She can't abide to stay out late. + But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, + Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: + The cause, alas! is quickly guest; + The town has whisper'd round the jest. + Think on some remedy in time, + The Dean you see, is past his prime, + Already dwindled to a lath: + No other way but try the Bath. + For Venus, rising from the ocean, + Infused a strong prolific potion, + That mix'd with Acheloüs spring, + The horned flood, as poets sing, + Who, with an English beauty smitten, + Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; + The genial virtue with him brought, + And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; + Then fled, and left his horn behind, + For husbands past their youth to find; + The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, + Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, + Where childless wives crowd every morn, + To drink in Acheloüs horn;[6] + Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs + Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. + And here the father often gains + That title by another's pains. + Hither, though much against his grain + The Dean has carried Lady Jane. + He, for a while, would not consent, + But vow'd his money all was spent: + Was ever such a clownish reason! + And must my lady slip her season? + The doctor, with a double fee, + Was bribed to make the Dean agree. + Here, all diversions of the place + Are proper in my lady's case: + With which she patiently complies, + Merely because her friends advise; + His money and her time employs + In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; + Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, + Since others oft have found one there; + Where if the Dean by chance appears, + It shames his cassock and his years. + He keeps his distance in the gallery, + Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; + For 'twould his character expose, + To bathe among the belles and beaux. + So have I seen, within a pen, + Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; + But, when let out, they run and muddle, + As instinct leads them, in a puddle; + The sober hen, not born to swim, + With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] + The Dean, with all his best endeavour, + Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. + A victim to the last essays + Of vigour in declining days, + He dies, and leaves his mourning mate + (What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. + The widow goes through all her forms: + New lovers now will come in swarms. + O, may I see her soon dispensing + Her favours to some broken ensign! + Him let her marry for his face, + And only coat of tarnish'd lace; + To turn her naked out of doors, + And spend her jointure on his whores; + But, for a parting present, leave her + A rooted pox to last for ever! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated + January, 1721-2.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: + "A rich divine began to woo," + "A grave divine resolved to woo," + are Swift's successive changes of this line.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but + he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: + "If by a more than usual grace + She lends him in her chariot place, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose + For fear his gown should soil her clothes."—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib. + ix.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was + erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to + James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of + Modena, having conceived after bathing there.—Collinson's "History of + Somersetshire."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first + draft.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.—<i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROGRESS OF POETRY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The farmer's goose, who in the stubble + Has fed without restraint or trouble, + Grown fat with corn and sitting still, + Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; + And hardly waddles forth to cool + Her belly in the neighbouring pool! + Nor loudly cackles at the door; + For cackling shows the goose is poor. + But, when she must be turn'd to graze, + And round the barren common strays, + Hard exercise, and harder fare, + Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; + Her body light, she tries her wings, + And scorns the ground, and upward springs; + While all the parish, as she flies, + Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. + Such is the poet fresh in pay, + The third night's profits of his play; + His morning draughts till noon can swill, + Among his brethren of the quill: + With good roast beef his belly full, + Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, + Deep sunk in plenty and delight, + What poet e'er could take his flight? + Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, + What poet e'er could sing a note? + Nor Pegasus could bear the load + Along the high celestial road; + The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, + To raise the lumber from the earth. + But view him in another scene, + When all his drink is Hippocrene, + His money spent, his patrons fail, + His credit out for cheese and ale; + His two-years coat so smooth and bare, + Through every thread it lets in air; + With hungry meals his body pined, + His guts and belly full of wind; + And, like a jockey for a race, + His flesh brought down to flying case: + Now his exalted spirit loathes + Encumbrances of food and clothes; + And up he rises like a vapour, + Supported high on wings of paper. + He singing flies, and flying sings, + While from below all Grub-Street rings. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, + Arma virûm, tabulaeque, et Troïa gaza per undas. + VIRG. + + For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, + projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and + ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, + see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," + Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and + arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his + grandfather.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye wise philosophers, explain + What magic makes our money rise, + When dropt into the Southern main; + Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes? + + Put in your money fairly told; + <i>Presto</i>! be gone—'Tis here again: + Ladies and gentlemen, behold, + Here's every piece as big as ten. + + Thus in a basin drop a shilling, + Then fill the vessel to the brim, + You shall observe, as you are filling, + The pond'rous metal seems to swim: + + It rises both in bulk and height, + Behold it swelling like a sop; + The liquid medium cheats your sight: + Behold it mounted to the top! + + In stock three hundred thousand pounds, + I have in view a lord's estate; + My manors all contiguous round! + A coach-and-six, and served in plate! + + Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, + Puts all upon a desperate bet; + Then plunges in the Southern waves, + Dipt over head and ears—in debt. + + So, by a calenture misled, + The mariner with rapture sees, + On the smooth ocean's azure bed, + Enamell'd fields and verdant trees: + + With eager haste he longs to rove + In that fantastic scene, and thinks + It must be some enchanted grove; + And in he leaps, and down he sinks. + + Five hundred chariots just bespoke, + Are sunk in these devouring waves, + The horses drown'd, the harness broke, + And here the owners find their graves. + + Like Pharaoh, by directors led, + They with their spoils went safe before; + His chariots, tumbling out the dead, + Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore. + + Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, + The young adventurer o'er the deep + An eagle's flight and state assumes, + And scorns the middle way to keep. + + On paper wings he takes his flight, + With wax the father bound them fast; + The wax is melted by the height, + And down the towering boy is cast. + + A moralist might here explain + The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] + Describe his fall into the main, + And from a fable form a truth. + + His wings are his paternal rent, + He melts the wax at every flame; + His credit sunk, his money spent, + In Southern Seas he leaves his name. + + Inform us, you that best can tell, + Why in that dangerous gulf profound, + Where hundreds and where thousands fell, + Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd? + + So have I seen from Severn's brink + A flock of geese jump down together; + Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, + And, swimming, never wet a feather. + + But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, + Directors better knew their tools; + We see the nation's credit crack'd, + Each knave has made a thousand fools. + + One fool may from another win, + And then get off with money stored; + But, if a sharper once comes in, + He throws it all, and sweeps the board. + + As fishes on each other prey, + The great ones swallowing up the small, + So fares it in the Southern Sea; + The whale directors eat up all. + + When stock is high, they come between, + Making by second-hand their offers; + Then cunningly retire unseen, + With each a million in his coffers. + + So, when upon a moonshine night, + An ass was drinking at a stream, + A cloud arose, and stopt the light, + By intercepting every beam: + + The day of judgment will be soon, + Cries out a sage among the crowd; + An ass has swallow'd up the moon! + The moon lay safe behind the cloud. + + Each poor subscriber to the sea + Sinks down at once, and there he lies; + Directors fall as well as they, + Their fall is but a trick to rise. + + So fishes, rising from the main, + Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; + The moisture dried, they sink again, + And dip their fins again to fly. + + Undone at play, the female troops + Come here their losses to retrieve; + Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, + Like Lapland witches in a sieve. + + Thus Venus to the sea descends, + As poets feign; but where's the moral? + It shows the Queen of Love intends + To search the deep for pearl and coral. + + The sea is richer than the land, + I heard it from my grannam's mouth, + Which now I clearly understand; + For by the sea she meant the South. + + Thus, by directors we are told, + "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; + Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, + Look round, and see how thick it lies: + + "We, gentlemen, are your assisters, + We'll come, and hold you by the chin."— + Alas! all is not gold that glisters, + Ten thousand sink by leaping in. + + O! would those patriots be so kind, + Here in the deep to wash their hands, + Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find + The sea indeed had golden sands. + + A shilling in the bath you fling, + The silver takes a nobler hue, + By magic virtue in the spring, + And seems a guinea to your view. + + But, as a guinea will not pass + At market for a farthing more, + Shown through a multiplying glass, + Than what it always did before: + + So cast it in the Southern seas, + Or view it through a jobber's bill; + Put on what spectacles you please, + Your guinea's but a guinea still. + + One night a fool into a brook + Thus from a hillock looking down, + The golden stars for guineas took, + And silver Cynthia for a crown. + + The point he could no longer doubt; + He ran, he leapt into the flood; + There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, + All cover'd o'er with slime and mud. + + "Upon the water cast thy bread, + And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] + But gold, upon this ocean spread, + Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it: + + There is a gulf, where thousands fell, + Here all the bold adventurers came, + A narrow sound, though deep as Hell— + 'Change Alley is the dreadful name. + + Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, + Yet he that on the surface lies, + Without a pilot seldom knows + The time it falls, or when 'twill rise. + + Subscribers here by thousands float, + And jostle one another down; + Each paddling in his leaky boat, + And here they fish for gold, and drown. + + "Now buried in the depth below, + Now mounted up to Heaven again, + They reel and stagger to and fro, + At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4] + + Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, + A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, + Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, + And strip the bodies of the dead. + + But these, you say, are factious lies, + From some malicious Tory's brain; + For, where directors get a prize, + The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain. + + Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, + Some cully often wins a bet, + By venturing on the cheating side, + Though not into the secret let. + + While some build castles in the air, + Directors build them in the seas; + Subscribers plainly see them there, + For fools will see as wise men please. + + Thus oft by mariners are shown + (Unless the men of Kent are liars) + Earl Godwin's castles overflown, + And palace roofs, and steeple spires. + + Mark where the sly directors creep, + Nor to the shore approach too nigh! + The monsters nestle in the deep, + To seize you in your passing by. + + Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, + Who, taught by instinct how to shun + The crocodile, that lurking lies, + Run as they drink, and drink and run. + + Antæus could, by magic charms, + Recover strength whene'er he fell; + Alcides held him in his arms, + And sent him up in air to Hell. + + Directors, thrown into the sea, + Recover strength and vigour there; + But may be tamed another way, + Suspended for a while in air. + + Directors! for 'tis you I warn, + By long experience we have found + What planet ruled when you were born; + We see you never can be drown'd. + + Beware, nor overbulky grow, + Nor come within your cully's reach; + For, if the sea should sink so low + To leave you dry upon the beach, + + You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: + Your foes already waiting stand, + To tear you like a founder'd hulk, + While you lie helpless on the sand. + + Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, + The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: + The monster into parts divide, + And strip the bones, and melt the oil. + + Oh! may some western tempest sweep + These locusts whom our fruits have fed, + That plague, directors, to the deep, + Driven from the South Sea to the Red! + + May he, whom Nature's laws obey, + Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, + "Quiet the raging of the sea, + And still the madness of the crowd!" + + But never shall our isle have rest, + Till those devouring swine run down, + (The devils leaving the possest) + And headlong in the waters drown. + + The nation then too late will find, + Computing all their cost and trouble, + Directors' promises but wind, + South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Phaëthon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. + xi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.] + + [Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.] + + [Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in + 1866.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, + Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: + Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et altè + Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps + Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una. + Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; + Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PROLOGUE + </h2> + <h3> + BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS SENT WITH THE PROLOGUE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not + allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon + which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. + The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company + of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, + etc. to act in. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our set of strollers, wandering up and down, + Hearing the house was empty, came to town; + And, with a license from our good lord mayor, + Went to one Griffith, formerly a player: + Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe, + To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe, + To let our company supply their places, + And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces. + Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me; + I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he. + When we perform, look sharp among our crew, + There's not a creature here you ever knew. + The former folks were servants to the king; + We, humble strollers, always on the wing. + Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole, + Rather than starve, a better man would stroll. + Stay! let me see—Three hundred pounds a-year, + For leave to act in town!—'Tis plaguy dear. + Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark, + For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk. + Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix, + The public should bestow the actors six; + A score of guineas given underhand, + For a good word or so, we understand. + To help an honest lad that's out of place, + May cost a crown or so; a common case: + And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought + To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat. + But, in the chronicles of former ages, + Who ever heard of servants paying wages? + I pity Elrington with all my heart; + Would he were here this night to act my part! + I told him what it was to be a stroller; + How free we acted, and had no comptroller: + In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor, + First get a license, then produce our ware; + We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum: + Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come; + And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on, + Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone. + I told him in the smoothest way I could, + All this, and more, yet it would do no good. + But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks, + He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2] + To whom our country has been always dear, + Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here, + Owns all your favours, here intends to stay, + And, as a stroller, act in every play: + And the whole crew this resolution takes, + To live and die all strollers, for your sakes; + Not frighted with an ignominious name, + For your displeasure is their only shame. + A pox on Elrington's majestic tone! + Now to a word of business in our own. + Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last: + Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. + Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss, + The next we act shall be as good as this. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great + reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by + Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the + death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the + management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic + consideration. He died in July, 1732.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in + comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786; + Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National + Biography."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE[1] + </h2> + <h3> + TO MR. HOPPY'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, AT SMOCK-ALLEY + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, + I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. + He's not the first person who never did write, + And yet has been fed by a benefit-night. + The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye, + In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury. + But then you must know, those players still act on + Some very good reasons, for such benefaction. + A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail; + From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. + Your emerited actors, and actresses too, + For what they have done (though no more they can do) + And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G——, + And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea; + A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright, + Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night. + Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found + That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound, + Paid to him clear money once every year: + And however some think it a little too dear, + Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow, + Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow. + First, because by the King to us he was sent, + To guide the whole session of this parliament. + To preside in our councils, both public and private, + And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at. + When bold B—— roars, and meek M—— raves, + When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be——h by halves, + When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories; + And to himself constant when a member no more is, + But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes; + As S——t is dull, and with S——d, who dotes; + Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low, + And with eloquent bow, the house he must show, + That that worthy member who spoke last must give + The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive, + That his sentiment on this affair isn't right; + That he mightily wonders which way he came by't: + That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown; + And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down. + For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear, + Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year, + And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood, + To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good; + To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit; + And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit. + To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat, + And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat: + All which he deserves; for although all the day + He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay; + And if he rise early to watch for the state, + To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late. + Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say + Hop has got all the money for our acting this play, + Which makes us poor actors look <i>je ne sçai quoy</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the + avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the + company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to + have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But + it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous + guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's + accuracy of numbers.—<i>Scott</i>. Perhaps so, but the note to this + piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the <i>Captain</i>, one evening, at the + end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at + <i>Gallstown</i>"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous + guests." This is very different from "composed."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROLOGUE[1] + </h2> + <p> + TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. SHERIDAN. + SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great cry, and little wool—is now become + The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom; + No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp; + Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. + Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry; + Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! + Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange + To shift your clothes, since you delight in change. + One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell— + The men will like you every bit as well. + See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff, + And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough; + My wife admires me more, and swears she never, + In any dress, beheld me look so clever. + And if a man be better in such ware, + What great advantage must it give the fair! + Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds; + Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds; + Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find + Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined— + And what are they but maggots in the mind? + For which I think it reason to conclude, + That clothes may change our temper like our food. + Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes + Too much about the party-colour'd dyes; + Although the lustre is from you begun, + We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun. + How sweet and innocent's the country maid, + With small expense in native wool array'd; + Who copies from the fields her homely green, + While by her shepherd with delight she's seen! + Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool + How much more lovely, and how beautiful, + Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove! + While wool would help to warm us into love! + Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, + We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the + Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish + Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL2" id="link2H_EPIL2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE + </h2> + <p> + TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY THE DEAN. + SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who dares affirm this is no pious age, + When charity begins to tread the stage? + When actors, who at best are hardly savers, + Will give a night of benefit to weavers? + Stay—let me see, how finely will it sound! + <i>Imprimis</i>, From his grace[1] a hundred pound. + Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors; + And then comes in the <i>item</i> of the actors. + <i>Item</i>, The actors freely give a day— + The poet had no more who made the play. + But whence this wondrous charity in players? + They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: + Under the rose, since here are none but friends, + (To own the truth) we have some private ends. + Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, + Hold up the prices of their old brocades; + We'll dress in manufactures made at home; + Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2] + We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen + And Antony shall court her in ratteen. + In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad, + And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid, + In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, + See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; + And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, + With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage. + In short, our kings and princesses within + Are all resolved this project to begin; + And you, our subjects, when you here resort, + Must imitate the fashion of the court. + O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, + Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: + But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, + And scarce a crown is left to see the play. + Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs + Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; + But wit and weaving had the same beginning; + Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: + And, next, observe how this alliance fits, + For weavers now are just as poor as wits: + Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, + For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; + But weavers will be kinder to the players, + And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs. + And to your knowledge, there is often less in + The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Archbishop King.] + + [Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.," + lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish + Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER + </h2> + <p> + TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE. IN BEHALF OF THE + DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Femineo generi tribuantur. + + The Muses, whom the richest silks array, + Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; + The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, + And gives each colour to the pictured maids; + Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, + Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine. + And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff + And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? + The player in mimic piety may storm, + Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm: + The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, + May curse the belles and chintzes of the age: + Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, + And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. + The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, + Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; + Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, + Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: + Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, + And be the emblem of your innocence. + Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, + Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour: + Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, + Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. + Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, + For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these? + Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade + Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid. + Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, + Thus act subservient to a poplin gown? + Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough + The under petticoat be made of stuff. + Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May, + When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay! + And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they? + In what weak colours would the plaid appear, + Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair! + The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff; + Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough? + Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, + Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, + Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, + And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky! + Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full: + And all this for the benefit of wool! + "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers, + That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?" + The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, + Demand their care, to make their webs complete: + These may they tend, their promises receive; + We cannot pay too much for what they give! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. BY DR. DELANY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, + You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; + 'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, + You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; + 'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, + And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; + 'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, + And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; + 'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, + Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; + 'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, + And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; + 'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, + 'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, + 'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, + It is part of the new, and part of the old; + It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse— + wish then, dear George, it were better or worse. + + [Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George + Rochfort, Esq.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COUNTRY LIFE + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, + </h2> + <h3> + THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort. + <i>George</i>, his eldest son. + <i>Nim</i>, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting. + <i>Dan</i>, Mr. Jackson, a parson. + Gaulstown, the Baron's seat. + <i>Sheridan</i>, a pedant and pedagogue. + <i>Delany</i>, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor + of Ireland. + Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal. + Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thalia, tell, in sober lays, + How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days; + And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, + Yet <i>Neget quis carmina Gallo?</i> + Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I + Not Sheridan, but friend Delany. + Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers + We sally forth at different hours; + At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, + Goes round the house to wake the rest; + At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, + Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2] + At ten my lady comes and hectors + And kisses George, and ends our lectures; + And when she has him by the neck fast, + Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast. + We squander there an hour or more, + And then all hands, boys, to the oar; + All, heteroclite Dan except, + Who never time nor order kept, + But by peculiar whimseys drawn, + Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn: + O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, + Or mars a text, or mends his hose; + Or—but proceed we in our journal— + At two, or after, we return all: + From the four elements assembling, + Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, + From airy garrets some descend, + Some from the lake's remotest end; + My lord and Dean the fire forsake, + Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; + The loiterers quake, no corner hides them + And Lady Betty soundly chides them. + Now water brought, and dinner done; + With "Church and King" the ladies gone. + Not reckoning half an hour we pass + In talking o'er a moderate glass. + Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief + Steals off to doze away his beef; + And this must pass for reading Hammond— + While George and Dean go to backgammon. + George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, + And then, again, boys, to the oar. + But when the sun goes to the deep, + (Not to disturb him in his sleep, + Or make a rumbling o'er his head, + His candle out, and he a-bed,) + We watch his motions to a minute, + And leave the flood when he goes in it. + Now stinted in the shortening day, + We go to prayers and then to play, + Till supper comes; and after that + We sit an hour to drink and chat. + 'Tis late—the old and younger pairs, + By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs. + The weary Dean goes to his chamber; + And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, + So when the circle we have run, + The curtain falls and all is done. + I might have mention'd several facts, + Like episodes between the acts; + And tell who loses and who wins, + Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; + How Dan caught nothing in his net, + And how the boat was overset. + For brevity I have retrench'd + How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: + It would be an exploit to brag on, + How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; + How steady in the storm he sat, + And saved his oar, but lost his hat: + How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) + Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; + How skilfully Dan mends his nets; + How fortune fails him when he sets; + Or how the Dean delights to vex + The ladies, and lampoon their sex: + I might have told how oft Dean Perceval + Displays his pedantry unmerciful, + How haughtily he cocks his nose, + To tell what every schoolboy knows: + And with his finger and his thumb, + Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: + But now there needs no more be said on't, + Nor how his wife, that female pedant, + Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: + For candles how she trucks her dripping; + Was forced to send three miles for yeast, + To brew her ale, and raise her paste; + Tells everything that you can think of, + How she cured Charley of the chincough; + What gave her brats and pigs the measles, + And how her doves were killed by weasels; + How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright + She had with dreams the other night. + But now, since I have gone so far on, + A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; + And tell how little weight he sets + On all Whig papers and gazettes; + But for the politics of Pue,[4] + Thinks every syllable is true: + And since he owns the King of Sweden [5] + Is dead at last, without evading, + Now all his hopes are in the czar; + "Why, Muscovy is not so far; + Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, + And in a month he's at your gates; + Perhaps from what the packet brings, + By Christmas we shall see strange things." + Why should I tell of ponds and drains, + What carps we met with for our pains; + Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable + To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? + But you, who are a scholar, know + How transient all things are below, + How prone to change is human life! + Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife— + This grand event has broke our measures; + Their reign began with cruel seizures; + The Dean must with his quilt supply + The bed in which those tyrants lie; + Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, + (My lady says, she can't afford one,) + George is half scared out of his wits, + For Clem gets all the dainty bits. + Henceforth expect a different survey, + This house will soon turn topsyturvy; + They talk of farther alterations, + Which causes many speculations. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for + his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The butler.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p. + 347.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a + "petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to + "Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of + Gaulstown.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WOULD you that Delville I describe? + Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: + For who would be satirical + Upon a thing so very small? + You scarce upon the borders enter, + Before you're at the very centre. + A single crow can make it night, + When o'er your farm she takes her flight: + Yet, in this narrow compass, we + Observe a vast variety; + Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, + Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs, + And hills and dales, and woods and fields, + And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields: + All to your haggard brought so cheap in, + Without the mowing or the reaping: + A razor, though to say't I'm loth, + Would shave you and your meadows both. + Though small's the farm, yet here's a house + Full large to entertain a mouse; + But where a rat is dreaded more + Than savage Caledonian boar; + For, if it's enter'd by a rat, + There is no room to bring a cat. + A little rivulet seems to steal + Down through a thing you call a vale, + Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, + Like rain along a blade of leek: + And this you call your sweet meander, + Which might be suck'd up by a gander, + Could he but force his nether bill + To scoop the channel of the rill. + For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, + Were it as big as city gutter. + Next come I to your kitchen garden, + Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; + And round this garden is a walk + No longer than a tailor's chalk; + Thus I compare what space is in it, + A snail creeps round it in a minute. + One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze + Up through a tuft you call your trees: + And, once a year, a single rose + Peeps from the bud, but never blows; + In vain then you expect its bloom! + It cannot blow for want of room. + In short, in all your boasted seat, + There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's + friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is + unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, + Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. + This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent, + And bid him go ask what his votary meant? + "Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: + 'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser! + Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, + I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; + For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; + And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CARBERIAE RUPES + </h2> + <h3> + IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo + Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, + Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa + Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur + Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis. + Nam, longâ venti rabie, atque aspergine crebrâ + Aequorei laticis, specus imâ rupe cavatur: + Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant; + Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas. + Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem + Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum + In capita anguipedum coelo jaculâsse gigantum. + Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu + Exesa è scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, + Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo + Cautibus enormè junctis laquearia tecti + Formantur; moles olim ruitura supernè. + Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, + Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae. + Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, + Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; + Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextrâ + Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, + Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procellâ: + Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia latè, + Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, + Terretur tamen, et longè fugit, arva relinquens. + Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, + Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, + Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt. + Piscator terrâ non audet vellere funem; + Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aëra sudum + Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CARBERY ROCKS + </h2> + <h3> + TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds + Its airy head amid the azure clouds, + Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props, + Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops; + With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound, + From shore to shore the rocks return the sound: + The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, + And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: + For, long the whirling winds and beating tides + Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides. + Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge + Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge. + Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, + When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; + Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, + To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load. + Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide + Presents an orifice on either side. + A dismal orifice, from sea to sea + Extended, pervious to the God of Day: + Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form + An arch, the ruin of a future storm: + High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, + And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake. + But when bleak Winter with his sullen train + Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; + When o'er the craggy steep without control, + Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; + Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, + Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, + Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, + Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, + Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: + Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore. + The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks + Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, + Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, + Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. + The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, + The wither'd herb improvident they crop, + Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, + Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep. + The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, + Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, + Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, + Wearies with vows the monarch of the main. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES + </h2> + <h3> + ON MR. FORD[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COME, be content, since out it must, + For Stella has betray'd her trust; + And, whispering, charged me not to say + That Mr. Ford was born to-day; + Or, if at last I needs must blab it, + According to my usual habit, + She bid me, with a serious face, + Be sure conceal the time and place; + And not my compliment to spoil, + By calling this your native soil; + Or vex the ladies, when they knew + That you are turning forty-two: + But, if these topics shall appear + Strong arguments to keep you here, + I think, though you judge hardly of it, + Good manners must give place to profit. + The nymphs, with whom you first began, + Are each become a harridan; + And Montague so far decay'd, + Her lovers now must all be paid; + And every belle that since arose, + Has her contemporary beaux. + Your former comrades, once so bright, + With whom you toasted half the night, + Of rheumatism and pox complain, + And bid adieu to dear champaign. + Your great protectors, once in power, + Are now in exile or the Tower. + Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, + Who hate your person and your cause, + If once they get you on the spot, + You must be guilty of the plot; + For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire, + But use you ten times worse than Prior. + In London! what would you do there? + Can you, my friend, with patience bear + (Nay, would it not your passion raise + Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase) + To see a scoundrel strut and hector, + A foot-boy to some rogue director, + To look on vice triumphant round, + And virtue trampled on the ground? + Observe where bloody **** stands + With torturing engines in his hands, + Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail, + Threatening the pillory and jail: + If this you think a pleasing scene, + To London straight return again; + Where, you have told us from experience, + Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians. + I thought my very spleen would burst, + When fortune hither drove me first; + Was full as hard to please as you, + Nor persons' names nor places knew: + But now I act as other folk, + Like prisoners when their gaol is broke. + If you have London still at heart, + We'll make a small one here by art; + The difference is not much between + St. James's Park and Stephen's Green; + And Dawson Street will serve as well + To lead you thither as Pall Mall. + Nor want a passage through the palace, + To choke your sight, and raise your malice. + The Deanery-house may well be match'd, + Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2] + Nor shall I, when you hither come, + Demand a crown a-quart for stum. + Then for a middle-aged charmer, + Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3] + She's now as handsome every bit, + And has a thousand times her wit + The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, + Will half supply a Gay and Pope. + Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not, + No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot. + I throw into the bargain Tim; + In London can you equal him? + What think you of my favourite clan, + Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan; + Fellows of modest worth and parts, + With cheerful looks and honest hearts? + Can you on Dublin look with scorn? + Yet here were you and Ormond born. + O! were but you and I so wise, + To see with Robert Grattan's eyes! + Robin adores that spot of earth, + That literal spot which gave him birth; + And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste, + As fine as Hampton-court at least." + When to your friends you would enhance + The praise of Italy or France, + For grandeur, elegance, and wit, + We gladly hear you, and submit; + But then, to come and keep a clutter, + For this or that side of a gutter, + To live in this or t'other isle, + We cannot think it worth your while; + For, take it kindly or amiss, + The difference but amounts to this, + We bury on our side the channel + In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7] + You for the news are ne'er to seek; + While we, perhaps, may wait a week; + You happy folks are sure to meet + A hundred whores in every street; + While we may trace all Dublin o'er + Before we find out half a score. + You see my arguments are strong, + I wonder you held out so long; + But, since you are convinced at last, + We'll pardon you for what has past. + So—let us now for whist prepare; + Twelve pence a corner, if you dare. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his + friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the + poem, "Stella at Wood Park."—Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's + intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a + fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and + nation."—<i>Nichols</i>.] + + [Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till + about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, + "exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind + than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the + Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i, + 172.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death + of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.] + + [Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in + 1733.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DREAMS + </h2> + <h3> + AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Petronii Fragmenta, xxx. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, + And with false flitting shades our minds delude + Jove never sends us downward from the skies; + Nor can they from infernal mansions rise; + But are all mere productions of the brain, + And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1] + + For when in bed we rest our weary limbs, + The mind unburden'd sports in various whims; + The busy head with mimic art runs o'er + The scenes and actions of the day before.[2] + + The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, + To regal rage devotes some patriot's head. + With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, + The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt. + + The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, + And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. + With like remorse his brother of the trade, + The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. + + The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, + And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. + Nor less Tom-t—d-man, of true statesman mould, + Collects the city filth in search of gold. + + Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, + And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. + His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, + Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob. + + The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, + Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. + The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, + Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes. + + The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, + As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: + While the sly mountebank attends his trade, + Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. + + The hireling senator of modern days + Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: + And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace + Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: + "Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, + Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, + Sed sibi quisque facit."] + + [Footnote 2: + "Nam cum prostrata sopore + Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, + Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, + </h2> + <h3> + IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, + Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. + Can anything be more unkind? + Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? + Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,— + A friend that loves to see and hear you. + Why am I robb'd of that delight, + When you can be no loser by't + Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) + That if you heard you'd be no gainer? + For sure you are not yet to learn, + That hearing is not your concern. + Then be your doors no longer barr'd: + Your business, sir, is to be heard. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wise pretend to make it clear, + 'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. + Why are we then so fond of two, + When by experience one would do? + 'Tis true, say they, cut off the head, + And there's an end; the man is dead; + Because, among all human race, + None e'er was known to have a brace: + But confidently they maintain, + That where we find the members twain, + The loss of one is no such trouble, + Since t'other will in strength be double. + The limb surviving, you may swear, + Becomes his brother's lawful heir: + Thus, for a trial, let me beg of + Your reverence but to cut one leg off, + And you shall find, by this device, + The other will be stronger twice; + For every day you shall be gaining + New vigour to the leg remaining. + So, when an eye has lost its brother, + You see the better with the other, + Cut off your hand, and you may do + With t'other hand the work of two: + Because the soul her power contracts, + And on the brother limb reacts. + But yet the point is not so clear in + Another case, the sense of hearing: + For, though the place of either ear + Be distant, as one head can bear, + Yet Galen most acutely shows you, + (Consult his book <i>de partium usu</i>) + That from each ear, as he observes, + There creep two auditory nerves, + Not to be seen without a glass, + Which near the <i>os petrosum</i> pass; + Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there, + One goes to this, and one to t'other ear; + Which made my grandam always stuff her ears + Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers. + You see my learning; but, to shorten it, + When my left ear was deaf a fortnight, + To t'other ear I felt it coming on: + And thus I solve this hard phenomenon. + + 'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies + To weak, or old, or clouded eyes: + Your arms, though both your eyes were lost, + Would guard your nose against a post: + Without your legs, two legs of wood + Are stronger, and almost as good: + And as for hands, there have been those + Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1] + But no contrivance yet appears + To furnish artificial ears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot. + And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush + betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it + done at all.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME + </h2> + <h3> + TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NELL scolded in so loud a din, + That Will durst hardly venture in: + He mark'd the conjugal dispute; + Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute; + But, when he saw his friend appear, + Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!" + At sight of Will she bawl'd no more, + But hurried out and clapt the door. + Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell, + (Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell. + Why what a peal the jade has rung! + D—n her, why don't you slit her tongue? + For nothing else will make it cease. + Dear Will, I suffer this for peace: + I never quarrel with my wife; + I bear it for a quiet life. + Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it; + Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it. + Will went again to visit Dick; + And entering in the very nick, + He saw virago Nell belabour, + With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour. + Poor Will, who needs must interpose, + Received a brace or two of blows. + But now, to make my story short, + Will drew out Dick to take a quart. + Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims; + Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs? + If she were mine, and had such tricks, + I'd teach her how to handle sticks: + Z—ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1] + Or truck the carrion for tobacco: + I'd send her far enough away—— + Dear Will; but what would people say? + Lord! I should get so ill a name, + The neighbours round would cry out shame. + Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; + But who believed him when he said it? + Can he, who makes himself a slave, + Consult his peace, or credit save? + Dick found it by his ill success, + His quiet small, his credit less. + She served him at the usual rate; + She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: + And what he thought the hardest case, + The parish jeer'd him to his face; + Those men who wore the breeches least, + Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. + At home he was pursued with noise; + Abroad was pester'd by the boys: + Within, his wife would break his bones: + Without, they pelted him with stones; + The 'prentices procured a riding,[2] + To act his patience and her chiding. + False patience and mistaken pride! + There are ten thousand Dicks beside; + Slaves to their quiet and good name, + Are used like Dick, and bear the blame. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See <i>post</i>, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."] + + [Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to + ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in + this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through + the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and + her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, + enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix, + 370, 578.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS + 1726 + + Ye poets ragged and forlorn, + Down from your garrets haste; + Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, + Not yet consign'd to paste; + + I know a trick to make you thrive; + O, 'tis a quaint device: + Your still-born poems shall revive, + And scorn to wrap up spice. + + Get all your verses printed fair, + Then let them well be dried; + And Curll[1] must have a special care + To leave the margin wide. + + Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; + And when he sets to write, + No letter with an envelope + Could give him more delight. + + When Pope has fill'd the margins round, + Why then recall your loan; + Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, + And swear they are your own. + + [Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, + <i>passim.—W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer + (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the + covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters + themselves.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PASTORAL DIALOGUE + </h2> + <p> + WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, WHO DIED + THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the + following explanatory introduction: + + Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It + was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond + was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of + Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer + there. It is within a mile of Richmond. + + "Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now + Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the + Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles + from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert + the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the + ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the + above dialogue."—<i>Dublin Edition</i>, 1734. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, + And all that he or they can say; + Sing on I must, and sing I will, + Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill. + Last Friday night, as neighbours use, + This couple met to talk of news: + For, by old proverbs, it appears, + That walls have tongues, and hedges ears. + + MARBLE HILL + + Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, + Your mistress now is grown a queen; + You'll find it soon by woful proof, + She'll come no more beneath your roof. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + The kingly prophet well evinces, + That we should put no trust in princes: + My royal master promised me + To raise me to a high degree: + But now he's grown a king, God wot, + I fear I shall be soon forgot. + You see, when folks have got their ends, + How quickly they neglect their friends; + Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, + Pray God, they now may find as true! + + MARBLE HILL + + My house was built but for a show, + My lady's empty pockets know; + And now she will not have a shilling, + To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; + For all the courtly madams round + Now pay four shillings in the pound; + 'Tis come to what I always thought: + My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2] + Had you and I been courtiers born, + We should not thus have lain forlorn; + For those we dext'rous courtiers call, + Can rise upon their masters' fall: + But we, unlucky and unwise, + Must fall because our masters rise. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + My master, scarce a fortnight since, + Was grown as wealthy as a prince; + But now it will be no such thing, + For he'll be poor as any king; + And by his crown will nothing get, + But like a king to run in debt. + + MARBLE HILL + + No more the Dean, that grave divine, + Shall keep the key of my (no) wine; + My ice-house rob, as heretofore, + And steal my artichokes no more; + Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen + Bedraggled in my walks so green: + Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; + And here no more will dangle Pope. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, + To spunge a breakfast once a-week; + To cry the bread was stale, and mutter + Complaints against the royal butter. + But now I fear it will be said, + No butter sticks upon his bread.[4] + We soon shall find him full of spleen, + For want of tattling to the queen; + Stunning her royal ears with talking; + His reverence and her highness walking: + While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller, + Sits mounted on the garden-roller. + A goodly sight to see her ride, + With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. + In velvet cap his head lies warm, + His hat, for show, beneath his arm. + + MARBLE HILL + + Some South-Sea broker from the city + Will purchase me, the more's the pity; + Lay all my fine plantations waste, + To fit them to his vulgar taste: + Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, + My master Pope will break his heart. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + In my own Thames may I be drownded, + If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: + Except her majesty prevails + To place me with the Prince of Wales; + And then I shall be free from fears, + For he'll be prince these fifty years. + I then will turn a courtier too, + And serve the times as others do. + Plain loyalty, not built on hope, + I leave to your contriver, Pope; + None loves his king and country better, + Yet none was ever less their debtor. + + MARBLE HILL + + Then let him come and take a nap + In summer on my verdant lap; + Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, + To Kensington, or hot St. James's; + Nor shall I dull in silence sit; + For 'tis to me he owes his wit; + My groves, my echoes, and my birds, + Have taught him his poetic words. + We gardens, and you wildernesses, + Assist all poets in distresses. + Him twice a-week I here expect, + To rattle Moody[7] for neglect; + An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge + In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; + And I can hardly get him down + Three times a-week to brush my gown. + + RICHMOND LODGE + + I pity you, dear Marble Hill; + But hope to see you flourish still. + All happiness—and so adieu. + + MARBLE HILL + + Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after + supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden + on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at + the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th, + wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room + where he was born.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the + narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to + Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death, + described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy + could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and + states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the + King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty + thousand pounds to her family.—See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p. + 304; v, p. 456.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his + esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral + Epistle."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean + suspected.] + + [Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England + after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of + religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See + Voltaire, "Siècle de Louis XIV."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: The gardener.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire + In men, Possession and Desire! + Think what they wish so great a blessing; + So disappointed when possessing! + A moralist profoundly sage + (I know not in what book or page, + Or whether o'er a pot of ale) + Related thus the following tale. + Possession, and Desire, his brother, + But still at variance with each other, + Were seen contending in a race; + And kept at first an equal pace; + 'Tis said, their course continued long, + For this was active, that was strong: + Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt, + Misled them many a league about; + Seduced by some deceiving light, + They take the wrong way for the right; + Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, + They often climb, and often creep. + Desire, the swifter of the two, + Along the plain like lightning flew: + Till, entering on a broad highway, + Where power and titles scatter'd lay, + He strove to pick up all he found, + And by excursions lost his ground: + No sooner got, than with disdain + He threw them on the ground again; + And hasted forward to pursue + Fresh objects, fairer to his view, + In hope to spring some nobler game; + But all he took was just the same: + Too scornful now to stop his pace, + He spurn'd them in his rival's face. + Possession kept the beaten road, + And gather'd all his brother strew'd; + But overcharged, and out of wind, + Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind. + Desire had now the goal in sight; + It was a tower of monstrous height; + Where on the summit Fortune stands, + A crown and sceptre in her hands; + Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell, + Where many a bold adventurer fell. + Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile, + And saw the treacherous goddess smile; + But as he climb'd to grasp the crown, + She knock'd him with the sceptre down! + He tumbled in the gulf profound; + There doom'd to whirl an endless round. + Possession's load was grown so great, + He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight; + And, as he now expiring lay, + Flocks every ominous bird of prey; + The raven, vulture, owl, and kite, + At once upon his carcass light, + And strip his hide, and pick his bones, + Regardless of his dying groans. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +ON CENSURE + 1727 + + Ye wise, instruct me to endure + An evil, which admits no cure; + Or, how this evil can be borne, + Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. + Bare innocence is no support, + When you are tried in Scandal's court. + Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; + All others, who inferior sit, + Conceive themselves in conscience bound + To join, and drag you to the ground. + Your altitude offends the eyes + Of those who want the power to rise. + The world, a willing stander-by, + Inclines to aid a specious lie: + Alas! they would not do you wrong; + But all appearances are strong. + Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay + On what detracting people say! + For let mankind discharge their tongues + In venom, till they burst their lungs, + Their utmost malice cannot make + Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; + Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, + Or put one feature out of place; + Nor will you find your fortune sink + By what they speak or what they think; + Nor can ten hundred thousand lies + Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. + The most effectual way to balk + Their malice, is—to let them talk. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND + 1727 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A set of phrases learn'd by rote; + A passion for a scarlet coat; + When at a play, to laugh or cry, + Yet cannot tell the reason why; + Never to hold her tongue a minute, + While all she prates has nothing in it; + Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, + And take his nonsense all for wit; + Her learning mounts to read a song, + But half the words pronouncing wrong; + Has every repartee in store + She spoke ten thousand times before; + Can ready compliments supply + On all occasions cut and dry; + Such hatred to a parson's gown, + The sight would put her in a swoon; + For conversation well endued, + She calls it witty to be rude; + And, placing raillery in railing, + Will tell aloud your greatest failing; + Nor make a scruple to expose + Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; + Can at her morning tea run o'er + The scandal of the day before; + Improving hourly in her skill, + To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. + In choosing lace, a critic nice, + Knows to a groat the lowest price; + Can in her female clubs dispute, + What linen best the silk will suit, + What colours each complexion match, + And where with art to place a patch. + If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, + Can finely counterfeit a fright; + So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, + She ravishes all hearts to hear her. + Can dext'rously her husband teaze, + By taking fits whene'er she please; + By frequent practice learns the trick + At proper seasons to be sick; + Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, + At once creating love and pity; + If Molly happens to be careless, + And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, + She gets a cold as sure as death, + And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; + Admires how modest women can + Be so robustious like a man. + In party, furious to her power; + A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; + Her arguments directly tend + Against the side she would defend; + Will prove herself a Tory plain, + From principles the Whigs maintain; + And, to defend the Whiggish cause, + Her topics from the Tories draws. + O yes! if any man can find + More virtues in a woman's mind, + Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1] + She'll pay the charges to a farthing; + Take notice, she has my commission + To add them in the next edition; + They may outsell a better thing: + So, holla, boys; God save the King! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, + Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, + He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, + And promised to pay for it when he came back. + His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; + His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't. + The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, + And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!" + But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, + Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side! + And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, + He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!" + The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; + Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: + Then said, I must speak to the people a little; + But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1] + My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) + He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. + Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, + Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; + My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, + And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; + Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, + Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was + the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of + stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1727 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +POPE has the talent well to speak, + But not to reach the ear; + His loudest voice is low and weak, + The Dean too deaf to hear. + + Awhile they on each other look, + Then different studies choose; + The Dean sits plodding on a book; + Pope walks, and courts the Muse. + + Now backs of letters, though design'd + For those who more will need 'em, + Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, + Himself can hardly read 'em. + + Each atom by some other struck, + All turns and motions tries; + Till in a lump together stuck, + Behold a poem rise: + + Yet to the Dean his share allot; + He claims it by a canon; + That without which a thing is not, + Is <i>causa sine quâ non</i>. + + Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; + For, had our deaf divine + Been for your conversation fit, + You had not writ a line. + + Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed + The sexton reason'd well; + And justly half the merit claim'd, + Because he rang the bell. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS +</pre> + <h3> + WRITTEN AT LONDON + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By poets we are well assured + That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; + A complicated heap of ills, + Despising boluses and pills. + Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, + Since first I gave my heart to you. + Now, by your cruelty hard bound, + I strain my guts, my colon wound. + Now jealousy my grumbling tripes + Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. + When pity in those eyes I view, + My bowels wambling make me spew. + When I an amorous kiss design'd, + I belch'd a hurricane of wind. + Once you a gentle sigh let fall; + Remember how I suck'd it all; + What colic pangs from thence I felt, + Had you but known, your heart would melt, + Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, + Till Nature pointed out a vent. + How have you torn my heart to pieces + With maggots, humours, and caprices! + By which I got the hemorrhoids; + And loathsome worms my <i>anus</i> voids. + Whene'er I hear a rival named, + I feel my body all inflamed; + Which, breaking out in boils and blains, + With yellow filth my linen stains; + Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, + Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; + And then I drag a bloated <i>corpus</i>, + Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; + When, if I cannot purge or stale, + I must be tapp'd to fill a pail. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <h3> + BOUTS RIMEZ[1] + </h3> + <h3> + ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, + Of classic beauty, <i>haec et illa</i>; + Not all his birch inspires such wit + As th'ogling beams of Domitilla. + + Let nobles toast, in bright champaign, + Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; + I'll drink her health, again, again, + In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla. + + At Goodman's Fields I've much admired + The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; + But what are they to the soft step, + The gliding air of Domitilla? + + Virgil has eternized in song + The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3] + Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; + He might have dream'd of Domitilla. + + Great Theodose condemn'd a town + For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4] + And deuce take London! if some knight + O' th' city wed not Domitilla. + + Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, + Gives us a medal of Plantilla; + But O! the empress has not eyes, + Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla. + + Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, + Piled on the mules of king At-tila, + Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) + Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla. + + Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, + Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- + —bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let + To verse—but now for Domitilla. + + Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch + To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6] + And thus I offer up my catch + To the snow-white hands of Domitilla. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a + line, and to which rhymes must be found.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, <i>inter alia</i>, for his + enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints. + See his Works, <i>edit.</i> Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a + remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to + Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the + "Journal."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.] + + [Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several + books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS + </h2> + <h3> + UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now the active young attorneys + Briskly travel on their journeys, + Looking big as any giants, + On the horses of their clients; + Like so many little Marses + With their tilters at their a—s, + Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, + And with harness-buckles furnish'd, + And with whips and spurs so neat, + And with jockey-coats complete, + And with boots so very greasy, + And with saddles eke so easy, + And with bridles fine and gay, + Bridles borrow'd for a day, + Bridles destined far to roam, + Ah! never, never to come home. + And with hats so very big, sir, + And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, + And with ruffles to be shown, + Cambric ruffles not their own; + And with Holland shirts so white, + Shirts becoming to the sight, + Shirts bewrought with different letters, + As belonging to their betters. + With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, + Gotten from their dainty doxies, + And with rings so very trim, + Lately taken out of lim—[1] + And with very little pence, + And as very little sense; + With some law, but little justice, + Having stolen from my hostess, + From the barber and the cutler, + Like the soldier from the sutler; + From the vintner and the tailor, + Like the felon from the jailor; + Into this and t'other county, + Living on the public bounty; + Thorough town and thorough village, + All to plunder, all to pillage: + Thorough mountains, thorough valleys, + Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, + Some to—kiss with farmers' spouses, + And make merry in their houses; + Some to tumble country wenches + On their rushy beds and benches; + And if they begin a fray, + Draw their swords, and——run away; + All to murder equity, + And to take a double fee; + Till the people are all quiet, + And forget to broil and riot, + Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, + Safely glad to sup their porridge, + And vacation's over—then, + Hey, for London town again. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: <i>Limbo</i>, any place of misery and restraint. + "For he no sooner was at large, + But Trulla straight brought on the charge, + And in the selfsame <i>Limbo</i> put + The knight and squire where he was shut." + <i>Hudibras</i>, Part i, canto iii, 1,000. + Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PUPPET-SHOW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The life of man to represent, + And turn it all to ridicule, + Wit did a puppet-show invent, + Where the chief actor is a fool. + + The gods of old were logs of wood, + And worship was to puppets paid; + In antic dress the idol stood, + And priest and people bow'd the head. + + No wonder then, if art began + The simple votaries to frame, + To shape in timber foolish man, + And consecrate the block to fame. + + From hence poetic fancy learn'd + That trees might rise from human forms; + The body to a trunk be turn'd, + And branches issue from the arms. + + Thus Dædalus and Ovid too, + That man's a blockhead, have confest: + Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue; + Life is a farce, the world a jest. + + The same great truth South Sea has proved + On that famed theatre, the alley; + Where thousands, by directors moved + Are now sad monuments of folly. + + What Momus was of old to Jove, + The same a Harlequin is now; + The former was buffoon above, + The latter is a Punch below. + + This fleeting scene is but a stage, + Where various images appear; + In different parts of youth and age, + Alike the prince and peasant share. + + Some draw our eyes by being great, + False pomp conceals mere wood within; + And legislators ranged in state + Are oft but wisdom in machine. + + A stock may chance to wear a crown, + And timber as a lord take place; + A statue may put on a frown, + And cheat us with a thinking face. + + Others are blindly led away, + And made to act for ends unknown; + By the mere spring of wires they play, + And speak in language not their own. + + Too oft, alas! a scolding wife + Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; + And many drink the cup of life, + Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan. + + In short, whatever men pursue, + Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: + This mimic race brings all to view: + Alike they dress, they talk, they move. + + Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, + Mortals to please and to deride; + And, when death breaks thy vital band, + Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride. + + Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, + Thy image shall preserve thy fame; + Ages to come thy worth shall own, + Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name. + + Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, + Before he looks in nature's glass; + Puns cannot form a witty scene, + Nor pedantry for humour pass. + + To make men act as senseless wood, + And chatter in a mystic strain, + Is a mere force on flesh and blood, + And shows some error in the brain. + + He that would thus refine on thee, + And turn thy stage into a school, + The jest of Punch will ever be, + And stand confest the greater fool. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.] + + [Footnote 2: Sheridan.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY + </h2> + <h3> + IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part + In you, who ought to know my heart, + Are well acquainted with my zeal + For all the female commonweal— + How could it come into your mind + To pitch on me, of all mankind, + Against the sex to write a satire, + And brand me for a woman-hater? + On me, who think them all so fair, + They rival Venus to a hair; + Their virtues never ceased to sing, + Since first I learn'd to tune a string? + Methinks I hear the ladies cry, + Will he his character belie? + Must never our misfortunes end? + And have we lost our only friend? + Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears, + No more let fall those precious tears. + Sooner shall, etc. + + [Here several verses are omitted.] + + The hound be hunted by the hare, + Than I turn rebel to the fair. + 'Twas you engaged me first to write, + Then gave the subject out of spite: + The journal of a modern dame, + Is, by my promise, what you claim. + My word is past, I must submit; + And yet perhaps you may be bit. + I but transcribe; for not a line + Of all the satire shall be mine. + Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes + The common slanders of the times, + Of modern times, the guilt is yours, + And me my innocence secures. + Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, + The annals of a female day. + By nature turn'd to play the rake well, + (As we shall show you in the sequel,) + The modern dame is waked by noon, + (Some authors say not quite so soon,) + Because, though sore against her will, + She sat all night up at quadrille. + She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, + And asks if it be time to rise; + Of headache and the spleen complains; + And then, to cool her heated brains, + Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, + Takes a large dram of citron water. + Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray, + Don't I look frightfully to-day? + But was it not confounded hard? + Well, if I ever touch a card! + Four matadores, and lose codille! + Depend upon't, I never will. + But run to Tom, and bid him fix + The ladies here to-night by six." + "Madam, the goldsmith waits below; + He says, his business is to know + If you'll redeem the silver cup + He keeps in pawn?"—"Why, show him up." + "Your dressing-plate he'll be content + To take, for interest <i>cent. per cent.</i> + And, madam, there's my Lady Spade + Has sent this letter by her maid." + "Well, I remember what she won; + And has she sent so soon to dun? + Here, carry down these ten pistoles + My husband left to pay for coals: + I thank my stars they all are light, + And I may have revenge to-night." + Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, + She enters on her usual theme; + Her last night's ill success repeats, + Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: + "She slipt spadillo in her breast, + Then thought to turn it to a jest: + There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, + And to each other give the sign." + Through every game pursues her tale, + Like hunters o'er their evening ale. + Now to another scene give place: + Enter the folks with silks and lace: + Fresh matter for a world of chat, + Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: + "Observe this pattern—there's a stuff; + I can have customers enough. + Dear madam, you are grown so hard— + This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: + Madam, if there be truth in man, + I never sold so cheap a fan." + This business of importance o'er, + And madam almost dress'd by four; + The footman, in his usual phrase, + Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." + She answers, in her usual style, + "The cook must keep it back a while; + I never can have time to dress, + No woman breathing takes up less; + I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; + I wish the dinner at Old Nick." + At table now she acts her part, + Has all the dinner cant by heart: + "I thought we were to dine alone, + My dear; for sure, if I had known + This company would come to-day— + But really 'tis my spouse's way! + He's so unkind, he never sends + To tell when he invites his friends: + I wish ye may but have enough!" + And while with all this paltry stuff + She sits tormenting every guest, + Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, + In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, + Which modern ladies call polite; + You see the booby husband sit + In admiration at her wit! + But let me now a while survey + Our madam o'er her evening tea; + Surrounded with her noisy clans + Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, + When, frighted at the clamorous crew, + Away the God of Silence flew, + And fair Discretion left the place, + And modesty with blushing face; + Now enters overweening Pride, + And Scandal, ever gaping wide, + Hypocrisy with frown severe, + Scurrility with gibing air; + Rude laughter seeming like to burst, + And Malice always judging worst; + And Vanity with pocket glass, + And Impudence with front of brass; + And studied Affectation came, + Each limb and feature out of frame; + While Ignorance, with brain of lead, + Flew hovering o'er each female head. + Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, + A hundred tongues, as poets use, + When, to give every dame her due, + A hundred thousand were too few? + Or how should I, alas! relate + The sum of all their senseless prate, + Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, + Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? + Now comes the general scandal charge; + What some invent, the rest enlarge; + And, "Madam, if it be a lie, + You have the tale as cheap as I; + I must conceal my author's name: + But now 'tis known to common fame." + Say, foolish females, bold and blind, + Say, by what fatal turn of mind, + Are you on vices most severe, + Wherein yourselves have greatest share? + Thus every fool herself deludes; + The prude condemns the absent prudes: + Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, + Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; + Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes + To censure Phyllis for perfumes; + While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, + That Florimel wears iron stays; + Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, + Admires how girls can talk with fellows; + And, full of indignation, frets, + That women should be such coquettes: + Iris, for scandal most notorious, + Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" + And Rufa, with her combs of lead, + Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: + Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, + Talks half a day in praise of silence; + And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, + Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. + Now voices over voices rise, + While each to be the loudest vies: + They contradict, affirm, dispute, + No single tongue one moment mute; + All mad to speak, and none to hearken, + They set the very lap-dog barking; + Their chattering makes a louder din + Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; + Not schoolboys at a barring out + Raised ever such incessant rout; + The jumbling particles of matter + In chaos made not such a clatter; + Far less the rabble roar and rail, + When drunk with sour election ale. + Nor do they trust their tongues alone, + But speak a language of their own; + Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, + Far better than a printed book; + Convey a libel in a frown, + And wink a reputation down; + Or by the tossing of the fan, + Describe the lady and the man. + But see, the female club disbands, + Each twenty visits on her hands. + Now all alone poor madam sits + In vapours and hysteric fits; + "And was not Tom this morning sent? + I'd lay my life he never went; + Past six, and not a living soul! + I might by this have won a vole." + A dreadful interval of spleen! + How shall we pass the time between? + "Here, Betty, let me take my drops; + And feel my pulse, I know it stops; + This head of mine, lord, how it swims! + And such a pain in all my limbs!" + "Dear madam, try to take a nap"— + But now they hear a footman's rap: + "Go, run, and light the ladies up: + It must be one before we sup." + The table, cards, and counters, set, + And all the gamester ladies met, + Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, + Our madam can sit up all night; + "Whoever comes, I'm not within." + Quadrille's the word, and so begin. + How can the Muse her aid impart, + Unskill'd in all the terms of art? + Or in harmonious numbers put + The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? + The superstitious whims relate, + That fill a female gamester's pate? + What agony of soul she feels + To see a knave's inverted heels! + She draws up card by card, to find + Good fortune peeping from behind; + With panting heart, and earnest eyes, + In hope to see spadillo rise; + In vain, alas! her hope is fed; + She draws an ace, and sees it red; + In ready counters never pays, + But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; + Ever with some new fancy struck, + Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. + "This morning, when the parson came, + I said I should not win a game. + This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? + I think I never had good luck in't. + I'm so uneasy in my stays: + Your fan, a moment, if you please. + Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; + I always lose when you look on." + "Lord! madam, you have lost codille: + I never saw you play so ill." + "Nay, madam, give me leave to say, + 'Twas you that threw the game away: + When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, + You took it with a matadore; + I saw you touch your wedding ring + Before my lady call'd a king; + You spoke a word began with H, + And I know whom you meant to teach, + Because you held the king of hearts; + Fie, madam, leave these little arts." + "That's not so bad as one that rubs + Her chair to call the king of clubs; + And makes her partner understand + A matadore is in her hand." + "Madam, you have no cause to flounce, + I swear I saw you thrice renounce." + "And truly, madam, I know when + Instead of five you scored me ten. + Spadillo here has got a mark; + A child may know it in the dark: + I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails: + I wish some folks would pare their nails." + While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, + It passes but for common form: + But, conscious that they all speak true, + And give each other but their due, + It never interrupts the game, + Or makes them sensible of shame. + The time too precious now to waste, + The supper gobbled up in haste; + Again afresh to cards they run, + As if they had but just begun. + But I shall not again repeat, + How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. + At last they hear the watchman knock, + "A frosty morn—past four o'clock." + The chairmen are not to be found, + "Come, let us play the other round." + Now all in haste they huddle on + Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone; + But, first, the winner must invite + The company to-morrow night. + Unlucky madam, left in tears, + (Who now again quadrille forswears,) + With empty purse, and aching head, + Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOGICIANS REFUTED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Logicians have but ill defined + As rational, the human kind; + Reason, they say, belongs to man, + But let them prove it if they can. + Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, + By ratiocinations specious, + Have strove to prove, with great precision, + With definition and division, + <i>Homo est ratione praeditum;</i> + But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, + And must, in spite of them, maintain, + That man and all his ways are vain; + And that this boasted lord of nature + Is both a weak and erring creature; + That instinct is a surer guide + Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; + And that brute beasts are far before 'em. + <i>Deus est anima brutorum.</i> + Whoever knew an honest brute + At law his neighbour prosecute, + Bring action for assault or battery, + Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? + O'er plains they ramble unconfined, + No politics disturb their mind; + They eat their meals, and take their sport + Nor know who's in or out at court. + They never to the levee go + To treat, as dearest friend, a foe: + They never importune his grace, + Nor ever cringe to men in place: + Nor undertake a dirty job, + Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1] + Fraught with invective, they ne'er go + To folks at Paternoster Row. + No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, + No pickpockets, or poetasters, + Are known to honest quadrupeds; + No single brute his fellow leads. + Brutes never meet in bloody fray, + Nor cut each other's throats for pay. + Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape + Comes nearest us in human shape; + Like man, he imitates each fashion, + And malice is his lurking passion: + But, both in malice and grimaces, + A courtier any ape surpasses. + Behold him, humbly cringing, wait + Upon the minister of state; + View him soon after to inferiors + Aping the conduct of superiors; + He promises with equal air, + And to perform takes equal care. + He in his turn finds imitators, + At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, + Their masters' manner still contract, + And footmen, lords and dukes can act. + Thus, at the court, both great and small + Behave alike, for all ape all. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of + party-writers.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN + </h2> + <p> + WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE THE HIGH + COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor + should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; + secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a + most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, + without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be + constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either + for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... + thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might + prevent dangers to come."—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere bribes convince you whom to choose, + The precepts of Lord Coke peruse. + Observe an elephant, says he, + And let him like your member be: + First take a man that's free from <i>Gaul</i>, + For elephants have none at all; + In flocks or parties he must keep; + For elephants live just like sheep. + Stubborn in honour he must be; + For elephants ne'er bend the knee. + Last, let his memory be sound, + In which your elephant's profound; + That old examples from the wise + May prompt him in his noes and ayes. + Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ, + In all the form of lawyer's wit: + And then, with Latin and all that, + Shows the comparison is pat. + Yet in some points my lord is wrong, + One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: + Now, men of parliament, God knows, + Are more like elephants of shows; + Whose docile memory and sense + Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; + To get their master half-a-crown, + They spread the flag, or lay it down: + Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, + And guarded nations from attacks, + Now practise every pliant gesture, + Opening their trunk for every tester. + Siam, for elephants so famed, + Is not with England to be named: + Their elephants by men are sold; + Ours sell themselves, and take the gold. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM + </h2> + <h3> + BY MR. LINDSAY[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Dublin, Sept.</i> 7, 1728. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, + In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; + While smiling Nature, in her best attire, + Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. + Can he, who knows that real good should please, + Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"— + This Paulus preach'd:—When, entering at the door, + Upon his board the client pours the ore: + He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, + Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent + pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the + Justices of the Common Pleas.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, + And honest Paulus judges right. + Then, why these quarrels to the sun, + Without whose aid you're all undone? + Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat? + Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; + The influence of whose golden beams + Soon licks up all unsavoury steams? + The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: + It has; but then it greased his fist. + True lawyers, for the wisest ends, + Have always been Apollo's friends. + Not for his superficial powers + Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; + Not for inspiring poets' brains + With penniless and starveling strains; + Not for his boasted healing art; + Not for his skill to shoot the dart; + Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; + Nor for his prophecies in riddles: + But for a more substantial cause— + Apollo's patron of the laws; + Whom Paulus ever must adore, + As parent of the golden ore, + By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, + Begot upon his grandam Earth; + By Phoebus first produced to light; + By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: + Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, + By clients to her priests and trustees. + Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand + With even balance in her hand, + Must we suppose she has in view, + How to give every man his due; + Her scales you see her only hold, + To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold. + Now, should I own your case was grievous, + Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? + 'Tis very true, and none denies, + At least, that such complaints are wise: + 'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, + To cry, like statesmen, <i>Quanta patimur!</i> + But, since the truth must needs be stretched + To prove that lawyers are so wretched, + This paradox I'll undertake, + For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; + By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, + May serve as arguments <i>ad hominem</i>: + Yet I disdain to offer those + Made use of by detracting foes. + I own the curses of mankind + Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: + The clamours of ten thousand tongues + Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; + I own, his conscience always free, + (Provided he has got his fee,) + Secure of constant peace within, + He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. + Yet well they merit to be pitied, + By clients always overwitted. + And though the gospel seems to say, + What heavy burdens lawyers lay + Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, + Nor lend a finger to their labour, + Always for saving their own bacon; + No doubt, the text is here mistaken: + The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: + To prove it, I appeal to fact; + And thus by demonstration show + What burdens lawyers undergo. + With early clients at his door, + Though he was drunk the night before, + And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, + The wretch must be at court by nine; + Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, + As ridden by a midnight hag; + Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, + In English vile, and viler French, + And Latin, vilest of the three; + And all for poor ten moidores fee! + Of paper how is he profuse, + With periods long, in terms abstruse! + What pains he takes to be prolix! + A thousand lines to stand for six! + Of common sense without a word in! + And is not this a grievous burden? + The lawyer is a common drudge, + To fight our cause before the judge: + And, what is yet a greater curse, + Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: + While he at ease, secure and light, + Walks boldly home at dead of night; + When term is ended, leaves the town, + Trots to his country mansion down; + And, disencumber'd of his load, + No danger dreads upon the road; + Despises rapparees,[2] and rides + Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. + Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, + To state this question <i>pro</i> and <i>con</i>. + My satire may offend, 'tis true; + However, it concerns not you. + I own, there may, in every clan, + Perhaps, be found one honest man; + Yet link them close, in this they jump, + To be but rascals in the lump. + Imagine Lindsay at the bar, + He's much the same his brethren are; + Well taught by practice to imbibe + The fundamentals of his tribe: + And in his client's just defence, + Must deviate oft from common sense; + And make his ignorance discern'd, + To get the name of counsel-learn'd, + (As <i>lucus</i> comes <i>a non lucendo</i>,) + And wisely do as other men do: + But shift him to a better scene, + Among his crew of rogues in grain; + Surrounded with companions fit, + To taste his humour, sense, and wit; + You'd swear he never took a fee, + Nor knew in law his A, B, C. + 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, + To keep good sense in crowds of fools. + And we admire the man, who saves + His honesty in crowds of knaves; + Nor yields up virtue at discretion, + To villains of his own profession. + Lindsay, you know what pains you take + In both, yet hardly save your stake; + And will you venture both anew, + To sit among that venal crew, + That pack of mimic legislators, + Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters? + For as the rabble daub and rifle + The fool who scrambles for a trifle; + Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, + Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; + You must expect the like disgrace, + Scrambling with rogues to get a place; + Must lose the honour you have gain'd, + Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: + Disclaim for ever all pretence + To common honesty and sense; + And join in friendship with a strict tie, + To M—l, C—y, and Dick Tighe.[3] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave + the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, + 150.—<i>W. E .B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, + and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times + mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and + how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, + etc.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DIALOGUE + </h2> + <p> + BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION + TO HORACE, BOOK II, SATIRE I + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sunt quibus in Satirâ," etc. +</pre> + <h3> + WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729 + </h3> + <h3> + DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since there are persons who complain + There's too much satire in my vein; + That I am often found exceeding + The rules of raillery and breeding; + With too much freedom treat my betters, + Not sparing even men of letters: + You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, + What's your advice? Shall I give o'er? + Nor ever fools or knaves expose, + Either in verse or humorous prose: + And to avoid all future ill, + In my scrutoire lock up my quill? +</pre> + <h3> + LAWYER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since you are pleased to condescend + To ask the judgment of a friend, + Your case consider'd, I must think + You should withdraw from pen and ink, + Forbear your poetry and jokes, + And live like other Christian folks; + Or if the Muses must inspire + Your fancy with their pleasing fire, + Take subjects safer for your wit + Than those on which you lately writ. + Commend the times, your thoughts correct, + And follow the prevailing sect; + Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story, + Shows all the malice of a Tory; + While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page, + Discovers freedom without rage. + To Woolston[4] recommend our youth, + For learning, probity, and truth; + That noble genius, who unbinds + The chains which fetter freeborn minds; + Redeems us from the slavish fears + Which lasted near two thousand years; + He can alone the priesthood humble, + Make gilded spires and altars tumble. +</pre> + <h3> + DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Must I commend against my conscience, + Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense; + To such a subject tune my lyre, + And sing like one of Milton's choir, + Where devils to a vale retreat, + And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate; + Lament upon their hapless fall, + That Force free Virtue should enthrall? + Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power + Make me pollute the Muses' bower? +</pre> + <h3> + LAWYER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As from the tripod of Apollo, + Hear from my desk the words that follow: + "Some, by philosophers misled, + Must honour you alive and dead; + And such as know what Greece has writ, + Must taste your irony and wit; + While most that are, or would be great, + Must dread your pen, your person hate; + And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie, + And there without a mitre die." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."] + + [Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the + Reformation."] + + [Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him, + see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles + caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in + 1733.—<i>W.E.B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON BURNING A DULL POEM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1729 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An ass's hoof alone can hold + That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. + Methought, when I this poem read, + No vessel but an ass's head + Such frigid fustian could contain; + I mean, the head without the brain. + The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, + Went down like stupifying draughts; + I found my head begin to swim, + A numbness crept through every limb. + In haste, with imprecations dire, + I threw the volume in the fire; + When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, + It burnt to ashes in a trice. + How could I more enhance its fame? + Though born in snow, it died in flame. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD + </h2> + <h3> + OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN[1] TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE. 1730 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, + And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, + (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year, + For the good of our church, a true English dean. + A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, + The worst you can say, he committed a rape. + + In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, + And there he grew fond of another man's wife; + Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her; + But she valued her honour much more than her life. + She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape + To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape. + + The dean he pursued, to recover his game; + And now to attack her again he prepares: + But the company stood in defence of the dame, + They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs. + His deanship was now in a damnable scrape, + And this was no time for committing a rape. + + To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, + And orders the landlord to bring him a whore; + No scruple came on him his gown to expose, + 'Twas what all his life he had practised before. + He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, + And got a good clap, but committed no rape. + + The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, + Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight; + For why, they had both been brought up to the trade + Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night. + His landlord was ready his deanship to ape + In every debauch but committing a rape. + + This Protestant zealot, this English divine, + In church and in state was of principles sound; + Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line, + And grieved that a Tory should live above ground. + Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape, + For no other crime but committing a rape? + + By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, + Each priest had a concubine <i>jure ecclesiae</i>; + Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a <i>commendam</i>? + And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: + Then why should the dean, when whores are so cheap, + Be put to the peril and toil of a rape? + + If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet, + (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,) + To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, + Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser. + But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape, + For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape. + + Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, + Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten? + To hang him, all England would lend him their garters, + Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3] + Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, + For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape. + + The dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing; + He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; + He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling; + But here was to pay the devil and all. + His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap, + And hang'd he must be for committing a rape. + + If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: + Why are they so wilful to struggle with men? + If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, + No devil nor dean could ravish them then. + Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape + Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape. + + Our church and our state dear England maintains, + For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: + She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, + And better would give us, if better she had. + But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, + When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered + himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the + Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."—<i>London Evening + Post</i>, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean + of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose + trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on + behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's + Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her + for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape + was committed against her in the city of Dublin."—<i>Daily Post-Boy</i>, June + 23, 1730.—<i>Nichols</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years + ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.—See "The penitent death of + a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at + Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several + passages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements, + preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland. + + "<i>Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius + Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam assequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed + magisterium sanctitatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia fortasse + quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille + laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi</i>. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin, + Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."] + + [Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty + of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was + fined £300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of + Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the + Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON STEPHEN DUCK + </h2> + <h3> + THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730 + + The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, + The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." + From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; + For which her majesty allows him grains: + Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw + His poems, think them all not worth a straw! + Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble, + Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double. + + [Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small + collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal + Gardens of Richmond. + "How shall we fill a library with wit, + When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?" +POPE, <i>Imitations of Horace</i>, ii, Ep. 1.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Five hours (and who can do it less in?) + By haughty Celia spent in dressing; + The goddess from her chamber issues, + Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues. + Strephon, who found the room was void, + And Betty otherwise employ'd, + Stole in, and took a strict survey + Of all the litter as it lay: + Whereof, to make the matter clear, + An inventory follows here. + And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, + Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd; + Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, + And turn'd it round on ev'ry side: + On such a point, few words are best, + And Strephon bids us guess the rest; + But swears, how damnably the men lie + In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. + Now listen, while he next produces + The various combs for various uses; + Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, + No brush could force a way betwixt; + A paste of composition rare, + Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: + A fore-head cloth with oil upon't, + To smooth the wrinkles on her front: + Here alum-flour, to stop the steams + Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: + There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, + [1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; + With puppy-water, beauty's help, + Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp. + Here gallipots and vials placed, + Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; + Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, + And ointments good for scabby chops. + Hard by a filthy bason stands, + Foul'd with the scouring of her hands: + The bason takes whatever comes, + The scrapings from her teeth and gums, + A nasty compound of all hues, + For here she spits, and here she spues. + But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels + When he beheld and smelt the towels, + Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd, + With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd; + No object Strephon's eye escapes; + Here petticoats in frouzy heaps; + Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, + All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot. + The stockings why should I expose, + Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2] + Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking, + Which Celia slept at least a week in? + A pair of tweezers next he found, + To pluck her brows in arches round; + Or hairs that sink the forehead low, + Or on her chin like bristles grow. + The virtues we must not let pass + Of Celia's magnifying glass; + When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't, + It shew'd the visage of a giant: + A glass that can to sight disclose + The smallest worm in Celia's nose, + And faithfully direct her nail + To squeeze it out from head to tail; + For, catch it nicely by the head, + It must come out, alive or dead. + Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest? + And must you needs describe the chest? + That careless wench! no creature warn her + To move it out from yonder corner! + But leave it standing full in sight, + For you to exercise your spight? + In vain the workman shew'd his wit, + With rings and hinges counterfeit, + To make it seem in this disguise + A cabinet to vulgar eyes: + Which Strephon ventur'd to look in, + Resolved to go thro' thick and thin. + He lifts the lid: there needs no more, + He smelt it all the time before. + As, from within Pandora's box, + When Epimetheus op'd the locks, + A sudden universal crew + Of human evils upward flew; + He still was comforted to find + That hope at last remain'd behind: + So Strephon, lifting up the lid, + To view what in the chest was hid, + The vapours flew from up the vent; + But Strephon, cautious, never meant + The bottom of the pan to grope, + And foul his hands in search of hope. + O! ne'er may such a vile machine + Be once in Celia's chamber seen! + O! may she better learn to keep + Those "secrets of the hoary deep." [3] + As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat, + Which, tho' with art you salt and beat, + As laws of cookery require, + And toast them at the clearest fire; + If from upon the hopeful chops + The fat upon a cinder drops, + To stinking smoke it turns the flame, + Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came, + And up exhales a greasy stench, + For which you curse the careless wench: + So things which must not be exprest, + When drop'd into the reeking chest, + Send up an excremental smell + To taint the part from whence they fell: + The petticoats and gown perfume, + And waft a stink round ev'ry room. + Thus finishing his grand survey, + Disgusted Strephon slunk away; + Repeating in his amorous fits, + "Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh—!" + But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping, + Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: + His foul imagination links + Each dame he sees with all her stinks; + And, if unsavoury odours fly, + Conceives a lady standing by. + All women his description fits, + And both ideas jump like wits; + By vicious fancy coupled fast, + And still appearing in contrast. + I pity wretched Strephon, blind + To all the charms of woman kind. + Should I the Queen of Love refuse, + Because she rose from stinking ooze? + To him that looks behind the scene, + Statira's but some pocky quean. + When Celia in her glory shews, + If Strephon would but stop his nose, + (Who now so impiously blasphemes + Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, + Her washes, slops, and every clout, + With which he makes so foul a rout;) + He soon would learn to think like me, + And bless his ravish'd sight to see + Such order from confusion sprung, + Such gaudy tulips raised from dung. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."—1732.] + + [Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."—1732.] + + [Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: + "Before their eyes in sudden view appear + The secrets of the hoary deep."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If neither brass nor marble can withstand + The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; + If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, + And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; + When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine) + Is out at elbows, why should I repine? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CASSINUS AND PETER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A TRAGICAL ELEGY + + 1731 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, + Both special wits and lovers both, + Conferring, as they used to meet, + On love, and books, in rapture sweet; + (Muse, find me names to fit my metre, + Cassinus this, and t'other Peter.) + Friend Peter to Cassinus goes, + To chat a while, and warm his nose: + But such a sight was never seen, + The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen. + He seem'd as just crept out of bed; + One greasy stocking round his head, + The other he sat down to darn, + With threads of different colour'd yarn; + His breeches torn, exposing wide + A ragged shirt and tawny hide. + Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare, + But well embrown'd with dirt and hair + A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown, + (A rug, for nightgown he had none,) + His jordan stood in manner fitting + Between his legs, to spew or spit in; + His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, + And half unsmoked, lay by his side. + Him thus accoutred Peter found, + With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; + The leavings of his last night's pot + On embers placed, to drink it hot. + Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate: + What makes thee lie a-bed so late? + The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, + Their matins chant in every bush; + And I have heard thee oft salute + Aurora with thy early flute. + Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps! + How! not a word come from thy lips? + Then gave him some familiar thumps, + A college joke to cure the dumps. + The swain at last, with grief opprest, + Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest. + Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread, + Yet ask I must—is Celia dead? + How happy I, were that the worst! + But I was fated to be curst! + Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore? + O Peter, would it were no more! + Why, plague confound her sandy locks! + Say, has the small or greater pox + Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face? + Be easy, 'tis a common case. + O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, + Which time and accidents will tarnish: + But Celia has contrived to blast + Those beauties that might ever last. + Nor can imagination guess, + Nor eloquence divine express, + How that ungrateful charming maid + My purest passion has betray'd: + Conceive the most envenom'd dart + To pierce an injured lover's heart. + Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, + I know she loves the barber's boy. + Friend Peter, this I could excuse, + For every nymph has leave to choose; + Nor have I reason to complain, + She loves a more deserving swain. + But, oh! how ill hast thou divined + A crime, that shocks all human kind; + A deed unknown to female race, + At which the sun should hide his face: + Advice in vain you would apply— + Then leave me to despair and die. + Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn + These elegies and sonnets burn; + And on the marble grave these rhymes, + A monument to after-times— + "Here Cassy lies, by Celia slain, + And dying, never told his pain." + Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, + The loud Cerberian triple bark; + And there—behold Alecto stand, + A whip of scorpions in her hand: + Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry + Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry: + I come! I come! Medusa see, + Her serpents hiss direct at me. + Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: + "Avaunt—ye cannot say 'twas I."[1] + Dear Cassy, thou must purge and bleed; + I fear thou wilt be mad indeed. + But now, by friendship's sacred laws, + I here conjure thee, tell the cause; + And Celia's horrid fact relate: + Thy friend would gladly share thy fate. + To force it out, my heart must rend; + Yet when conjured by such a friend— + Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd! + These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact. + Now bend thine ear, since out it must; + But, when thou seest me laid in dust, + The secret thou shalt ne'er impart, + Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; + (How would her virgin soul bemoan + A crime to all her sex unknown!) + Nor whisper to the tattling reeds + The blackest of all female deeds; + Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, + Where Echo sits, and listening mocks; + Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale + Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; + Nor to the chattering feather'd race + Discover Celia's foul disgrace. + But, if you fail, my spectre dread, + Attending nightly round your bed— + And yet I dare confide in you; + So take my secret, and adieu: + Nor wonder how I lost my wits: + Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh—! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: + "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc. + "Avaunt, and quit my sight."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, + For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; + Never did Covent-Garden boast + So bright a batter'd strolling toast! + No drunken rake to pick her up, + No cellar where on tick to sup; + Returning at the midnight hour, + Four stories climbing to her bower; + Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, + Takes off her artificial hair; + Now picking out a crystal eye, + She wipes it clean, and lays it by. + Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide + Stuck on with art on either side, + Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, + Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em. + Now dext'rously her plumpers draws, + That serve to fill her hollow jaws, + Untwists a wire, and from her gums + A set of teeth completely comes; + Pulls out the rags contrived to prop + Her flabby dugs, and down they drop. + Proceeding on, the lovely goddess + Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, + Which, by the operator's skill, + Press down the lumps, the hollows fill. + Up goes her hand, and off she slips + The bolsters that supply her hips; + With gentlest touch she next explores + Her chancres, issues, running sores; + Effects of many a sad disaster, + And then to each applies a plaster: + But must, before she goes to bed, + Rub off the daubs of white and red, + And smooth the furrows in her front + With greasy paper stuck upon't. + She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; + And then between two blankets creeps. + With pains of love tormented lies; + Or, if she chance to close her eyes, + Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams, + And feels the lash, and faintly screams; + Or, by a faithless bully drawn, + At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; + Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported + Alone, and by no planter courted; + Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks, + Surrounded with a hundred stinks, + Belated, seems on watch to lie, + And snap some cully passing by; + Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs + On watchmen, constables, and duns, + From whom she meets with frequent rubs; + But never from religious clubs; + Whose favour she is sure to find, + Because she pays them all in kind. + Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight! + Behold the ruins of the night! + A wicked rat her plaster stole, + Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole. + The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd; + And puss had on her plumpers p—st, + A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease: + And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas. + The nymph, though in this mangled plight + Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite. + But how shall I describe her arts + To re-collect the scatter'd parts? + Or show the anguish, toil, and pain, + Of gath'ring up herself again? + The bashful Muse will never bear + In such a scene to interfere. + Corinna, in the morning dizen'd, + Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the + Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and + pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See + the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily, + been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New + Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished. + For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present," + by Wheatley.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See + "A quiet life and a good name," <i>ante</i>, p. 152.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: See <i>ante</i>, p. 78, "Descripton of a City + Shower."—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STREPHON AND CHLOE + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Chloe all the town has rung, + By ev'ry size of poets sung: + So beautiful a nymph appears + But once in twenty thousand years; + By Nature form'd with nicest care, + And faultless to a single hair. + Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, + Confess'd her of no mortal race: + And then so nice, and so genteel; + Such cleanliness from head to heel; + No humours gross, or frouzy steams, + No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, + Before, behind, above, below, + Could from her taintless body flow: + Would so discreetly things dispose, + None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] + Her dearest comrades never caught her + Squat on her hams to make maid's water: + You'd swear that so divine a creature + Felt no necessities of nature. + In summer had she walk'd the town, + Her armpits would not stain her gown: + At country dances, not a nose + Could in the dog-days smell her toes. + Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs, + Like ivory dry, and soft as wax. + Her hands, the softest ever felt, + [2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. + Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid, + Nor let her loose to spoil your trade. + While she engrosses ev'ry swain, + You but o'er half the world can reign. + Think what a case all men are now in, + What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing! + What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts! + What hampers full of bleeding hearts! + What sword-knots! what poetic strains! + What billets-doux, and clouded canes! + But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong, + He blew a settlement along; + And bravely drove his rivals down, + With coach and six, and house in town. + The bashful nymph no more withstands, + Because her dear papa commands. + The charming couple now unites: + Proceed we to the marriage rites. + <i>Imprimis</i>, at the Temple porch + Stood Hymen with a flaming torch: + The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings + Her infant loves with purple wings: + And pigeons billing, sparrows treading, + Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding. + The Muses next in order follow, + Conducted by their squire, Apollo: + Then Mercury with silver tongue; + And Hebe, goddess ever young. + Behold, the bridegroom and his bride + Walk hand in hand, and side by side; + She, by the tender Graces drest, + But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest. + The nymph was cover'd with her <i>flammeum</i>[3], + And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4]. + And last, to make the matter sure, + Dame Juno brought a priest demure. + [5]Luna was absent, on pretence + Her time was not till nine months hence. + The rites perform'd, the parson paid, + In state return'd the grand parade; + With loud huzzas from all the boys, + That now the pair must crown their joys. + But still the hardest part remains: + Strephon had long perplex'd his brains, + How with so high a nymph he might + Demean himself the wedding-night: + For, as he view'd his person round, + Mere mortal flesh was all he found: + His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet, + Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet; + With other parts, that shall be nameless, + The ladies else might think me shameless. + The weather and his love were hot; + And, should he struggle, I know what— + Why, let it go, if I must tell it— + He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it; + While she, a goddess dyed in grain, + Was unsusceptible of stain, + And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin + Exhaled ambrosia from within. + Can such a deity endure + A mortal human touch impure? + How did the humbled swain detest + His prickly beard, and hairy breast! + His night-cap, border'd round with lace, + Could give no softness to his face. + Yet, if the goddess could be kind, + What endless raptures must he find! + And goddesses have now and then + Come down to visit mortal men; + To visit and to court them too: + A certain goddess, God knows who, + (As in a book he heard it read,) + Took Col'nel Peleus[6] to her bed. + But what if he should lose his life + By vent'ring on his heavenly wife! + (For Strephon could remember well, + That once he heard a school-boy tell, + How Semele,[7] of mortal race, + By thunder died in Jove's embrace.) + And what if daring Strephon dies + By lightning shot from Chloe's eyes! + While these reflections fill'd his head, + The bride was put in form to bed: + He follow'd, stript, and in he crept, + But awfully his distance kept. + Now, "ponder well, ye parents dear;" + Forbid your daughters guzzling beer; + And make them ev'ry afternoon + Forbear their tea, or drink it soon; + That, ere to bed they venture up, + They may discharge it ev'ry sup; + If not, they must in evil plight + Be often forc'd to rise at night. + Keep them to wholesome food confin'd, + Nor let them taste what causes wind: + 'Tis this the sage of Samos means, + Forbidding his disciples beans.[8] + O! think what evils must ensue; + Miss Moll, the jade, will burn it blue; + And, when she once has got the art, + She cannot help it for her heart; + But out it flies, even when she meets + Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets. + <i>Carminative</i> and <i>diuretic</i>[9] + Will damp all passion sympathetic; + And Love such nicety requires, + One blast will put out all his fires. + Since husbands get behind the scene, + The wife should study to be clean; + Nor give the smallest room to guess + The time when wants of nature press; + But after marriage practise more + Decorum than she did before; + To keep her spouse deluded still, + And make him fancy what she will. + In bed we left the married pair; + 'Tis time to show how things went there. + Strephon, who had been often told + That fortune still assists the bold, + Resolved to make the first attack; + But Chloe drove him fiercely back. + How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe, + With constitution cold and snowy, + Permit a brutish man to touch her? + Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher. + Resistance on the wedding-night + Is what our maidens claim by right; + And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed, + Was maid in thought, in word, and deed. + Yet some assign a different reason; + That Strephon chose no proper season. + Say, fair ones, must I make a pause, + Or freely tell the secret cause? + Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak) + Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak. + This point must needs be settled first: + The bride must either void or burst. + Then see the dire effects of pease; + Think what can give the colic ease. + The nymph oppress'd before, behind, + As ships are toss'd by waves and wind, + Steals out her hand, by nature led, + And brings a vessel into bed; + Fair utensil, as smooth and white + As Chloe's skin, almost as bright. + Strephon, who heard the fuming rill + As from a mossy cliff distil, + Cried out, Ye Gods! what sound is this? + Can Chloe, heavenly Chloe,——? + But when he smelt a noisome steam + Which oft attends that lukewarm stream; + (Salerno both together joins,[10] + As sov'reign med'cines for the loins:) + And though contriv'd, we may suppose, + To slip his ears, yet struck his nose; + He found her while the scent increast, + As mortal as himself at least. + But soon, with like occasions prest + He boldly sent his hand in quest + (Inspired with courage from his bride) + To reach the pot on t'other side; + And, as he fill'd the reeking vase; + Let fly a rouser in her face. + The little Cupids hov'ring round, + (As pictures prove) with garlands crown'd, + Abash'd at what they saw and heard, + Flew off, nor ever more appear'd. + Adieu to ravishing delights, + High raptures, and romantic flights; + To goddesses so heav'nly sweet, + Expiring shepherds at their feet; + To silver meads and shady bowers, + Dress'd up with amaranthine flowers. + How great a change! how quickly made! + They learn to call a spade a spade. + They soon from all constraint are freed; + Can see each other do their need. + On box of cedar sits the wife, + And makes it warm for dearest life; + And, by the beastly way of thinking, + Find great society in stinking. + Now Strephon daily entertains + His Chloe in the homeliest strains; + And Chloe, more experienc'd grown, + With int'rest pays him back his own. + No maid at court is less asham'd, + Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd, + Than she to name her parts behind, + Or when a-bed to let out wind. + Fair Decency, celestial maid! + Descend from Heaven to Beauty's aid! + Though Beauty may beget desire, + 'Tis thou must fan the Lover's fire; + For Beauty, like supreme dominion, + Is best supported by Opinion: + If Decency bring no supplies, + Opinion falls, and Beauty dies. + To see some radiant nymph appear + In all her glitt'ring birth-day gear, + You think some goddess from the sky + Descended, ready cut and dry: + But ere you sell yourself to laughter, + Consider well what may come after; + For fine ideas vanish fast, + While all the gross and filthy last. + O Strephon, ere that fatal day + When Chloe stole your heart away, + Had you but through a cranny spy'd + On house of ease your future bride, + In all the postures of her face, + Which nature gives in such a case; + Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings, + 'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings, + Than from experience find too late + Your goddess grown a filthy mate. + Your fancy then had always dwelt + On what you saw and what you smelt; + Would still the same ideas give ye, + As when you spy'd her on the privy; + And, spite of Chloe's charms divine, + Your heart had been as whole as mine. + Authorities, both old and recent, + Direct that women must be decent; + And from the spouse each blemish hide, + More than from all the world beside. + Unjustly all our nymphs complain + Their empire holds so short a reign; + Is, after marriage, lost so soon, + It hardly lasts the honey-moon: + For, if they keep not what they caught, + It is entirely their own fault. + They take possession of the crown, + And then throw all their weapons down: + Though, by the politician's scheme, + Whoe'er arrives at power supreme, + Those arts, by which at first they gain it, + They still must practise to maintain it. + What various ways our females take + To pass for wits before a rake! + And in the fruitless search pursue + All other methods but the true! + Some try to learn polite behaviour + By reading books against their Saviour; + Some call it witty to reflect + On ev'ry natural defect; + Some shew they never want explaining + To comprehend a double meaning. + But sure a tell-tale out of school + Is of all wits the greatest fool; + Whose rank imagination fills + Her heart, and from her lips distils; + You'd think she utter'd from behind, + Or at her mouth was breaking wind. + Why is a handsome wife ador'd + By every coxcomb but her lord? + From yonder puppet-man inquire, + Who wisely hides his wood and wire; + Shows Sheba's queen completely drest, + And Solomon in royal vest: + But view them litter'd on the floor, + Or strung on pegs behind the door; + Punch is exactly of a piece + With Lorrain's duke, and prince of Greece. + A prudent builder should forecast + How long the stuff is like to last; + And carefully observe the ground, + To build on some foundation sound. + What house, when its materials crumble, + Must not inevitably tumble? + What edifice can long endure + Raised on a basis unsecure? + Rash mortals, ere you take a wife, + Contrive your pile to last for life: + Since beauty scarce endures a day, + And youth so swiftly glides away; + Why will you make yourself a bubble, + To build on sand with hay and stubble? + On sense and wit your passion found, + By decency cemented round; + Let prudence with good-nature strive, + To keep esteem and love alive. + Then come old age whene'er it will, + Your friendship shall continue still: + And thus a mutual gentle fire + Shall never but with life expire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A delicate way of speaking of a lady retiring behind a bush + in a garden.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: + "Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull + Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full." +DENHAM, <i>Cooper's Hill.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 3: A veil with which the Roman brides covered themselves when + going to be married.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Marriage song, sung at weddings.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Diana.] + + [Footnote 6: Who married Thetis, the Nereid, by whom he became the father + of Achilles.—Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. xi, 221, <i>seq.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: See Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. iii.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: A precept of Pythagoras. Hence, in French <i>argot</i>, beans, as + causing wind, are called <i>musiciens.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: Provocative of perspiration and urine.] + + [Footnote 1: "Mingere cum bombis res est saluberrima lumbis." A precept + to be found in the "Regimen Sanitatis," or "Schola Salernitana," a work + in rhyming Latin verse composed at Salerno, the earliest school in + Christian Europe where medicine was professed, taught, and practised. The + original text, if anywhere, is in the edition published and commented + upon by Arnaldus de Villa Nova, about 1480. Subsequently above one + hundred and sixty editions of the "Schola Salernitana" were published, + with many additions. A reprint of the first edition, edited by Sir + Alexander Croke, with woodcuts from the editions of 1559, 1568, and + 1573, was published at Oxford in 1830.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Apollo, god of light and wit, + Could verse inspire, but seldom writ, + Refined all metals with his looks, + As well as chemists by their books; + As handsome as my lady's page; + Sweet five-and-twenty was his age. + His wig was made of sunny rays, + He crown'd his youthful head with bays; + Not all the court of Heaven could show + So nice and so complete a beau. + No heir upon his first appearance, + With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents, + E'er drove, before he sold his land, + So fine a coach along the Strand; + The spokes, we are by Ovid told, + Were silver, and the axle gold: + I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four, + For Jupiter allows no more. + Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts, + Enough to win ten thousand hearts, + No vulgar deity above + Was so unfortunate in love. + Three weighty causes were assign'd, + That moved the nymphs to be unkind. + Nine Muses always waiting round him, + He left them virgins as he found them. + His singing was another fault; + For he could reach to B in <i>alt</i>: + And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1] + Such singers are like Nicolini. + At last, the point was fully clear'd; + In short, Apollo had no beard. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "Bubus tantum feminis vox gravior, in alio omni genere + exilior quam maribus, in homine etiam castratis."—"Hist. Nat.," xi, 51. + "A condicione castrati seminis quae spadonia appellant Belgae," + <i>ib</i>. xv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All folks who pretend to religion and grace, + Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: + But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined + The place of the damn'd—I'll tell you my mind. + Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, + Most certainly there is HELL to be found: + Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves, + Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; + Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; + Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; + Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; + Damn'd time-serving priests all over the nation; + And into the bargain I'll readily give you + Damn'd ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy. + Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, + For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: + And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. + How happy for us that it is not at home! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With a whirl of thought oppress'd, + I sunk from reverie to rest. + An horrid vision seized my head; + I saw the graves give up their dead! + Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, + And thunder roars and lightning flies! + Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, + The world stands trembling at his throne! + While each pale sinner hung his head, + Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: + "Offending race of human kind, + By nature, reason, <i>learning</i>, blind; + You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; + And you, who never fell—<i>through pride</i>: + You who in different sects were shamm'd, + And come to see each other damn'd; + (So some folk told you, but they knew + No more of Jove's designs than you;) + —The world's mad business now is o'er, + And I resent these pranks no more. + —I to such blockheads set my wit! + I damn such fools!—Go, go, you're <i>bit</i>." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to + Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says: "Je vous envoie + ci-jointe une pièce par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous + déplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais été imprimée, vous en dévinerez bien la + raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, écrit de sa + propre main."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUDAS. 1731 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the just vengeance of incensed skies, + Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. + The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe, + Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe; + Which though his conscience forced him to restore, + (And parsons tell us, no man can do more,) + Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst, + He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst. + Those former ages differ'd much from this; + Judas betray'd his master with a kiss: + But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times, + Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes; + Some who can perjure through a two inch-board, + Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord: + Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn + To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn. + As ancient Judas by transgression fell, + And burst asunder ere he went to hell; + So could we see a set of new Iscariots + Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots; + Each modern Judas perish like the first, + Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst; + Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face, + To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place, + His habitation let all men forsake, + And let his bishopric another take!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] + </h2> + <h3> + 1731 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, + To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] + Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere, + Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear. + Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, + To lose an inch of favour for a friend? + Say, had the court no better place to choose + For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse? + How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, + To squire a royal girl of two years old: + In leading strings her infant steps to guide, + Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5] + But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame, + Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame. + Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied, + When o'er your patron's treasure you preside: + The world shall own, his choice was wise and just, + For sons of Phoebus never break their trust. + Not love of beauty less the heart inflames + Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames, + Their passions not more impotent and cold, + Than those of poets to the lust of gold. + With Pæan's purest fire his favourites glow, + The dregs will serve to ripen ore below: + His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit + That wealth should be the appanage of wit, + The god of light could ne'er have been so blind + To deal it to the worst of human kind. + But let me now, for I can do it well, + Your conduct in this new employ foretell. + And first: to make my observation right, + I place a statesman full before my sight, + A bloated minister in all his gear, + With shameless visage and perfidious leer: + Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw, + And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw. + My fancy drags this monster to my view, + To shew the world his chief reverse in you. + Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood + Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud; + With these the court and senate-house he plies, + Made up of noise, and impudence, and lies. + Now let me show how Bob and you agree: + You serve a potent prince,[7] as well as he. + The ducal coffers trusted to your charge, + Your honest care may fill, perhaps enlarge: + His vassals easy, and the owner blest; + They pay a trifle, and enjoy the rest. + Not so a nation's revenues are paid; + The servant's faults are on the master laid. + The people with a sigh their taxes bring, + And, cursing Bob, forget to bless the king. + Next hearken, Gay, to what thy charge requires, + With servants, tenants, and the neighbouring squires, + Let all domestics feel your gentle sway; + Nor bribe, insult, nor flatter, nor betray. + Let due reward to merit be allow'd; + Nor with your kindred half the palace crowd; + Nor think yourself secure in doing wrong, + By telling noses [8] with a party strong. + Be rich; but of your wealth make no parade; + At least, before your master's debts are paid; + Nor in a palace, built with charge immense, + Presume to treat him at his own expense.[9] + Each farmer in the neighbourhood can count + To what your lawful perquisites amount. + The tenants poor, the hardness of the times, + Are ill excuses for a servant's crimes. + With interest, and a premium paid beside, + The master's pressing wants must be supplied; + With hasty zeal behold the steward come + By his own credit to advance the sum; + Who, while th'unrighteous Mammon is his friend, + May well conclude his power will never end. + A faithful treasurer! what could he do more? + He lends my lord what was my lord's before. + The law so strictly guards the monarch's health, + That no physician dares prescribe by stealth: + The council sit; approve the doctor's skill; + And give advice before he gives the pill. + But the state empiric acts a safer part; + And, while he poisons, wins the royal heart. + But how can I describe the ravenous breed? + Then let me now by negatives proceed. + Suppose your lord a trusty servant send + On weighty business to some neighbouring friend: + Presume not, Gay, unless you serve a drone, + To countermand his orders by your own. + Should some imperious neighbour sink the boats, + And drain the fish-ponds, while your master dotes; + Shall he upon the ducal rights intrench, + Because he bribed you with a brace of tench? + Nor from your lord his bad condition hide, + To feed his luxury, or soothe his pride. + Nor at an under rate his timber sell, + And with an oath assure him, all is well; + Or swear it rotten, and with humble airs [10] + Request it of him, to complete your stairs; + Nor, when a mortgage lies on half his lands, + Come with a purse of guineas in your hands. + Have Peter Waters [11] always in your mind; + That rogue, of genuine ministerial kind, + Can half the peerage by his arts bewitch, + Starve twenty lords to make one scoundrel rich: + And, when he gravely has undone a score, + Is humbly pray'd to ruin twenty more. + A dext'rous steward, when his tricks are found, + Hush-money sends to all the neighbours round; + His master, unsuspicious of his pranks, + Pays all the cost, and gives the villain thanks. + And, should a friend attempt to set him right, + His lordship would impute it all to spite; + Would love his favourite better than before, + And trust his honesty just so much more. + Thus families, like realms, with equal fate, + Are sunk by premier ministers of state. + Some, when an heir succeeds, go bodily on, + And, as they robb'd the father, rob the son. + A knave, who deep embroils his lord's affairs, + Will soon grow necessary to his heirs. + His policy consists in setting traps, + In finding ways and means, and stopping gaps; + He knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, + Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease. + In either case, an equal chance is run; + For, keep or turn him out, my lord's undone. + You want a hand to clear a filthy sink; + No cleanly workman can endure the stink. + A strong dilemma in a desperate case! + To act with infamy, or quit the place. + A bungler thus, who scarce the nail can hit, + With driving wrong will make the panel split: + Nor dares an abler workman undertake + To drive a second, lest the whole should break. + In every court the parallel will hold; + And kings, like private folks, are bought and sold. + The ruling rogue, who dreads to be cashler'd, + Contrives, as he is hated, to be fear'd; + Confounds accounts, perplexes all affairs: + For vengeance more embroils, than skill repairs. + So robbers, (and their ends are just the same,) + To 'scape inquiries, leave the house in flame. + I knew a brazen minister of state,[12] + Who bore for twice ten years the public hate. + In every mouth the question most in vogue + Was, when will they turn out this odious rogue? + A juncture happen'd in his highest pride: + While he went robbing on, his master died.[13] + We thought there now remain'd no room to doubt; + The work is done, the minister must out. + The court invited more than one or two: + Will you, Sir Spencer?[14] or will you, or you? + But not a soul his office durst accept; + The subtle knave had all the plunder swept: + And, such was then the temper of the times, + He owed his preservation to his crimes. + The candidates observed his dirty paws; + Nor found it difficult to guess the cause: + But, when they smelt such foul corruptions round him, + Away they fled, and left him as they found him. + Thus, when a greedy sloven once has thrown + His snot into the mess, 'tis all his own. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Dean having been told by an intimate friend that the + Duke of Queensberry had employed Mr. Gay to inspect the accounts and + management of his grace's receivers and stewards (which, however, proved + to be a mistake), wrote this Epistle to his friend.—<i>H</i>. Through the + whole piece, under the pretext of instructing Gay in his duty as the + duke's auditor of accounts, he satirizes the conduct of Sir Robert + Walpole, then Prime Minister.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: See the "Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret," <i>post</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The Countess of Suffolk.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Robert Walpole.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The post of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa was + offered to Gay, which he and his friends considered as a great indignity, + her royal highness being a mere infant.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.] + + [Footnote 7: A title given to every duke by the + heralds.—<i>Faulkner</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: Counting the numbers of a division. A horse dealer's + term.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: Alluding to the magnificence of Houghton, the seat of Sir + Robert Walpole, by which he greatly impaired his fortune. + "What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? + Some Demon whispered, 'Visto! have a Taste.'" +POPE, <i>Moral Essays</i>, Epist. iv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: These lines are thought to allude to some story concerning + a vast quantity of mahogany declared rotten, and then applied by somebody + to wainscots, stairs, door-cases, etc.—<i>Dublin edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 11: He hath practised this trade for many years, and still + continues it with success; and after he hath ruined one lord, is + earnestly solicited to take another.—<i>Dublin edition</i>. + Properly Walter, a dexterous and unscrupulous attorney. + "Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, + And therefore hopes this nation may be sold." +POPE, <i>Moral Essays</i>, Epist. iii. + And see his character fully displayed in Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams' + poem, "Peter and my Lord Quidam," Works, with notes, edit. 1822. Peter + was the original of Peter Pounce in Fielding's "Joseph + Andrews."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 12: Sir Robert Walpole, who was called Sir Robert Brass.] + + [Footnote 13: King George I, who died on the 12th June, + 1727.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 14: Sir Spencer Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons, + afterwards created Earl of Wilmington. George II, on his accession to the + throne, intended that Compton should be Prime Minister, but Walpole, + through the influence of the queen, retained his place, Compton having + confessed "his incapacity to undertake so arduous a task." As Lord + Wilmington, he is constantly ridiculed by Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams. + See his Works, with notes by Horace Walpole, edit. 1822.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A LADY + </h2> + <p> + WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER IN THE HEROIC STYLE + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After venting all my spite, + Tell me, what have I to write? + Every error I could find + Through the mazes of your mind, + Have my busy Muse employ'd, + Till the company was cloy'd. + Are you positive and fretful, + Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? + Those, and twenty follies more, + I have often told before. + Hearken what my lady says: + Have I nothing then to praise? + Ill it fits you to be witty, + Where a fault should move your pity. + If you think me too conceited, + Or to passion quickly heated; + If my wandering head be less + Set on reading than on dress; + If I always seem too dull t'ye; + I can solve the diffi—culty. + You would teach me to be wise: + Truth and honour how to prize; + How to shine in conversation, + And with credit fill my station; + How to relish notions high; + How to live, and how to die. + But it was decreed by Fate— + Mr. Dean, you come too late. + Well I know, you can discern, + I am now too old to learn: + Follies, from my youth instill'd, + Have my soul entirely fill'd; + In my head and heart they centre, + Nor will let your lessons enter. + Bred a fondling and an heiress; + Drest like any lady mayoress: + Cocker'd by the servants round, + Was too good to touch the ground; + Thought the life of every lady + Should be one continued play-day— + Balls, and masquerades, and shows, + Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux. + Thus you have my case at large, + And may now perform your charge. + Those materials I have furnish'd, + When by you refined and burnish'd, + Must, that all the world may know 'em, + Be reduced into a poem. + But, I beg, suspend a while + That same paltry, burlesque style; + Drop for once your constant rule, + Turning all to ridicule; + Teaching others how to ape you; + Court nor parliament can 'scape you; + Treat the public and your friends + Both alike, while neither mends. + Sing my praise in strain sublime: + Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme. + 'Tis but just, you should produce, + With each fault, each fault's excuse; + Not to publish every trifle, + And my few perfections stifle. + With some gifts at least endow me, + Which my very foes allow me. + Am I spiteful, proud, unjust? + Did I ever break my trust? + Which of all our modern dames + Censures less, or less defames? + In good manners am I faulty? + Can you call me rude or haughty? + Did I e'er my mite withhold + From the impotent and old? + When did ever I omit + Due regard for men of wit? + When have I esteem express'd + For a coxcomb gaily dress'd? + Do I, like the female tribe, + Think it wit to fleer and gibe? + Who with less designing ends + Kindlier entertains her friends; + With good words and countenance sprightly, + Strives to treat them more politely? + Think not cards my chief diversion: + 'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion: + Never knew I any good in 'em, + But to dose my head like laudanum. + We, by play, as men, by drinking, + Pass our nights to drive out thinking. + From my ailments give me leisure, + I shall read and think with pleasure; + Conversation learn to relish, + And with books my mind embellish. + Now, methinks, I hear you cry, + Mr. Dean, you must reply. + Madam, I allow 'tis true: + All these praises are your due. + You, like some acute philosopher, + Every fault have drawn a gloss over;[1] + Placing in the strongest light + All your virtues to my sight. + Though you lead a blameless life, + Are an humble prudent wife, + Answer all domestic ends: + What is this to us your friends? + Though your children by a nod + Stand in awe without a rod; + Though, by your obliging sway, + Servants love you, and obey; + Though you treat us with a smile; + Clear your looks, and smooth your style; + Load our plates from every dish; + This is not the thing we wish. +</pre> + <p> + </p> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We expect employment better. + You must learn, if you would gain us, + With good sense to entertain us. + Scholars, when good sense describing, + Call it tasting and imbibing; + Metaphoric meat and drink + Is to understand and think; + We may carve for others thus; + And let others carve for us; + To discourse, and to attend, + Is, to help yourself and friend. + Conversation is but carving; + Carve for all, yourself is starving: + Give no more to every guest, + Than he's able to digest; + Give him always of the prime; + And but little at a time. + Carve to all but just enough: + Let them neither starve nor stuff: + And, that you may have your due, + Let your neighbours carve for you. + This comparison will hold, + Could it well in rhyme be told, + How conversing, listening, thinking, + Justly may resemble drinking; + For a friend a glass you fill, + What is this but to instil? + To conclude this long essay; + Pardon if I disobey, + Nor against my natural vein, + Treat you in heroic strain. + I, as all the parish knows, + Hardly can be grave in prose: + Still to lash, and lashing smile, + Ill befits a lofty style. + From the planet of my birth + I encounter vice with mirth. + Wicked ministers of state + I can easier scorn than hate; + And I find it answers right: + Scorn torments them more than spight. + All the vices of a court + Do but serve to make me sport. + Were I in some foreign realm, + Which all vices overwhelm; + Should a monkey wear a crown, + Must I tremble at his frown? + Could I not, through all his ermine, + 'Spy the strutting chattering vermin; + Safely write a smart lampoon, + To expose the brisk baboon? + When my Muse officious ventures + On the nation's representers: + Teaching by what golden rules + Into knaves they turn their fools; + How the helm is ruled by Walpole, + At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull; + Let the vessel split on shelves; + With the freight enrich themselves: + Safe within my little wherry, + All their madness makes me merry: + Like the waterman of Thames, + I row by, and call them names; + Like the ever-laughing sage,[2] + In a jest I spend my rage: + (Though it must be understood, + I would hang them if I could;) + If I can but fill my niche, + I attempt no higher pitch; + Leave to d'Anvers and his mate + Maxims wise to rule the state. + Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns, + Scourge the villains with a vengeance; + Let me, though the smell be noisome, + Strip their bums; let Caleb[3] hoise 'em; + Then apply Alecto's[4] whip + Till they wriggle, howl, and skip. + Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean: + What can all this passion mean? + Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet + On corruptions running riot. + End as it befits your station; + Come to use and application; + Nor with senates keep a fuss. + I submit; and answer thus: + If the machinations brewing, + To complete the public ruin, + Never once could have the power + To affect me half an hour; + Sooner would I write in buskins, + Mournful elegies on Blueskins.[5] + If I laugh at Whig and Tory; + I conclude <i>à fortiori</i>, + All your eloquence will scarce + Drive me from my favourite farce. + This I must insist on; for, as + It is well observed by Horace,[6] + Ridicule has greater power + To reform the world than sour. + Horses thus, let jockeys judge else, + Switches better guide than cudgels. + Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse, + Only dulness can produce; + While a little gentle jerking + Sets the spirits all a-working. + Thus, I find it by experiment, + Scolding moves you less than merriment. + I may storm and rage in vain; + It but stupifies your brain. + But with raillery to nettle, + Sets your thoughts upon their mettle; + Gives imagination scope; + Never lets your mind elope; + Drives out brangling and contention. + Brings in reason and invention. + For your sake as well as mine, + I the lofty style decline. + I should make a figure scurvy, + And your head turn topsy-turvy. + I who love to have a fling + Both at senate-house and king: + That they might some better way tread, + To avoid the public hatred; + Thought no method more commodious, + Than to show their vices odious; + Which I chose to make appear, + Not by anger, but by sneer. + As my method of reforming, + Is by laughing, not by storming, + (For my friends have always thought + Tenderness my greatest fault,) + Would you have me change my style? + On your faults no longer smile; + But, to patch up all our quarrels, + Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals, + Or from Solomon produce + Maxims teaching Wisdom's use? + If I treat you like a crown'd head, + You have cheap enough compounded; + Can you put in higher claims, + Than the owners of St. James? + You are not so great a grievance, + As the hirelings of St. Stephen's. + You are of a lower class + Than my friend Sir Robert Brass. + None of these have mercy found: + I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round. + Have you seen a rocket fly? + You would swear it pierced the sky: + It but reach'd the middle air, + Bursting into pieces there; + Thousand sparkles falling down + Light on many a coxcomb's crown. + See what mirth the sport creates! + Singes hair, but breaks no pates. + Thus, should I attempt to climb, + Treat you in a style sublime, + Such a rocket is my Muse: + Should I lofty numbers choose, + Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top, + I should burst, and bursting drop; + All my fire would fall in scraps, + Give your head some gentle raps; + Only make it smart a while; + Then could I forbear to smile, + When I found the tingling pain + Entering warm your frigid brain; + Make you able upon sight + To decide of wrong and right; + Talk with sense whate'er you please on; + Learn to relish truth and reason! + Thus we both shall gain our prize; + I to laugh, and you grow wise. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: + "Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher, + And had read ev'ry Text and Gloss over." + <i>Hudibras</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Democritus, the Greek philosopher, one of the founders of + the atomic theory.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Caleb d'Anvers was the name assumed by Nicholas Amhurst, the + ostensible editor of the celebrated journal, entitled "The Craftsman," + written by Bolingbroke and Pulteney. See "Prose Works," vii, p. + 219.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: One of the three Furies—Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, the + avenging deities.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The famous thief, who, while on his trial at the Old Bailey, + stabbed Jonathan Wild. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild," Book iv, + ch. i.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: + "Ridiculum acri + Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."—<i>Sat</i>. I, x, 14.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sic siti laetantur docti." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With honour thus by Carolina placed, + How are these venerable bustoes graced! + O queen, with more than regal title crown'd, + For love of arts and piety renown'd! + How do the friends of virtue joy to see + Her darling sons exalted thus by thee! + Nought to their fame can now be added more, + Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2] + + [Footnote 1: Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Woolaston.] + + [Footnote 2: Queen Caroline's regard for learned men was chiefly directed + to those who had signalized themselves by philosophical research. Horace + Walpole alludes to this her peculiar taste, in his fable called the + "Funeral of the Lioness," where the royal shade is made to say: + "... where Elysian waters glide, + With Clarke and Newton by my side, + Purrs o'er the metaphysic page, + Or ponders the prophetic rage + Of Merlin, who mysterious sings + Of men and lions, beasts and kings." + <i>Lord Orford's Works</i>, iv, 379.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Louis the living learned fed, + And raised the scientific head; + Our frugal queen, to save her meat, + Exalts the heads that cannot eat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CONCLUSION + </h2> + <h3> + DRAWN FROM THE ABOVE EPIGRAMS, AND SENT TO THE DRAPIER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, + Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: + And since our good queen to the wise is so just, + To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust, + I wonder, good man, that you are not envaulted; + Prithee go, and be dead, and be doubly exalted. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Her majesty never shall be my exalter; + And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT + </h2> + <p> + WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, + 1732.[1] BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; + Small is the present, but sincere the friend. + Think not so poor a book below thy care; + Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear? + Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face, + The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace; + Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat, + A <i>rasa tabula</i> within denote: + Yet, if a venal and corrupted age, + And modern vices should provoke thy rage; + If, warn'd once more by their impending fate, + A sinking country and an injur'd state, + Thy great assistance should again demand, + And call forth reason to defend the land; + Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise, + Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes; + Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense + True force of eloquence, and nervous sense; + Inform the judgment, animate the heart, + And sacred rules of policy impart. + The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore, + Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more; + But lead us inward to those golden mines, + Where all thy soul in native lustre shines. + So when the eye surveys some lovely fair, + With bloom of beauty graced, with shape and air; + How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find + Her form excell'd by her celestial mind! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued + among his friends, of making him a present on his birth-day. Orrery's + "Remarks," p. 202.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, + </h2> + <p> + ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. BY DR. DELANY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hither from Mexico I came, + To serve a proud Iernian dame: + Was long submitted to her will; + At length she lost me at quadrille. + Through various shapes I often pass'd, + Still hoping to have rest at last; + And still ambitious to obtain + Admittance to the patriot Dean; + And sometimes got within his door, + But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1] + Not strolling Idleness to aid, + But honest Industry decay'd. + At length an artist purchased me, + And wrought me to the shape you see. + This done, to Hermes I applied: + "O Hermes! gratify my pride; + Be it my fate to serve a sage, + The greatest genius of his age; + That matchless pen let me supply, + Whose living lines will never die!" + "I grant your suit," the God replied, + And here he left me to reside. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Alluding to sums lent by the Dean, without interest, to + assist poor tradesmen.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A paper book is sent by Boyle, + Too neatly gilt for me to soil. + Delany sends a silver standish, + When I no more a pen can brandish. + Let both around my tomb be placed: + As trophies of a Muse deceased; + And let the friendly lines they writ, + In praise of long-departed wit, + Be graved on either side in columns, + More to my praise than all my volumes, + To burst with envy, spite, and rage, + The Vandals of the present age. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VERSES +SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL, +ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR. DELANY. +BY MRS. PILKINGTON + Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, + And boldly rob me of eternal fame? + To every art my gen'rous aid I lend, + To music, painting, poetry, a friend. + 'Tis I celestial harmony inspire, + When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire.[1] + I to the faithful canvas have consign'd + Each bright idea of the painter's mind; + Behold from Raphael's sky-dipt pencils rise + Such heavenly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes. + O let me now aspire to higher praise! + Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays: + Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse, + Accept me as the servant of your Muse; + Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare, + And all mankind your matchless pen revere. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Quills of the harpsichord.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call, + To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all; + Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care, + For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare. + I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies, + As friend Virgil has it, I've <i>aliud mercedis</i>; + For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale; + And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal; + And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood, + I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good: + Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health: + High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at + London, in 4to, by subscription.] + + [Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her + friends.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who + died in 1733, at the age of 27.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had + ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and + the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of + National Biography."—. <i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, + </h2> + <h3> + ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF2" id="link2H_PREF2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and greater + mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of mankind, than + the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their own talents. I knew + a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter of coffeehouses, who, + when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly seized it first, and + read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a manner as little + intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many pretenders to + learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on those very parts + of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is the same case in + every other qualification. By the multitude of those who deal in rhymes, + from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every minute, there must be at + least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs of London: half as many + coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, forty thousand politicians, + and four thousand five hundred profound scholars; not to mention the wits, + the railers, the smart fellows, and critics; all as illiterate and + impudent as a suburb whore. What are we to think of the fine-dressed + sparks, proud of their own personal deformities, which appear the more + hideous by the contrast of wearing scarlet and gold, with what they call + toupees[1] on their heads, and all the frippery of a modern beau, to make + a figure before women; some of them with hump-backs, others hardly five + feet high, and every feature of their faces distorted: I have seen many of + these insipid pretenders entering into conversation with persons of + learning, constantly making the grossest blunders in every sentence, + without conveying one single idea fit for a rational creature to spend a + thought on; perpetually confounding all chronology, and geography, even of + present times. I compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau + and puppy kind, for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours + transplanted thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown + capital exceeds ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what + is more to our farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool + of Irish birth or education, who makes any noise in that famous + metropolis, unless the London prints be very partial or defective; whereas + London is seldom without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the + vogue for half a winter together, and are never heard of more, but give + place to a new set. This has been the constant progress for at least + thirty years past, only allowing for the change of breed and fashion. + </p> + <p> + The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking + their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his own species, + almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, he is too + partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as low as he well + could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the ass, the swine, and the + ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes them in the + article of cunning: so great is the pride of man! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When beasts could speak, (the learned say + They still can do so every day,) + It seems, they had religion then, + As much as now we find in men. + It happen'd, when a plague broke out, + (Which therefore made them more devout,) + The king of brutes (to make it plain, + Of quadrupeds I only mean) + By proclamation gave command, + That every subject in the land + Should to the priest confess their sins; + And thus the pious Wolf begins: + Good father, I must own with shame, + That often I have been to blame: + I must confess, on Friday last, + Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: + But I defy the basest tongue + To prove I did my neighbour wrong; + Or ever went to seek my food, + By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. + The Ass approaching next, confess'd, + That in his heart he loved a jest: + A wag he was, he needs must own, + And could not let a dunce alone: + Sometimes his friend he would not spare, + And might perhaps be too severe: + But yet the worst that could be said, + He was a wit both born and bred; + And, if it be a sin and shame, + Nature alone must bear the blame: + One fault he has, is sorry for't, + His ears are half a foot too short; + Which could he to the standard bring, + He'd show his face before the king: + Then for his voice, there's none disputes + That he's the nightingale of brutes. + The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, + His shape and beauty made him proud: + In diet was perhaps too nice, + But gluttony was ne'er his vice: + In every turn of life content, + And meekly took what fortune sent: + Inquire through all the parish round, + A better neighbour ne'er was found; + His vigilance might some displease; + 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + The mimic Ape began his chatter, + How evil tongues his life bespatter; + Much of the censuring world complain'd, + Who said, his gravity was feign'd: + Indeed, the strictness of his morals + Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: + He saw, and he was grieved to see't, + His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: + He found his virtues too severe + For our corrupted times to bear; + Yet such a lewd licentious age + Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + The Goat advanced with decent pace, + And first excused his youthful face; + Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd + ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. + 'Tis true, he was not much inclined + To fondness for the female kind: + Not, as his enemies object, + From chance, or natural defect; + Not by his frigid constitution; + But through a pious resolution: + For he had made a holy vow + Of Chastity, as monks do now: + Which he resolved to keep for ever hence + And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2] + Apply the tale, and you shall find, + How just it suits with human kind. + Some faults we own; but can you guess? + —Why, virtue's carried to excess, + Wherewith our vanity endows us, + Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) + He never squeezed a needy client; + And this he makes his constant rule, + For which his brethren call him fool; + His conscience always was so nice, + He freely gave the poor advice; + By which he lost, he may affirm, + A hundred fees last Easter term; + While others of the learned robe, + Would break the patience of a Job. + No pleader at the bar could match + His diligence and quick dispatch; + Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, + Above a term or two at most. + The cringing knave, who seeks a place + Without success, thus tells his case: + Why should he longer mince the matter? + He fail'd, because he could not flatter; + He had not learn'd to turn his coat, + Nor for a party give his vote: + His crime he quickly understood; + Too zealous for the nation's good: + He found the ministers resent it, + Yet could not for his heart repent it. + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, + Though it would raise him to the lawn: + He pass'd his hours among his books; + You find it in his meagre looks: + He might, if he were worldly wise, + Preferment get, and spare his eyes; + But owns he had a stubborn spirit. + That made him trust alone to merit; + Would rise by merit to promotion; + Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + The Doctor, if you will believe him, + Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) + Call'd up at midnight, ran to save + A blind old beggar from the grave: + But see how Satan spreads his snares; + He quite forgot to say his prayers. + He cannot help it, for his heart, + Sometimes to act the parson's part: + Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, + That moves his patients to repentance; + And, when his medicines do no good, + Supports their minds with heavenly food: + At which, however well intended, + He hears the clergy are offended; + And grown so bold behind his back, + To call him hypocrite and quack. + In his own church he keeps a seat; + Says grace before and after meat; + And calls, without affecting airs, + His household twice a-day to prayers. + He shuns apothecaries' shops, + And hates to cram the sick with slops: + He scorns to make his art a trade; + Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. + Old nurse-keepers would never hire, + To recommend him to the squire; + Which others, whom he will not name, + Have often practised to their shame. + The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, + His fault is to be too sincere; + And having no sinister ends, + Is apt to disoblige his friends. + The nation's good, his master's glory, + Without regard to Whig or Tory, + Were all the schemes he had in view, + Yet he was seconded by few: + Though some had spread a thousand lies, + 'Twas he defeated the excise.[3] + 'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, + That standing troops were his aversion: + His practice was, in every station: + To serve the king, and please the nation. + Though hard to find in every case + The fittest man to fill a place: + His promises he ne'er forgot, + But took memorials on the spot; + His enemies, for want of charity, + Said, he affected popularity: + 'Tis true, the people understood, + That all he did was for their good; + Their kind affections he has tried; + No love is lost on either side. + He came to court with fortune clear, + Which now he runs out every year; + Must, at the rate that he goes on, + Inevitably be undone: + O! if his majesty would please + To give him but a writ of ease, + Would grant him license to retire, + As it has long been his desire, + By fair accounts it would be found, + He's poorer by ten thousand pound. + He owns, and hopes it is no sin, + He ne'er was partial to his kin; + He thought it base for men in stations, + To crowd the court with their relations: + His country was his dearest mother, + And every virtuous man his brother; + Through modesty or awkward shame, + (For which he owns himself to blame,) + He found the wisest man he could, + Without respect to friends or blood; + Nor ever acts on private views, + When he has liberty to choose. + The Sharper swore he hated play, + Except to pass an hour away: + And well he might; for, to his cost, + By want of skill, he always lost; + He heard there was a club of cheats, + Who had contrived a thousand feats; + Could change the stock, or cog a die, + And thus deceive the sharpest eye: + Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, + His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. + I own the moral not exact, + Besides, the tale is false, in fact; + And so absurd, that could I raise up, + From fields Elysian, fabling Æsop, + I would accuse him to his face, + For libelling the four-foot race. + Creatures of every kind but ours + Well comprehend their natural powers, + While we, whom reason ought to sway, + Mistake our talents every day. + The Ass was never known so stupid, + To act the part of Tray or Cupid; + Nor leaps upon his master's lap, + There to be stroked, and fed with pap, + As Æsop would the world persuade; + He better understands his trade: + Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, + But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. + Our author's meaning, I presume, is + A creature <i>bipes et implumis;</i> + Wherein the moralist design'd + A compliment on human kind; + For here he owns, that now and then + Beasts may degenerate into men.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in + fashion. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same + name.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in + March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent + was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second + reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months, + and thus it was dropped.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the + Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PARSON'S CASE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, + Can wish to die in strains heroic, + No real fortitude implies: + Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise. + Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, + Thy busy, drudging scene of life, + Thy insolent, illiterate vicar, + Thy want of all-consoling liquor, + Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent, + Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, + Thy week made up of fasting-days, + Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, + And to complete thy other curses, + The quarterly demands of nurses, + Are ills you wisely wish to leave, + And fly for refuge to the grave; + And, O, what virtue you express, + In wishing such afflictions less! + But, now, should Fortune shift the scene, + And make thy curateship a dean: + Or some rich benefice provide, + To pamper luxury and pride; + With labour small, and income great; + With chariot less for use than state; + With swelling scarf, and glossy gown, + And license to reside in town: + To shine where all the gay resort, + At concerts, coffee-house, or court: + And weekly persecute his grace + With visits, or to beg a place: + With underlings thy flock to teach, + With no desire to pray or preach; + With haughty spouse in vesture fine, + With plenteous meals and generous wine; + Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, + Thy years as numerous as thy days? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES + </h2> + <h3> + 1733 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poor ladies! though their business be to play, + 'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: + Why should they want the privilege of men, + Nor take some small diversions now and then? + Had women been the makers of our laws, + (And why they were not, I can see no cause,) + The men should slave at cards from morn to night + And female pleasures be to read and write. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, + Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: + I a slave in thy dominions; + Nature must give way to art. + + Mild Arcadians, ever blooming + Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, + See my weary days consuming + All beneath yon flowery rocks. + + Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping + Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; + Him the boar, in silence creeping, + Gored with unrelenting tooth. + + Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; + Fair Discretion, string the lyre; + Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: + Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. + + Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, + Arm'd in adamantine chains, + Lead me to the crystal mirrors, + Watering soft Elysian plains. + + Mournful cypress, verdant willow, + Gilding my Aurelia's brows, + Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, + Hear me pay my dying vows. + + Melancholy smooth Meander, + Swiftly purling in a round, + On thy margin lovers wander, + With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. + + Thus when Philomela drooping + Softly seeks her silent mate, + See the bird of Juno stooping; + Melody resigns to fate. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORM + </h2> + <h3> + MINERVA'S PETITION + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise + Descending lately from the skies, + To Neptune went, and begg'd in form + He'd give his orders for a storm; + A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1] + And she would kindly thank him for't: + A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her, + Had lately honour'd with a mitre. + The god, who favour'd her request, + Assured her he would do his best: + But Venus had been there before, + Pleaded the bishop loved a whore, + And had enlarged her empire wide; + He own'd no deity beside. + At sea or land, if e'er you found him + Without a mistress, hang or drown him. + Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench, + Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench; + If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it, + She'll not have left one single prelate: + For, to say truth, she did intend him, + Elect of Cyprus <i>in commendam.</i> + And, since her birth the ocean gave her, + She could not doubt her uncle's favour. + Then Proteus urged the same request, + But half in earnest, half in jest; + Said he—"Great sovereign of the main, + To drown him all attempts are vain. + Hort can assume more forms than I, + A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy; + Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim; + All motions are alike to him: + Turn him adrift, and you shall find + He knows to sail with every wind; + Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride + As well against as with the tide. + But, Pallas, you've applied too late; + For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate, + That Ireland must be soon destroy'd, + And who but Hort can be employ'd? + You need not then have been so pert, + In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert. + I found you did it, by your grinning; + Your business is to mind your spinning. + But how you came to interpose + In making bishops, no one knows; + Or who regarded your report; + For never were you seen at court. + And if you must have your petition, + There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition; + Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just, + If one must drown, the other must; + But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas, + We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4] + Now, if 'twill gratify your spight, + To put him in a plaguy fright, + Although 'tis hardly worth the cost, + You soon shall see him soundly tost. + You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn + (And every moment take a dram) + His ghastly visage with an air + Of reprobation and despair; + Or else some hiding-hole he seeks, + For fear the rest should say he squeaks; + Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before, + Resolve to perish with his whore; + Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, + And, but for shame, would say his prayers. + Or, would you see his spirits sink? + Relaxing downwards in a stink? + If such a sight as this can please ye, + Good madam Pallas, pray be easy. + To Neptune speak, and he'll consent; + But he'll come back the knave he went." + The goddess, who conceived a hope + That Hort was destined to a rope, + Believed it best to condescend + To spare a foe, to save a friend; + But, fearing Berkeley might be scared, + She left him virtue for a guard. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a + Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, + and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as + chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in + 1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He + died in 1751.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of + Cashell.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, + Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.] + + [Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the + propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, <i>ut supra.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats + in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE ON SCIENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, heavenly born! in deepest dells + If fairest science ever dwells + Beneath the mossy cave; + Indulge the verdure of the woods, + With azure beauty gild the floods, + And flowery carpets lave. + + For, Melancholy ever reigns + Delighted in the sylvan scenes + With scientific light; + While Dian, huntress of the vales, + Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales, + Though wrapt from mortal sight. + + Yet, goddess, yet the way explore + With magic rites and heathen lore + Obstructed and depress'd; + Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, + Untaught, not uninspired, to shine, + By Reason's power redress'd. + + When Solon and Lycurgus taught + To moralize the human thought + Of mad opinion's maze, + To erring zeal they gave new laws, + Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause + That blends congenial rays. + + Bid bright Astræa gild the morn, + Or bid a hundred suns be born, + To hecatomb the year; + Without thy aid, in vain the poles, + In vain the zodiac system rolls, + In vain the lunar sphere. + + Come, fairest princess of the throng, + Bring sweet philosophy along, + In metaphysic dreams; + While raptured bards no more behold + A vernal age of purer gold, + In Heliconian streams. + + Drive Thraldom with malignant hand, + To curse some other destined land, + By Folly led astray: + Iërne bear on azure wing; + Energic let her soar, and sing + Thy universal sway. + + So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre + To more majestic sound aspire, + Behold the madding throng, + In wonder and oblivion drown'd, + To sculpture turn'd by magic sound + And petrifying song. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical + power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building + of the city.—Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] + </h2> + <h3> + FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; + Gently fill the swelling sails. + Neptune, with thy trident long, + Trident three-fork'd, trident strong: + And ye Nereids fair and gay, + Fairer than the rose in May, + Nereids living in deep caves, + Gently wash'd with gentle waves; + Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep + Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep; + All around, in pompous state, + On this richer Argo wait: + Argo, bring my golden fleece, + Argo, bring him to his Greece. + Will Cadenus longer stay? + Come, Cadenus, come away; + Come with all the haste of love, + Come unto thy turtle-dove. + The ripen'd cherry on the tree + Hangs, and only hangs for thee, + Luscious peaches, mellow pears, + Ceres, with her yellow ears, + And the grape, both red and white, + Grape inspiring just delight; + All are ripe, and courting sue, + To be pluck'd and press'd by you. + Pinks have lost their blooming red, + Mourning hang their drooping head, + Every flower languid seems, + Wants the colour of thy beams, + Beams of wondrous force and power, + Beams reviving every flower. + Come, Cadenus, bless once more, + Bless again thy native shore, + Bless again this drooping isle, + Make its weeping beauties smile, + Beauties that thine absence mourn, + Beauties wishing thy return: + Come, Cadenus, come with haste, + Come before the winter's blast; + Swifter than the lightning fly, + Or I, like Vanessa, die. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and + the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of + poetry.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans + l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, + qui ne nous déplait pas." + + This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those + suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published + by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it + commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, + 1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by + Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew + From nature, I believe 'em true: + They argue no corrupted mind + In him; the fault is in mankind. + This maxim more than all the rest + Is thought too base for human breast: + "In all distresses of our friends, + We first consult our private ends; + While nature, kindly bent to ease us, + Points out some circumstance to please us." + If this perhaps your patience move, + Let reason and experience prove. + We all behold with envious eyes + Our <i>equal</i> raised above our <i>size.</i> + Who would not at a crowded show + Stand high himself, keep others low? + I love my friend as well as you: + [2]But why should he obstruct my view? + Then let me have the higher post: + [3]Suppose it but an inch at most. + If in battle you should find + One whom you love of all mankind, + Had some heroic action done, + A champion kill'd, or trophy won; + Rather than thus be overtopt, + Would you not wish his laurels cropt? + Dear honest Ned is in the gout, + Lies rackt with pain, and you without: + How patiently you hear him groan! + How glad the case is not your own! + What poet would not grieve to see + His breth'ren write as well as he? + But rather than they should excel, + He'd wish his rivals all in hell. + Her end when Emulation misses, + She turns to Envy, stings and hisses: + The strongest friendship yields to pride, + Unless the odds be on our side. + Vain human kind! fantastic race! + Thy various follies who can trace? + Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, + Their empire in our hearts divide. + Give others riches, power, and station, + 'Tis all on me an usurpation. + I have no title to aspire; + Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. + In Pope I cannot read a line, + But with a sigh I wish it mine; + When he can in one couplet fix + More sense than I can do in six; + It gives me such a jealous fit, + I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" + [4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay + In my own hum'rous biting way. + Arbuthnot is no more my friend, + Who dares to irony pretend, + Which I was born to introduce, + Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use. + St. John, as well as Pultney, knows + That I had some repute for prose; + And, till they drove me out of date + Could maul a minister of state. + If they have mortify'd my pride, + And made me throw my pen aside; + If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, + Have I not reason to detest 'em? + To all my foes, dear Fortune, send + Thy gifts; but never to my friend: + I tamely can endure the first; + But this with envy makes me burst. + Thus much may serve by way of proem: + Proceed we therefore to our poem. + The time is not remote, when I + Must by the course of nature die; + When, I foresee, my special friends + Will try to find their private ends: + Tho' it is hardly understood + Which way my death can do them good, + Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: + "See, how the Dean begins to break! + Poor gentleman, he droops apace! + You plainly find it in his face. + That old vertigo in his head + Will never leave him till he's dead. + Besides, his memory decays: + He recollects not what he says; + He cannot call his friends to mind: + Forgets the place where last he din'd; + Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er; + He told them fifty times before. + How does he fancy we can sit + To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? + But he takes up with younger folks, + Who for his wine will bear his jokes. + Faith! he must make his stories shorter, + Or change his comrades once a quarter: + In half the time he talks them round, + There must another set be found. + "For poetry he's past his prime: + He takes an hour to find a rhyme; + His fire is out, his wit decay'd, + His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. + I'd have him throw away his pen;— + But there's no talking to some men!" + And then their tenderness appears, + By adding largely to my years; + "He's older than he would be reckon'd, + And well remembers Charles the Second. + He hardly drinks a pint of wine; + And that, I doubt, is no good sign. + His stomach too begins to fail: + Last year we thought him strong and hale; + But now he's quite another thing: + I wish he may hold out till spring!" + Then hug themselves, and reason thus: + "It is not yet so bad with us!" + In such a case, they talk in tropes, + And by their fears express their hopes: + Some great misfortune to portend, + No enemy can match a friend. + With all the kindness they profess, + The merit of a lucky guess + (When daily how d'ye's come of course, + And servants answer, "<i>Worse and worse!</i>") + Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, + That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." + Then he, who prophecy'd the best, + Approves his foresight to the rest: + "You know I always fear'd the worst, + And often told you so at first." + He'd rather chuse that I should die, + Than his prediction prove a lie. + Not one foretells I shall recover; + But all agree to give me over. + Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain + Just in the parts where I complain; + How many a message would he send! + What hearty prayers that I should mend! + Inquire what regimen I kept; + What gave me ease, and how I slept? + And more lament when I was dead, + Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. + My good companions, never fear; + For though you may mistake a year, + Though your prognostics run too fast, + They must be verify'd at last. + Behold the fatal day arrive! + "How is the Dean?"—"He's just alive." + Now the departing prayer is read; + "He hardly breathes."—"The Dean is dead." + Before the Passing-bell begun, + The news thro' half the town has run. + "O! may we all for death prepare! + What has he left? and who's his heir?"— + "I know no more than what the news is; + 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."— + "To public use! a perfect whim! + What had the public done for him? + Mere envy, avarice, and pride: + He gave it all—but first he died. + And had the Dean, in all the nation, + No worthy friend, no poor relation? + So ready to do strangers good, + Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" + Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; + With elegies the town is cloy'd: + Some paragraph in ev'ry paper + To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5] + The doctors, tender of their fame, + Wisely on me lay all the blame: + "We must confess, his case was nice; + But he would never take advice. + Had he been ruled, for aught appears, + He might have lived these twenty years; + For, when we open'd him, we found, + That all his vital parts were sound." + From Dublin soon to London spread, + 'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead." + Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, + Runs laughing up to tell the queen. + The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, + Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. + He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: + I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot. + I promised him, I own; but when? + I only was a princess then; + But now, as consort of a king, + You know, 'tis quite a different thing." + Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, + Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: + "Why, is he dead without his shoes," + Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: + O, were the wretch but living still, + And in his place my good friend Will![11] + Or had a mitre on his head, + Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!" + Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: + Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! + And then, to make them pass the glibber, + Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14] + He'll treat me as he does my betters, + Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15] + Revive the libels born to die; + Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + Here shift the scene, to represent + How those I love my death lament. + Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay + A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + St. John himself will scarce forbear + To bite his pen, and drop a tear. + The rest will give a shrug, and cry, + "I'm sorry—but we all must die!" + Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, + All fortitude of mind supplies: + For how can stony bowels melt + In those who never pity felt! + When <i>we</i> are lash'd, <i>they</i> kiss the rod, + Resigning to the will of God. + The fools, my juniors by a year, + Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; + Who wisely thought my age a screen, + When death approach'd, to stand between: + The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; + They mourn for me without dissembling. + My female friends, whose tender hearts + Have better learn'd to act their parts, + Receive the news in doleful dumps: + "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) + Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! + (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16] + Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: + (I wish I knew what king to call.) + Madam, your husband will attend + The funeral of so good a friend. + No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: + And he's engaged to-morrow night: + My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, + If he shou'd fail her at quadrille. + He loved the Dean—(I lead a heart,) + But dearest friends, they say, must part. + His time was come: he ran his race; + We hope he's in a better place." + Why do we grieve that friends should die? + No loss more easy to supply. + One year is past; a different scene! + No further mention of the Dean; + Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, + Than if he never did exist. + Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! + Departed:—and his works must follow; + Must undergo the common fate; + His kind of wit is out of date. + Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, + Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." + Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; + He died a year ago."—"The same." + He searches all the shop in vain. + "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18] + I sent them with a load of books, + Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. + To fancy they could live a year! + I find you're but a stranger here. + The Dean was famous in his time, + And had a kind of knack at rhyme. + His way of writing now is past; + The town has got a better taste; + I keep no antiquated stuff, + But spick and span I have enough. + Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; + Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. + This ode you never yet have seen, + By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen. + Then here's a letter finely penned + Against the Craftsman and his friend: + It clearly shows that all reflection + On ministers is disaffection. + Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20] + And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21] + The hawkers have not got them yet: + Your honour please to buy a set? + "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; + 'Tis read by every politician: + The country members, when in town, + To all their boroughs send them down; + You never met a thing so smart; + The courtiers have them all by heart: + Those maids of honour (who can read), + Are taught to use them for their creed.[23] + The rev'rend author's good intention + Has been rewarded with a pension. + He does an honour to his gown, + By bravely running priestcraft down: + He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, + That Moses was a grand impostor; + That all his miracles were cheats, + Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: + The church had never such a writer; + A shame he has not got a mitre!" + Suppose me dead; and then suppose + A club assembled at the Rose; + Where, from discourse of this and that, + I grow the subject of their chat. + And while they toss my name about, + With favour some, and some without, + One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, + My character impartial draws: + The Dean, if we believe report, + Was never ill receiv'd at court. + As for his works in verse and prose + I own myself no judge of those; + Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: + But this I know, all people bought 'em. + As with a moral view design'd + To cure the vices of mankind: + And, if he often miss'd his aim, + The world must own it, to their shame, + The praise is his, and theirs the blame. + "Sir, I have heard another story: + He was a most confounded Tory, + And grew, or he is much belied, + Extremely dull, before he died." + Can we the Drapier then forget? + Is not our nation in his debt? + 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!— + "He should have left them for his betters, + We had a hundred abler men, + Nor need depend upon his pen.— + Say what you will about his reading, + You never can defend his breeding; + Who in his satires running riot, + Could never leave the world in quiet; + Attacking, when he took the whim, + Court, city, camp—all one to him.— + "But why should he, except he slobber't, + Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, + Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power + To save the nation every hour? + What scenes of evil he unravels + In satires, libels, lying travels! + Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, + But eats into it, like a moth!" + His vein, ironically grave, + Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave. + To steal a hint was never known, + But what he writ was all his own.[24] + "He never thought an honour done him, + Because a duke was proud to own him, + Would rather slip aside and chuse + To talk with wits in dirty shoes; + Despised the fools with stars and garters, + So often seen caressing Chartres.[25] + He never courted men in station, + <i>Nor persons held in admiration;</i> + Of no man's greatness was afraid, + Because he sought for no man's aid. + Though trusted long in great affairs + He gave himself no haughty airs: + Without regarding private ends, + Spent all his credit for his friends; + And only chose the wise and good; + No flatterers; no allies in blood: + But succour'd virtue in distress, + And seldom fail'd of good success; + As numbers in their hearts must own, + Who, but for him, had been unknown. + "With princes kept a due decorum, + But never stood in awe before 'em. + He follow'd David's lesson just; + <i>In princes never put thy trust:</i> + And would you make him truly sour, + Provoke him with a slave in power. + The Irish senate if you named, + With what impatience he declaim'd! + Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, + For her he stood prepared to die; + For her he boldly stood alone; + For her he oft exposed his own. + Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led, + Had set a price upon his head; + But not a traitor could be found, + To sell him for six hundred pound. + "Had he but spared his tongue and pen + He might have rose like other men: + But power was never in his thought, + And wealth he valued not a groat: + Ingratitude he often found, + And pitied those who meant the wound: + But kept the tenor of his mind, + To merit well of human kind: + Nor made a sacrifice of those + Who still were true, to please his foes. + He labour'd many a fruitless hour, + To reconcile his friends in power; + Saw mischief by a faction brewing, + While they pursued each other's ruin. + But finding vain was all his care, + He left the court in mere despair.[27] + "And, oh! how short are human schemes! + Here ended all our golden dreams. + What St. John's skill in state affairs, + What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, + To save their sinking country lent, + Was all destroy'd by one event. + Too soon that precious life was ended, + On which alone our weal depended.[28] + When up a dangerous faction starts,[29] + With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; + <i>By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,</i> + To ruin, slaughter, and confound; + To turn religion to a fable, + And make the government a Babel; + Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, + Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; + To sacrifice old England's glory, + And make her infamous in story: + When such a tempest shook the land, + How could unguarded Virtue stand! + With horror, grief, despair, the Dean + Beheld the dire destructive scene: + His friends in exile, or the tower, + Himself[30] within the frown of power, + Pursued by base envenom'd pens, + Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31] + A servile race in folly nursed, + Who truckle most, when treated worst. + "By innocence and resolution, + He bore continual persecution; + While numbers to preferment rose, + Whose merits were, to be his foes; + When <i>ev'n his own familiar friends</i>, + Intent upon their private ends, + Like renegadoes now he feels, + <i>Against him lifting up their heels.</i> + "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat + An infamous destructive cheat;[32] + Taught fools their int'rest how to know, + And gave them arms to ward the blow. + Envy has own'd it was his doing, + To save that hapless land from ruin; + While they who at the steerage stood, + And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. + "To save them from their evil fate, + In him was held a crime of state, + A wicked monster on the bench,[33] + Whose fury blood could never quench; + As vile and profligate a villain, + As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34] + Who long all justice had discarded, + <i>Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;</i> + Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, + And make him of his zeal repent: + But Heaven his innocence defends, + The grateful people stand his friends; + Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, + Nor topics brought to please the crown, + Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, + Prevail to bring him in convict. + "In exile,[35] with a steady heart, + He spent his life's declining part; + Where folly, pride, and faction sway, + Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. + Alas, poor Dean! his only scope + Was to be held a misanthrope. + This into gen'ral odium drew him, + Which if he liked, much good may't do him. + His zeal was not to lash our crimes, + But discontent against the times: + For had we made him timely offers + To raise his post, or fill his coffers, + Perhaps he might have truckled down, + Like other brethren of his gown. + For party he would scarce have bled: + I say no more—because he's dead. + What writings has he left behind? + I hear, they're of a different kind; + A few in verse; but most in prose— + Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;— + All scribbled in the worst of times, + To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, + To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, + As never fav'ring the Pretender; + Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, + Against the court to show his spite; + Perhaps his travels, part the third; + A lie at every second word— + Offensive to a loyal ear: + But not one sermon, you may swear." + His friendships there, to few confined + Were always of the middling kind;[36] + No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, + Who fain would pass for lords indeed: + Where titles give no right or power,[37] + And peerage is a wither'd flower; + He would have held it a disgrace, + If such a wretch had known his face. + On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, + He vented oft his wrath in vain; + [Biennial[38]] squires to market brought; + Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought; + The [nation stripped,] go joyful back, + To *** the church, their tenants rack, + Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39] + And keep the peace to pick up fees; + In every job to have a share, + A gaol or barrack to repair; + And turn the tax for public roads, + Commodious to their own abodes.[40] + "Perhaps I may allow the Dean, + Had too much satire in his vein; + And seem'd determined not to starve it, + Because no age could more deserve it. + Yet malice never was his aim; + He lash'd the vice, but spared the name; + No individual could resent, + Where thousands equally were meant; + His satire points at no defect, + But what all mortals may correct; + For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe + Who call it humour when they gibe: + He spared a hump, or crooked nose, + Whose owners set not up for beaux. + True genuine dulness moved his pity, + Unless it offer'd to be witty. + Those who their ignorance confest, + He ne'er offended with a jest; + But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote + A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. + "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, + Must be or ridiculed or lash'd. + If you resent it, who's to blame? + He neither knew you nor your name. + Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, + Because its owner is a duke? + "He knew an hundred pleasant stories, + With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: + Was cheerful to his dying day; + And friends would let him have his way. + "He gave the little wealth he had + To build a house for fools and mad; + And show'd by one satiric touch, + No nation wanted it so much. + That kingdom he hath left his debtor, + I wish it soon may have a better." + And, since you dread no farther lashes + Methinks you may forgive his ashes. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This poem was first written about 1731 but was not then + intended to be published; and having been shown by Swift to all his + "common acquaintance indifferently," some "friend," probably + Pilkington, remembered enough of it to concoct the poem called "The Life + and Character of Dr. Swift, written by himself," which was published in + London in 1733, and reprinted in Dublin. In a letter to Pope, dated 1 + May, that year, the Dean complained seriously about the imposture, + saying, "it shall not provoke me to print the true one, which indeed is + not proper to be seen till I can be seen no more." See Swift to Pope, + in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 307. The poem was + subsequently published by Faulkner with the Dean's permission. It is now + printed from a copy of the original edition, with corrections in Swift's + hand, which I found in the Forster collection.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: <i>Var</i>. "But would not have him stop my view."] + + [Footnote 3: <i>Var</i>. "I ask but for an inch at most."] + + [Footnote 4: <i>Var</i>. "Why must I be outdone by Gay."] + + [Footnote 5: The author supposes that the scribblers of the prevailing + party, which he always opposed, will libel him after his death; but that + others will remember the service he had done to Ireland, under the name + of M. B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project of Wood's + halfpence, in five letters to the people of Ireland, at that time read + universally, and convincing every reader.] + + [Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.] + + [Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the + bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen, + then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her + commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his + friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very + graciously. He taxed her with a present worth £10, which she promised + before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals + were not ready. + + A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out + this note.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but + she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent + Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing + took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as + would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of + it; he did the former, it cost £35, but he said he would have nothing + except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as + usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in + England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her + intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her + Majesty's displeasure.] + + [Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a + footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland. + He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every + change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy + for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He + is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was + writ in.—<i>Dublin Edition,</i> and see <i>ante</i>, p. 191.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the + Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, + with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with + him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great + friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would + see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert, + on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited + him again.] + + [Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate + friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined + with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the + Craftsman, which is still continued.] + + [Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to + Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius + in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously + working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said + lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.] + + [Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or + country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He + published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three + pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile + a manner.] + + [Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the + shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was + made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore, + whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of + Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."] + + [Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, + letters, and last wills and testaments of the nobility and ministers of + state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath + been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the + letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their + journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published, + without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.] + + [Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the + tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 17: See <i>post</i>, p. 267.] + + [Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.] + + [Footnote 19: See <i>ante</i> "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet," + p. 192.] + + [Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but + write in his defence.] + + [Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to + get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, + formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set + times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his + associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling + each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported + crazy.] + + [Footnote 22: See <i>ante</i>, p. 188.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 23: See <i>ante</i>, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt + Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated," + was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Bethell in + Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix, + p. 149.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley: + "To him no author was unknown, + Yet what he wrote was all his own."] + + [Footnote 25: See <i>ante</i>, pp. 192 and 252.] + + [Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an + address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation, + promising £300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet + called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year + 1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was + prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward + of £300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet, + called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive + project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the + Dean discovered.] + + [Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year + after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord + Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford, + for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher + every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that + endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired + to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned + to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new + people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.] + + [Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the + queen died.] + + [Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to + power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached + and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all + their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was + never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments + in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men. + Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved, + only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and + are likely to remain so.] + + [Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin + at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in + England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was + forced to be attended by his servants armed.] + + [Footnote 31: Ireland.] + + [Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for + coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of £108,000, which, in + the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The + Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before + prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the + people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury + down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to + bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer + of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or + swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part, + except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was + celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most + streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several + country towns. This note was written in 1734.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His + judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from + Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years + ago.] + + [Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile; + to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, + who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the Duchess of + Somerset.] + + [Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single + lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of + the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.] + + [Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single + act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the + least resentment or remonstrance.] + + [Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once + in two years, and after having given five times more than they can + afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and + oppressions of which some few are mentioned.] + + [Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there, + usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers + who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.] + + [Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building + and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to + that unhappy kingdom.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON POETRY, A RHAPSODY. 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All human race would fain be wits, + And millions miss for one that hits. + Young's universal passion, pride,[1] + Was never known to spread so wide. + Say, Britain, could you ever boast + Three poets in an age at most? + Our chilling climate hardly bears + A sprig of bays in fifty years; + While every fool his claim alleges, + As if it grew in common hedges. + What reason can there be assign'd + For this perverseness in the mind? + Brutes find out where their talents lie: + A bear will not attempt to fly; + A founder'd horse will oft debate, + Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; + A dog by instinct turns aside, + Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. + But man we find the only creature + Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; + Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, + With obstinacy fixes there; + And, where his genius least inclines, + Absurdly bends his whole designs. + Not empire to the rising sun + By valour, conduct, fortune won; + Not highest wisdom in debates, + For framing laws to govern states; + Not skill in sciences profound + So large to grasp the circle round, + Such heavenly influence require, + As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; + Not bastard of a pedler Scot; + Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, + The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews; + Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges + Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; + Are so disqualified by fate + To rise in church, or law, or state, + As he whom Phoebus in his ire + Has blasted with poetic fire. + What hope of custom in the fair, + While not a soul demands your ware? + Where you have nothing to produce + For private life, or public use? + Court, city, country, want you not; + You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. + For poets, law makes no provision; + The wealthy have you in derision: + Of state affairs you cannot smatter; + Are awkward when you try to flatter; + Your portion, taking Britain round, + Was just one annual hundred pound; + Now not so much as in remainder, + Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; + For ever fix'd by right divine + (A monarch's right) on Grub Street line. + Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! + How unproportion'd to thy pains! + And here a simile comes pat in: + Though chickens take a month to fatten, + The guests in less than half an hour + Will more than half a score devour. + So, after toiling twenty days + To earn a stock of pence and praise, + Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, + Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; + Gone to be never heard of more, + Gone where the chickens went before. + How shall a new attempter learn + Of different spirits to discern, + And how distinguish which is which, + The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? + Then hear an old experienced sinner, + Instructing thus a young beginner. + Consult yourself; and if you find + A powerful impulse urge your mind, + Impartial judge within your breast + What subject you can manage best; + Whether your genius most inclines + To satire, praise, or humorous lines, + To elegies in mournful tone, + Or prologue sent from hand unknown. + Then, rising with Aurora's light, + The Muse invoked, sit down to write; + Blot out, correct, insert, refine, + Enlarge, diminish, interline; + Be mindful, when invention fails, + To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + Your poem finish'd, next your care + Is needful to transcribe it fair. + In modern wit all printed trash is + Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + To statesmen would you give a wipe, + You print it in <i>Italic</i> type. + When letters are in vulgar shapes, + 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: + But, when in capitals express'd, + The dullest reader smokes the jest: + Or else perhaps he may invent + A better than the poet meant; + As learned commentators view + In Homer more than Homer knew. + Your poem in its modish dress, + Correctly fitted for the press, + Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4] + But let no friend alive look into't. + If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, + You need not fear your labour lost: + And how agreeably surprised + Are you to see it advertised! + The hawker shows you one in print, + As fresh as farthings from the mint: + The product of your toil and sweating; + A bastard of your own begetting. + Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, + Lie snug, and hear what critics say; + And, if you find the general vogue + Pronounces you a stupid rogue, + Damns all your thoughts as low and little, + Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; + Be silent as a politician, + For talking may beget suspicion; + Or praise the judgment of the town, + And help yourself to run it down. + Give up your fond paternal pride, + Nor argue on the weaker side: + For, poems read without a name + We justly praise, or justly blame; + And critics have no partial views, + Except they know whom they abuse: + And since you ne'er provoke their spite, + Depend upon't their judgment's right. + But if you blab, you are undone: + Consider what a risk you run: + You lose your credit all at once; + The town will mark you for a dunce; + The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, + Will pass for yours with foes and friends; + And you must bear the whole disgrace, + Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + Your secret kept, your poem sunk, + And sent in quires to line a trunk, + If still you be disposed to rhyme, + Go try your hand a second time. + Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; + Take courage and attempt a third. + But first with care employ your thoughts + Where critics mark'd your former faults; + The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, + The similes that nothing fit; + The cant which every fool repeats, + Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, + Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, + And introduced the Lord knows why: + Or where we find your fury set + Against the harmless alphabet; + On A's and B's your malice vent, + While readers wonder whom you meant: + A public or a private robber, + A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; + A prelate, who no God believes; + A parliament, or den of thieves; + A pickpurse at the bar or bench, + A duchess, or a suburb wench: + Or oft, when epithets you link, + In gaping lines to fill a chink; + Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, + In streets where kennels are too wide; + Or like a heel-piece, to support + A cripple with one foot too short; + Or like a bridge, that joins a marish + To moorlands of a different parish. + So have I seen ill-coupled hounds + Drag different ways in miry grounds. + So geographers, in Afric maps, + With savage pictures fill their gaps, + And o'er unhabitable downs + Place elephants for want of towns. + But, though you miss your third essay, + You need not throw your pen away. + Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, + To spring more profitable game. + From party merit seek support; + The vilest verse thrives best at court. + And may you ever have the luck + To rhyme almost as ill as Duck;[6] + And, though you never learn'd to scan verse + Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. + A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence + Will never fail to bring in pence: + Nor be concern'd about the sale, + He pays his workmen on the nail.[7] + Display the blessings of the nation, + And praise the whole administration. + Extol the bench of bishops round, + Who at them rail, bid —— confound; + To bishop-haters answer thus: + (The only logic used by us) + What though they don't believe in —— + Deny them Protestants—thou lyest. + A prince, the moment he is crown'd, + Inherits every virtue round, + As emblems of the sovereign power, + Like other baubles in the Tower; + Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, + And so continues till he dies: + His humble senate this professes, + In all their speeches, votes, addresses. + But once you fix him in a tomb, + His virtues fade, his vices bloom; + And each perfection, wrong imputed, + Is fully at his death confuted. + The loads of poems in his praise, + Ascending, make one funeral blaze: + His panegyrics then are ceased, + He grows a tyrant, dunce, or beast. + As soon as you can hear his knell, + This god on earth turns devil in hell: + And lo! his ministers of state, + Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; + Where in the scenes of endless woe, + They ply their former arts below; + And as they sail in Charon's boat, + Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; + To Cerberus they give a sop, + His triple barking mouth to stop; + Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8] + Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes; + Or hire their party pamphleteers + To set Elysium by the ears. + Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, + Employ your muse on kings alive; + With prudence gathering up a cluster + Of all the virtues you can muster, + Which, form'd into a garland sweet, + Lay humbly at your monarch's feet: + Who, as the odours reach his throne, + Will smile, and think them all his own; + For law and gospel both determine + All virtues lodge in royal ermine: + I mean the oracles of both, + Who shall depose it upon oath. + Your garland, in the following reign, + Change but the names, will do again. + But, if you think this trade too base, + (Which seldom is the dunce's case) + Put on the critic's brow, and sit + At Will's, the puny judge of wit. + A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, + With caution used, may serve a while. + Proceed no further in your part, + Before you learn the terms of art; + For you can never be too far gone + In all our modern critics' jargon: + Then talk with more authentic face + Of unities, in time and place: + Get scraps of Horace from your friends, + And have them at your fingers' ends; + Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, + And at all hazards boldly quote; + Judicious Rymer[10] oft review, + Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12] + Read all the prefaces of Dryden, + For these our critics much confide in; + Though merely writ at first for filling, + To raise the volume's price a shilling. + A forward critic often dupes us + With sham quotations <i>peri hupsous</i>: + And if we have not read Longinus, + Will magisterially outshine us. + Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, + Procure the book for love or money, + Translated from Boileau's translation,[13] + And quote quotation on quotation. + At Will's you hear a poem read, + Where Battus[14] from the table head, + Reclining on his elbow-chair, + Gives judgment with decisive air; + To whom the tribe of circling wits + As to an oracle submits. + He gives directions to the town, + To cry it up, or run it down; + Like courtiers, when they send a note, + Instructing members how to vote. + He sets the stamp of bad and good, + Though not a word be understood. + Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure + To get the name of connoisseur: + And, when your merits once are known, + Procure disciples of your own. + For poets (you can never want 'em) + Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15] + Computing by their pecks of coals, + Amount to just nine thousand souls: + These o'er their proper districts govern, + Of wit and humour judges sovereign. + In every street a city bard + Rules, like an alderman, his ward; + His undisputed rights extend + Through all the lane, from end to end; + The neighbours round admire his shrewdness + For songs of loyalty and lewdness; + Outdone by none in rhyming well, + Although he never learn'd to spell. + Two bordering wits contend for glory; + And one is Whig, and one is Tory: + And this, for epics claims the bays, + And that, for elegiac lays: + Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, + By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; + And some as justly fame extols + For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. + Bavius[16] in Wapping gains renown, + And Mævius[16] reigns o'er Kentish town: + Tigellius[17] placed in Phooebus' car + From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: + Harmonious Cibber entertains + The court with annual birth-day strains; + Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;[18] + Where Pope will never show his face; + Where Young must torture his invention + To flatter knaves or lose his pension.[19] + But these are not a thousandth part + Of jobbers in the poet's art, + Attending each his proper station, + And all in due subordination, + Through every alley to be found, + In garrets high, or under ground; + And when they join their pericranies, + Out skips a book of miscellanies. + Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature + Lives in a state of war by nature.[20] + The greater for the smaller watch, + But meddle seldom with their match. + A whale of moderate size will draw + A shoal of herrings down his maw; + A fox with geese his belly crams; + A wolf destroys a thousand lambs; + But search among the rhyming race, + The brave are worried by the base. + If on Parnassus' top you sit, + You rarely bite, are always bit: + Each poet of inferior size + On you shall rail and criticise, + And strive to tear you limb from limb; + While others do as much for him. + The vermin only teaze and pinch + Their foes superior by an inch. + So, naturalists observe, a flea + Has smaller fleas that on him prey; + And these have smaller still to bite 'em, + And so proceed <i>ad infinitum</i>. + Thus every poet, in his kind, + Is bit by him that comes behind: + Who, though too little to be seen, + Can teaze, and gall, and give the spleen; + Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores, + Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; + Extol the Greek and Roman masters, + And curse our modern poetasters; + Complain, as many an ancient bard did, + How genius is no more rewarded; + How wrong a taste prevails among us; + How much our ancestors outsung us: + Can personate an awkward scorn + For those who are not poets born; + And all their brother dunces lash, + Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, + Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! + Their filial piety forgot, + Deny their country, like a Scot; + Though by their idiom and grimace, + They soon betray their native place: + Yet thou hast greater cause to be + Ashamed of them, than they of thee, + Degenerate from their ancient brood + Since first the court allow'd them food. + Remains a difficulty still, + To purchase fame by writing ill. + From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard's[22] time, + How few have reach'd the low sublime! + For when our high-born Howard died, + Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied: + And lest a chasm should intervene, + When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign, + The leaden crown devolved to thee, + Great poet[24] of the "Hollow Tree." + But ah! how unsecure thy throne! + A thousand bards thy right disown: + They plot to turn, in factious zeal, + Duncenia to a common weal; + And with rebellious arms pretend + An equal privilege to descend. + In bulk there are not more degrees + From elephants to mites in cheese, + Than what a curious eye may trace + In creatures of the rhyming race. + From bad to worse, and worse they fall; + But who can reach the worst of all? + For though, in nature, depth and height + Are equally held infinite: + In poetry, the height we know; + 'Tis only infinite below. + For instance: when you rashly think, + No rhymer can like Welsted sink, + His merits balanced, you shall find + The Laureate leaves him far behind. + Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard, + Soars downward deeper by a yard. + Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops; + The rest pursue as thick as hops: + With heads to point the gulf they enter, + Link'd perpendicular to the centre; + And as their heels elated rise, + Their heads attempt the nether skies. + O, what indignity and shame, + To prostitute the Muses' name! + By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd + The plagues and scourges of mankind; + Bred up in ignorance and sloth, + And every vice that nurses both. + Perhaps you say, Augustus shines, + Immortal made in Virgil's lines, + And Horace brought the tuneful quire, + To sing his virtues on the lyre; + Without reproach for flattery, true, + Because their praises were his due. + For in those ages kings, we find, + Were animals of human kind. + But now, go search all <i>Europe</i> round + Among the <i>savage monsters</i> —— + With vice polluting every <i>throne</i>, + (I mean all thrones except our own;) + In vain you make the strictest view + To find a —— in all the crew, + With whom a footman out of place + Would not conceive a high disgrace, + A burning shame, a crying sin, + To take his morning's cup of gin. + Thus all are destined to obey + Some beast of burthen or of prey. + 'Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man, + Through all the brutal species ran, + Each proper quality to find + Adapted to a human mind; + A mingled mass of good and bad, + The best and worst that could be had; + Then from a clay of mixture base + He shaped a —— to rule the race, + Endow'd with gifts from every brute + That best the * * nature suit. + Thus think on ——s: the name denotes + Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats. + To represent in figure just, + Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust; + Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers, + What herds of ——s would turn to grazers! + Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, + Whose virtues bear the strictest test; + Whom never faction could bespatter, + Nor minister nor poet flatter; + What justice in rewarding merit! + What magnanimity of spirit! + What lineaments divine we trace + Through all his figure, mien, and face! + Though peace with olive binds his hands, + Confess'd the conquering hero stands. + Hydaspes,[28] Indus, and the Ganges, + Dread from his hand impending changes. + From him the Tartar and Chinese, + Short by the knees,[29] entreat for peace. + The consort of his throne and bed, + A perfect goddess born and bred, + Appointed sovereign judge to sit + On learning, eloquence, and wit. + Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,[30] + (Late, very late, O may he rule us!) + What early manhood has he shown, + Before his downy beard was grown, + Then think, what wonders will be done + By going on as he begun, + An heir for Britain to secure + As long as sun and moon endure. + The remnant of the royal blood + Comes pouring on me like a flood. + Bright goddesses, in number five; + Duke William, sweetest prince alive. + Now sing the minister of state, + Who shines alone without a mate. + Observe with what majestic port + This Atlas stands to prop the court: + Intent the public debts to pay, + Like prudent Fabius,[31] by delay. + Thou great vicegerent of the king, + Thy praises every Muse shall sing! + In all affairs thou sole director; + Of wit and learning chief protector, + Though small the time thou hast to spare, + The church is thy peculiar care. + Of pious prelates what a stock + You choose to rule the sable flock! + You raise the honour of the peerage, + Proud to attend you at the steerage. + You dignify the noble race, + Content yourself with humbler place. + Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, + To titles give the sole pretence. + St. George beheld thee with delight, + Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, + When on thy breast and sides Herculean, + He fix'd the star and string cerulean. + Say, poet, in what other nation + Shone ever such a constellation! + Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, + And tune your harps, and strew your bays: + Your panegyrics here provide; + You cannot err on flattery's side. + Above the stars exalt your style, + You still are low ten thousand mile. + On Lewis all his bards bestow'd + Of incense many a thousand load; + But Europe mortified his pride, + And swore the fawning rascals lied. + Yet what the world refused to Lewis, + Applied to George, exactly true is. + Exactly true! invidious poet! + 'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + Translate me now some lines, if you can, + From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. + They could all power in Heaven divide, + And do no wrong on either side; + They teach you how to split a hair, + Give George and Jove an equal share.[32] + Yet why should we be laced so strait? + I'll give my monarch butter-weight. + And reason good; for many a year + Jove never intermeddled here: + Nor, though his priests be duly paid, + Did ever we desire his aid: + We now can better do without him, + Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. + <i>Caetera desiderantur</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See Young's "Satires," and "Life" by + Johnson.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The prison or house of correction to which harlots were + often consigned. See Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress," and "A beautiful + young Nymph," <i>ante</i>, p. 201.—<i>W. R. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Colley Cibber, born in 1671, died in 1757; famous as a + comedian and dramatist, and immortalized by Pope as the hero of the + "Dunciad"; appointed Laureate in December, 1730, in succession to Eusden, + who died in September that year. See Cibber's "Apology for his Life"; + Disraeli's "Quarrels of Authors," edit. 1859.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Barnaby Bernard Lintot, publisher and bookseller, noted for + adorning his shop with titles in red letters. In the Prologue to the + "Satires" Pope says: "What though my name stood rubric on the walls"; and + in the "Dunciad," book i, "Lintot's rubric post." He made a handsome + fortune, and died High Sheriff of Sussex in 1736, aged + sixty-one.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The coffee-house most frequented by the wits and poets of + that time.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: See <i>ante</i>, p. 192, "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher + Poet."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Allusion to the large sums paid by Walpole to scribblers in + support of his party.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: + "Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur + Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus Vmbris: + Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto; + Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes." + VIRG., <i>Aen.</i>, vi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: See the "South Sea Project," <i>ante</i>, p. 120.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: Thomas Rymer, archaeologist and critic. The allusion is to + his "Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age," on which see Johnson's + "Life of Dryden" and Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 173. Rymer is best known by + his work entitled "Foedera," consisting of leagues, treaties, etc., made + between England and other kingdoms.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 11: John Dennis, born 1657, died 1734. He is best remembered as + "The Critic." See Swift's "Thoughts on various subjects," "Prose Works," + i, 284; Disraeli, "Calamities of Authors: Influence of a bad Temper in + Criticism"; Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, + <i>passim.</i>—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 12: Highly esteemed as a French critic by Dryden and + Pope.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 13: By Leonard Welsted, who, in 1712, published the work of + "Longinus on the Sublime," stated to be "translated from the Greek." He + is better known through his quarrel with Pope. See the "Prologue to the + Satires."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 14: Dryden, whose armed chair at Will's was in the winter + placed by the fire, and in the summer in the balcony. Malone's "Life of + Dryden," p. 485. Why Battus? Battus was a herdsman who, because he + Betrayed Mercury's theft of some cattle, was changed by the god into a + Stone Index. Ovid, "Metam.," ii, 685.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 15: The ancient name of London, also called Troynovant. See + Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 249; and Cunningham's "Handbook of + London," introduction.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 16: The two bad Roman poets, hateful and inimical to Virgil and + Horace: Virg., "Ecl." iii, 90; Horat., "Epod." x. The names have been + well applied in our time by Gifford in his satire entitled "The Baviad + and Maeviad."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 17: A musician, also a censurer of Horace. See "Satirae," lib. + 1. iii, 4.—<i>—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 18: In consequence of "Polly," the supplement to the "Beggar's + Opera," but which obtained him the friendship of the Duke and Duchess of + Queensberry.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 19: The grant of two hundred a year, which he obtained from the + Crown, and retained till his death in 1765.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 20: See "Leviathan," Part I, chap, xiii.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 21: Richard Flecknoe, poet and dramatist, died 1678, of whom it + has been written that "whatever may become of his own pieces, his name + will continue, whilst Dryden's satire, called 'Mac Flecknoe,' shall + remain in vogue." Dryden's Poetical Works, edit. Warton, ii, + 169.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 22: Hon. Edward Howard, author of some indifferent plays and + poems. See "Dict. Nat. Biog."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 23: Richard Blackmore, physician and very voluminous writer in + prose and verse. In 1697 he was appointed physician to William III, when + he was knighted. See Pope, "Imitations of Horace," book ii, epist. 1, + 387.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by + his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow + Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's + malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works, + edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of + miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299, + 304, <i>ut supra.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate + assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto, + Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 27: + "Fertur Prometheus, addere principi + Limo coactus particulam undique + Desectam, et insani leonis + Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro." + HORAT., <i>Carm.</i> I, xvi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 28: + "—— super et Garamantas et Indos, + Proferet imperium; —— + —— jam nunc et Caspia regna + Responsis horrent divom." + Virg., <i>Aen.</i>, vi.] + + [Footnote 29: + "—— genibus minor."] + + [Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of + Wales, father of George III.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 31: + "Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem." + Virg., <i>Aen.</i>, vi, 847.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN + </h2> + <p> + ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND. BY DR. J. SICAN[1] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Horace speaking.) + + You've read, sir, in poetic strain, + How Varus and the Mantuan swain + Have on my birth-day been invited, + (But I was forced in verse to write it,) + Upon a plain repast to dine, + And taste my old Campanian wine; + But I, who all punctilios hate, + Though long familiar with the great, + Nor glory in my reputation, + Am come without an invitation; + And, though I'm used to right Falernian, + I'll deign for once to taste Iërnian; + But fearing that you might dispute + (Had I put on my common suit) + My breeding and my politesse, + I visit in my birth-day dress: + My coat of purest Turkey red, + With gold embroidery richly spread; + To which I've sure as good pretensions, + As Irish lords who starve on pensions. + What though proud ministers of state + Did at your antichamber wait; + What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns, + Have at your levee paid attendance, + And Peterborough and great Ormond, + With many chiefs who now are dormant, + Have laid aside the general's staff, + And public cares, with you to laugh; + Yet I some friends as good can name, + Nor less the darling sons of fame; + For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas + Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as + Either your Bolingbroke or Harley, + Though they made Lewis beg a parley; + And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero, + I'll match him with my Drusus Nero. + You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope; + But Virgil is as good, I hope. + I own indeed I can't get any + To equal Helsham and Delany; + Since Athens brought forth Socrates, + A Grecian isle, Hippocrates; + Since Tully lived before my time, + And Galen bless'd another clime. + You'll plead, perhaps, at my request, + To be admitted as a guest, + "Your hearing's bad!"—But why such fears? + I speak to eyes, and not to ears; + And for that reason wisely took + The form you see me in, a book. + Attack'd by slow devouring moths, + By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths; + By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, + By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose; + I found my boasted wit and fire + In their rude hands almost expire: + Yet still they but in vain assail'd; + For, had their violence prevail'd, + And in a blast destroy'd my frame, + They would have partly miss'd their aim; + Since all my spirit in thy page + Defies the Vandals of this age. + 'Tis yours to save these small remains + From future pedant's muddy brains, + And fix my long uncertain fate, + You best know how—"which way?"—TRANSLATE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in + Italy.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, <i>ante</i>, + p. 48.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and + Horace.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace, + done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with + the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by + the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote: + "O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain, + And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain." + <i>Dict. Nat. Biog.—W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + </h2> + <h3> + INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, + How vice and folly have debased mankind; + Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; + Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: + While bold and free the glowing colours strike; + Blame not the picture, if the picture's like." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON PSYCHE[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, + Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: + So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; + Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? + Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, + Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. + She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; + But ever with prudence takes care of the main. + To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; + For her taste is almost as refined as her wit. + To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, + It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. + Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, + She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of + the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and + Stella.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN AND DUKE + </h2> + <h3> + 1734 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; + James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: + But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke, + For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke. + Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks, + Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2] + His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain + With bands of fiddlers to extend his train. + Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel, + The duke and dean seem near upon a level. + O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, + From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free. + A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown: + Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown. + Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king: + O! would his majesty but add a string! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and + built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in + his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the + building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers' + edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second + Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house + he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance + hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his <i>Canonical</i> + pillars.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure + of his speculative investments.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.—<i>N</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; + Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, + Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, + Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures. +</pre> + <h3> + THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. +ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. +DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. +ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. + Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, + You may have company enough. +DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, + Than if it rang out for my knell. +ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. +DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, + Than at the rumbling of a cart. +ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f—t. +DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! + No more I hear a woman's clack. +ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, + Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; + But louder than a bell, or thunder: + That does, I own, increase my wonder. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On rainy days alone I dine + Upon a chick and pint of wine. + On rainy days I dine alone, + And pick my chicken to the bone; + But this my servants much enrages, + No scraps remain to save board-wages. + In weather fine I nothing spend, + But often spunge upon a friend; + Yet, where he's not so rich as I, + I pay my club, and so good b'ye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, + Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. + Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: + Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. + Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; + Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN + </h2> + <h3> + APPLES + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come buy my fine wares, + Plums, apples, and pears. + A hundred a penny, + In conscience too many: + Come, will you have any? + My children are seven, + I wish them in Heaven; + My husband a sot, + With his pipe and his pot, + Not a farthing will gain them, + And I must maintain them. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASPARAGUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ripe 'sparagrass + Fit for lad or lass, + To make their water pass: + O, 'tis pretty picking + With a tender chicken! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONIONS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, follow me by the smell, + Here are delicate onions to sell; + I promise to use you well. + They make the blood warmer, + You'll feed like a farmer; + For this is every cook's opinion, + No savoury dish without an onion; + But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, + Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: + Or else you may spare + Your mistress a share, + The secret will never be known: + She cannot discover + The breath of her lover, + But think it as sweet as her own. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OYSTERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Charming oysters I cry: + My masters, come buy, + So plump and so fresh, + So sweet is their flesh, + No Colchester oyster + Is sweeter and moister: + Your stomach they settle, + And rouse up your mettle: + They'll make you a dad + Of a lass or a lad; + And madam your wife + They'll please to the life; + Be she barren, be she old, + Be she slut, or be she scold, + Eat my oysters, and lie near her, + She'll be fruitful, never fear her. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HERRINGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be not sparing, + Leave off swearing. + Buy my herring + Fresh from Malahide,[1] + Better never was tried. + Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, + Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. + Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, + Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. + + [Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for + oysters.—<i>F</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ORANGES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, + And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; + Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup, + They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL + </h2> + <h3> + INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Happiest of the spaniel race, + Painter, with thy colours grace: + Draw his forehead large and high, + Draw his blue and humid eye; + Draw his neck so smooth and round, + Little neck with ribbons bound! + And the muscly swelling breast, + Where the Loves and Graces rest; + And the spreading even back, + Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; + And the tail that gently twines, + Like the tendrils of the vines; + And the silky twisted hair, + Shadowing thick the velvet ear; + Velvet ears, which, hanging low, + O'er the veiny temples flow. + With a proper light and shade, + Let the winding hoop be laid; + And within that arching bower, + (Secret circle, mystic power,) + In a downy slumber place + Happiest of the spaniel race; + While the soft respiring dame, + Glowing with the softest flame, + On the ravish'd favourite pours + Balmy dews, ambrosial showers. + With thy utmost skill express + Nature in her richest dress, + Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, + Orchards by those rivers blowing; + Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, + And the gay enamell'd mead; + Where the linnets sit and sing, + Little sportlings of the spring; + Where the breathing field and grove + Soothe the heart and kindle love. + Here for me, and for the Muse, + Colours of resemblance choose, + Make of lineaments divine, + Daply female spaniels shine, + Pretty fondlings of the fair, + Gentle damsels' gentle care; + But to one alone impart + All the flattery of thy art. + Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, + Which complete the desperate face; + Let the spotted wanton dame + Feel a new resistless flame! + Let the happiest of his race + Win the fair to his embrace. + But in shade the rest conceal, + Nor to sight their joys reveal, + Lest the pencil and the Muse + Loose desires and thoughts infuse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret, + daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop + Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one + Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of + Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS + </h2> + <h3> + SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN + + We fly from luxury and wealth, + To hardships, in pursuit of health; + From generous wines, and costly fare, + And dozing in an easy-chair; + Pursue the goddess Health in vain, + To find her in a country scene, + And every where her footsteps trace, + And see her marks in every face; + And still her favourites we meet, + Crowding the roads with naked feet. + But, oh! so faintly we pursue, + We ne'er can have her full in view. +</pre> + <h3> + II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, + Dims and obscures our sight; + So, when our passions Love has stirr'd, + It darkens Reason's light. +</pre> + <p> + III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, + WARWICKSHIRE + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, + Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four. +</pre> + <h3> + IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The church and clergy here, no doubt, + Are very near a-kin; + Both weather-beaten are without, + And empty both within. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + + My landlord is civil, + But dear as the d—l: + Your pockets grow empty + With nothing to tempt ye; + The wine is so sour, + 'Twill give you a scour, + The beer and the ale + Are mingled with stale. + The veal is such carrion, + A dog would be weary on. + All this I have felt, + For I live on a smelt. +</pre> + <h3> + VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The walls of this town + Are full of renown, + And strangers delight to walk round 'em: + But as for the dwellers, + Both buyers and sellers, + For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em. +</pre> + <p> + VII. ANOTHER WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thanks to my stars, I once can see + A window here from scribbling free! + Here no conceited coxcombs pass, + To scratch their paltry drabs on glass; + Nor party fool is calling names, + Or dealing crowns to George and James. +</pre> + <h3> + VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sage, who said he should be proud + Of windows in his breast,[1] + Because he ne'er a thought allow'd + That might not be confest; + His window scrawl'd by every rake, + His breast again would cover, + And fairly bid the devil take + The diamond and the lover. + + [Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii, + 497.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <h3> + IX. ANOTHER + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By Satan taught, all conjurors know + Your mistress in a glass to show, + And you can do as much: + In this the devil and you agree; + None e'er made verses worse than he, + And thine, I swear, are such. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. ANOTHER + + That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; + Those rhymers abundantly show it: + They swear that they all by love are inspired, + And the devil's a damnable poet. +</pre> + <h3> + XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Neptune! Neptune! must I still + Be here detain'd against my will? + Is this your justice, when I'm come + Above two hundred miles from home; + O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains, + Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains, + Only your godship to implore, + To let me kiss your other shore? + A boon so small! but I may weep, + While you're like Baal, fast asleep. + + [Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's + enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's + Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works," + vol. xi.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! + Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; + To oblige your crony Swift, + Bring our dame a new year's gift; + She has got but half a face; + Janus, since thou hast a brace, + To my lady once be kind; + Give her half thy face behind. + God of Time, if you be wise, + Look not with your future eyes; + What imports thy forward sight? + Well, if you could lose it quite. + Can you take delight in viewing + This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin, + When thy retrospection vast + Sees the glorious ages past? + Happy nation, were we blind, + Or had only eyes behind! + Drown your morals, madam cries, + I'll have none but forward eyes; + Prudes decay'd about may tack, + Strain their necks with looking back. + Give me time when coming on; + Who regards him when he's gone? + By the Dean though gravely told, + New-years help to make me old; + Yet I find a new-year's lace + Burnishes an old-year's face. + Give me velvet and quadrille, + I'll have youth and beauty still. + + [Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis + Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores + Instituunt."—HOR., <i>Sat</i>., ii, vi, 20.] + + [Footnote 2: Ireland.—<i>H</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD + </h2> + <h3> + WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, + From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece; + We comb the wool, refine the stuff, + For modern Jasons, that's enough. + Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1] + Old Jason would have less to brag on. + + [Footnote 1: England.—<i>H</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + TO A FRIEND WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night + And fortune help the murderer in his flight; + The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, + Yet safe from injured innocence escape; + And calumny, by working under ground, + Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. + What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose + To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? + By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road, + Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd? + Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, + And buy distinction at the dearest rate. + + [Footnote 1: See <i>ante</i>, p. 160, the poem entitled "On + Censure."—<i>W. E. B.</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lesbia for ever on me rails, + To talk of me she never fails. + Now, hang me, but for all her art, + I find that I have gain'd her heart. + My proof is this: I plainly see, + The case is just the same with me; + I curse her every hour sincerely, + Yet, hang me but I love her dearly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam + De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. + Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam + Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo." + <i>Catulli Carmina, xcii.—W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I marched three miles through scorching sand, + With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; + I rode four more to Great St. Mary, + Using four legs, when two were weary: + To three fair virgins I did tie men, + In the close bands of pleasing Hymen; + I dipp'd two babes in holy water, + And purified their mother after. + Within an hour and eke a half, + I preach'd three congregations deaf; + Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded, + I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded. + My emblem, the laborious sun, + Saw all these mighty labours done + Before one race of his was run. + All this perform'd by Robert Hewit: + What mortal else could e'er go through it! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, + Never may the Muse forget ye, + How thy face charms every shepherd, + Spotted over like a leopard! + And thy freckled neck, display'd, + Envy breeds in every maid; + Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, + Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; + Or a tawny speckled pippin, + Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping. + And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, + Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd. + Sets of phrases, cut and dry, + Evermore thy tongue supply; + And thy memory is loaded + With old scraps from plays exploded; + Stock'd with repartees and jokes, + Suited to all Christian folks: + Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, + Blunder'd out a thousand times; + Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, + Which can ne'er be worse for wearing. + Picking wit among collegians, + In the playhouse upper regions; + Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, + Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery. + But thy merit is thy failing, + And thy raillery is railing. + Thus with talents well endued + To be scurrilous and rude; + When you pertly raise your snout, + Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; + This among Hibernian asses + For sheer wit and humour passes. + Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, + Swears you have a world of wit. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who can believe with common sense, + A bacon slice gives God offence; + Or, how a herring has a charm + Almighty vengeance to disarm? + Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, + Does he regard on what we dine? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, + called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved + him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which + are translated above: + "Peut-on croire avec bon sens + Qu'un lardon le mil en colère, + Ou, que manger un hareng, + C'est un secret pour lui plaire? + En sa gloire envelopé, + Songe-t-il bien de nos soupés?"—<i>H</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, + He took to the street, and fled for his life: + Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, + And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; + Then ventured to give him some sober advice— + But Tom is a person of honour so nice, + Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, + That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. + Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; + Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. + + [Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by + Stella.—<i>Forster</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Margery chastises Ned, + She calls it combing of his head; + A kinder wife was never born: + She combs his head, and finds him horn. + + [Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's + volume.—<i>Forster.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOAN CUDGELS NED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; + Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. + Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, + She dares not say her life's her own. + Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, + And every day she combs his head. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise + With lofty branches to the skies, + Have large proportion'd roots that grow + With equal longitude below: + Two bards that now in fashion reign, + Most aptly this device explain: + If this to clouds and stars will venture, + That creeps as far to reach the centre; + Or, more to show the thing I mean, + Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen + A skill'd mechanic, that has stood + High on a length of prostrate wood, + Who hired a subterraneous friend + To take his iron by the end; + But which excell'd was never found, + The man above or under ground. + The moral is so plain to hit, + That, had I been the god of wit, + Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, + Should Young and Philips drudge together. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0138" id="link2H_4_0138"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. + Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; + For Dick without Doll thought living a folly. + + Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: + But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; + A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear. + + Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; + Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; + The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most. + + Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried: + To live without both full three days he tried; + But liked neither loss, and so quietly died. + + Dick left a pattern few will copy after: + Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; + For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter. + Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; + The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; + And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate. + + Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, + Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, + And here rest——<i>sic transit gloria mundi</i>! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married + to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived + her but two days.—<i>F</i>. + The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in + his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy + Stopford's Chair." See <i>ante</i>, p.85.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest + daughter.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0139" id="link2H_4_0139"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My latest tribute here I send, + With this let your collection end. + Thus I consign you down to fame + A character to praise or blame: + And if the whole may pass for true, + Contented rest, you have your due. + Give future time the satisfaction, + To leave one handle for detraction. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0140" id="link2H_4_0140"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, + That you, who know music no more than an ass, + That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, + Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? + To act such an opera once in a year, + So offensive to every true Protestant ear, + With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, + Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, + No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, + Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: + How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, + To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets! + + [The rest is wanting.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0141" id="link2H_4_0141"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The furniture that best doth please + St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: + The knife and fork with which I eat; + And next the pot that boils the meat; + The next to be preferr'd, I think, + Is the glass in which I drink; + The shelves on which my books I keep + And the bed on which I sleep; + An antique elbow-chair between, + Big enough to hold the Dean; + And the stove that gives delight + In the cold bleak wintry night: + To these we add a thing below, + More for use reserved than show: + These are what the Dean do please; + All superfluous are but these. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0142" id="link2H_4_0142"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH + </h2> + <h3> + INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + H. S. E. + + [*text centered] +CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, + Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE, + Et BRUCE, è nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques, + Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis + Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus; + Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus. + Siquidem a GULIELMO III° ad ordines foederati Belgii + Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius + Rebus, non Britanniae tantùm, sed totius fere Europae + (Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit, + Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata, + Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre, + In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit. + Fuit à sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae + E proregibus Hiberniae secundus, + Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens, + Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus + Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus + Forestae de Dean. + Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem + Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset, + Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias + Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo. + Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera, + Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius + Quòd veritatem evangelicam seriò amplexus; + Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus, + Adversùs omnes aequus et benevolus, + In Christo jam placidè obdormit + Cum eodem olim regnaturus unà. + Natus VIII° April. MDCXLIX. denatus +XXIV° Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0143" id="link2H_4_0143"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH + </h2> + <h3> + ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*text centered] + Hic infra situm est corpus +FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. + ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690. +DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam + atque etiam petierunt, +UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum + In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent: + Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos, + diu ac saepè orando nil profecêre; + Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt, + Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes, + Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres + delitescunt + "Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos, + Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos." + A.D. 1731. + + [Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne, + July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and + chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own + expense.—<i>N</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph + were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellulâ tanti + ductoris cineres delitescunt."—<i>N.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0144" id="link2H_4_0144"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals + against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from + his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to + himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier + Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the + Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High + Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The + task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of + Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was + equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux + esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of + a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. + These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here + thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.—<i>Scott.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A lady, wise as well as fair, + Whose conscience always was her care, + Thoughtful upon a point of moment, + Would have the text as well as comment: + So hearing of a grave divine, + She sent to bid him come to dine. + But, you must know he was not quite + So grave as to be unpolite: + Thought human learning would not lessen + The dignity of his profession: + And if you'd heard the man discourse, + Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. + He long had bid the court farewell, + Retreating silent to his cell; + Suspected for the love he bore + To one who sway'd some time before; + Which made it more surprising how + He should be sent for thither now. + The message told, he gapes, and stares, + And scarce believes his eyes or ears: + Could not conceive what it should mean, + And fain would hear it told again. + But then the squire so trim and nice, + 'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; + So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; + And would not fail to wait upon her. + His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, + Away he trudges into town; + Passes the lower castle yard, + And now advancing to the guard, + He trembles at the thoughts of state; + For, conscious of his sheepish gait, + His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; + He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. + What was the message I received? + Why certainly the captain raved? + To dine with her! and come at three! + Impossible! it can't be me. + Or maybe I mistook the word; + My lady—it must be my lord. + My lord 's abroad; my lady too: + What must the unhappy doctor do? + "Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"—"No." + "Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." + Am I awake, or do I dream? + I'm sure he call'd me by my name; + Named me as plain as he could speak; + And yet there must be some mistake. + Why, what a jest should I have been, + Had now my lady been within! + What could I've said? I'm mighty glad + She went abroad—she'd thought me mad. + The hour of dining now is past: + Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: + And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff, + I think I'm very fairly off. + My lady now returning home, + Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" + He had not heard of him—"Pray see, + 'Tis now a quarter after three." + The captain walks about, and searches + Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; + Examines all the servants round, + In vain—no doctor's to be found. + My lady could not choose but wonder; + "Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; + But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; + I'll try his manners once again; + If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, + My son shall never see a college." + The captain was a man of reading, + And much good sense, as well as breeding; + Who, loath to blame, or to incense, + Said little in his own defence. + Next day another message brought; + The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, + Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, + Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, + Panting—and faltering—humm'd and ha'd, + "Her ladyship was gone abroad: + The captain too—he did not know + Whether he ought to stay or go;" + Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, + My lady, pitying his confusion, + Call'd her good nature to relieve him; + Told him, she thought she might believe him; + And would not only grant his suit, + But visit him, and eat some fruit, + Provided, at a proper time, + He told the real truth in rhyme; + 'Twas to no purpose to oppose, + She'd hear of no excuse in prose. + The Doctor stood not to debate, + Glad to compound at any rate; + So, bowing, seemingly complied; + Though, if he durst, he had denied. + But first, resolved to show his taste, + Was too refined to give a feast; + He'd treat with nothing that was rare, + But winding walks and purer air; + Would entertain without expense, + Or pride or vain magnificence: + For well he knew, to such a guest + The plainest meals must be the best. + To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare + Simplicity alone is rare; + While high, and nice, and curious meats + Are really but vulgar treats. + Instead of spoils of Persian looms, + The costly boast of regal rooms, + Thought it more courtly and discreet + To scatter roses at her feet; + Roses of richest dye, that shone + With native lustre, like her own; + Beauty that needs no aid of art + Through every sense to reach the heart. + The gracious dame, though well she knew + All this was much beneath her due, + Liked everything—at least thought fit + To praise it <i>par manière d'acquit</i>. + Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear + The scorching sun, or chilling air; + Disturb'd alike at both extremes, + Whether he shows or hides his beams: + Though seeming pleased at all she sees, + Starts at the ruffling of the trees, + And scarce can speak for want of breath, + In half a walk fatigued to death. + The Doctor takes his hint from hence, + T' apologize his late offence: + "Madam, the mighty power of use + Now strangely pleads in my excuse; + If you unused have scarcely strength + To gain this walk's untoward length; + If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, + Through long disuse of solitude; + If, long confined to fires and screens, + You dread the waving of these greens; + If you, who long have breathed the fumes + Of city fogs and crowded rooms, + Do now solicitously shun + The cooler air and dazzling sun; + If his majestic eye you flee, + Learn hence t' excuse and pity me. + Consider what it is to bear + The powder'd courtier's witty sneer; + To see th' important man of dress + Scoffing my college awkwardness; + To be the strutting cornet's sport, + To run the gauntlet of the court, + Winning my way by slow approaches, + Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches, + From the first fierce cockaded sentry, + Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry; + To pass so many crowded stages, + And stand the staring of your pages: + And after all, to crown my spleen, + Be told—'You are not to be seen:' + Or, if you are, be forced to bear + The awe of your majestic air. + And can I then be faulty found, + In dreading this vexatious round? + Can it be strange, if I eschew + A scene so glorious and so new? + Or is he criminal that flies + The living lustre of your eyes?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0146" id="link2H_4_0146"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1] + 1724 + + Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.—VIRG., <i>Aen.</i>, v, 344. + + Once on a time, a righteous sage, + Grieved with the vices of the age, + Applied to Jove with fervent prayer— + "O Jove, if Virtue be so fair + As it was deem'd in former days, + By Plato and by Socrates, + Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, + Only for want of outward shape; + Make then its real excellence, + For once the theme of human sense; + So shall the eye, by form confined, + Direct and fix the wandering mind, + And long-deluded mortals see, + With rapture, what they used to flee!" + Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, + And bids him bless and mend the earth. + Behold him blooming fresh and fair, + Now made—ye gods—a son and heir; + An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, + An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2] + But prodigies are wrought to prove + Nothing impossible to Jove. + Virtue was for this sex design'd, + In mild reproof to womankind; + In manly form to let them see + The loveliness of modesty, + The thousand decencies that shone + With lessen'd lustre in their own; + Which few had learn'd enough to prize, + And some thought modish to despise. + To make his merit more discern'd, + He goes to school—he reads—is learn'd; + Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, + He shines distinguish'd in a college; + Resolved nor honour, nor estate, + Himself alone should make him great. + Here soon for every art renown'd, + His influence is diffused around; + The inferior youth to learning led, + Less to be famed than to be fed, + Behold the glory he has won, + And blush to see themselves outdone; + And now, inflamed with rival rage, + In scientific strife engage, + Engage; and, in the glorious strife + The arts new kindle into life. + Here would our hero ever dwell, + Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: + Contented to be truly great, + In Virtue's best beloved retreat; + Contented he—but Fate ordains, + He now shall shine in nobler scenes, + Raised high, like some celestial fire, + To shine the more, still rising higher; + Completely form'd in every part, + To win the soul, and glad the heart. + The powerful voice, the graceful mien, + Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; + The outward form and inward vie, + His soul bright beaming from his eye, + Ennobling every act and air, + With just, and generous, and sincere. + Accomplish'd thus, his next resort + Is to the council and the court, + Where Virtue is in least repute, + And interest the one pursuit; + Where right and wrong are bought and sold, + Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; + Here Manly Virtue, even here, + Pleased in the person of a peer, + A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, + Who talk'd of justice and of truth, + Of innocence the surest guard, + Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; + That he alone deserved esteem, + Who was the man he wish'd to seem; + Call'd it unmanly and unwise, + To lurk behind a mean disguise; + (Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, + 'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) + Call'd want of shame a want of sense, + And found, in blushes, eloquence. + Thus acting what he taught so well, + He drew dumb merit from her cell, + Led with amazing art along + The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; + And, while he made her value known, + Yet more display'd and raised his own. + Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, + He rises to the highest stations; + For where high honour is the prize, + True Virtue has a right to rise: + Let courtly slaves low bend the knee + To Wealth and Vice in high degree: + Exalted Worth disdains to owe + Its grandeur to its greatest foe. + Now raised on high, see Virtue shows + The godlike ends for which he rose; + For him, let proud Ambition know + The height of glory here below, + Grandeur, by goodness made complete! + To bless, is truly to be great! + He taught how men to honour rise, + Like gilded vapours to the skies, + Which, howsoever they display + Their glory from the god of day, + Their noblest use is to abate + His dangerous excess of heat, + To shield the infant fruits and flowers, + And bless the earth with genial showers. + Now change the scene; a nobler care + Demands him in a higher sphere:[3] + Distress of nations calls him hence, + Permitted so by Providence; + For models, made to mend our kind, + To no one clime should be confined; + And Manly Virtue, like the sun, + His course of glorious toils should run: + Alike diffusing in his flight + Congenial joy, and life, and light. + Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, + And Discord in his presence dies; + Oppression hides with guilty dread, + And Merit rears her drooping head; + The arts revive, the valleys sing, + And winter softens into spring: + The wondering world, where'er he moves, + With new delight looks up, and loves; + One sex consenting to admire, + Nor less the other to desire; + While he, though seated on a throne, + Confines his love to one alone; + The rest condemn'd with rival voice + Repining, do applaud his choice. + Fame now reports, the Western isle + Is made his mansion for a while, + Whose anxious natives, night and day, + (Happy beneath his righteous sway,) + Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer, + To bless him, and to keep him there; + And claim it as a debt from Fate, + Too lately found, to lose him late. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works," + vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of + Lord Chesterfield."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord + Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of + age.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, + with Denmark, and with the Czar.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0147" id="link2H_4_0147"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, + Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, + Above the door, at country fair, + Betokens entertainment there; + So bays on poets' brows have been + Set, for a sign of wit within. + And as ill neighbours in the night + Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; + The laurel so, by poets worn, + Is by the teeth of Envy torn; + Envy, a canker-worm, which tears + Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. + And now, t'exemplify this moral: + Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, + (Which, measured on his head, was found + Not long enough to reach half round, + But, like a girl's cockade, was tied, + A trophy, on his temple-side,) + Paddy repined to see him wear + This badge of honour in his hair; + And, thinking this cockade of wit + Would his own temples better fit, + Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, + Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, + Pelts him by turns with verse and prose + Hums like a hornet at his nose. + At length presumes to vent his satire on + The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron. + The eagle in the tale, ye know, + Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, + Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest + Securely in the thunderer's breast: + In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, + The spiteful insect stung the god. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, + Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems + To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even + from Delany. Hence this poem.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0148" id="link2H_4_0148"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET + </h2> + <h3> + BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, + Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat. +MART., <i>Epig.</i>, lib. ix, 22. + + Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, + Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; + When next your generous soul shall condescend + T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; + Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, + On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; + Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, + How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: + Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, + Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; + When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, + Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine: + Nor with less praise the conversation guide, + Than in the public councils you decide: + Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, + Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; + You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) + With soft concessions shortening the dispute; + Then close with kind inquiries of my state, + "How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? + Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, + There are not many better in the nation! + This, with your other things, must yield you clear + Some six—at least five hundred pounds a-year." + Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom + To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; + You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, + And, if you please, my lady shall decide. + "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, + And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; + But you'll forgive me, if I own the event + Is short, is very short, of your intent: + At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, + My income less, and my expenses more." + "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector! + A dignitary! with a city lecture! + What glebes—what dues—what tithes—what fines—what rent! + Why, doctor!—will you never be content?" + "Would my good Lord but cast up the account, + And see to what my revenues amount;[2] + My titles ample; but my gain so small, + That one good vicarage is worth them all: + And very wretched, sure, is he that's double + In nothing but his titles and his trouble. + And to this crying grievance, if you please, + My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; + Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, + Where every step endangers every bone; + And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, + Two churches—twelve Hibernian miles asunder: + With complicated cures, I labour hard in, + Beside whole summers absent from—my garden! + But that the world would think I play'd the fool, + I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3] + What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, + Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake! + There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, + Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4] + There's not a better steerer in the realm; + I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."— + "Doctor—a glorious scheme to ease your grief! + When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief. + You cannot fail of being happy there, + The lake will be the Lethe of your care: + The scheme is for your honour and your ease: + And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please. + Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, + Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; + Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, + And you've enough to gratify them all: + You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: + And what would a philosopher have more? + You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks—" + "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books— + Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, + Are there no wants I should regard beside? + Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, + Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? + Who can be happy—who should wish to live, + And want the godlike happiness to give? + That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: + I had it once—and I'm debarr'd it now. + Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, + Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!" + "'Tis true—but, doctor, let us wave all that— + Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?" + "Excuse me, good my lord—I won't be sounded, + Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. + My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, + Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. + Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, + (Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)— + My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe— + I'd wish besides—to build and to bestow." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through + the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of + Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship + of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of + which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the + Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge + was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory + divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation + in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following + verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who + thought he was too amply provided for.—<i>Scott.</i> See the "Vindication," + "Prose Works," vii, p. 244.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication + of Lord Carteret," amounted only to £300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, + p. 245.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, + Esq.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of + Erin.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man + should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the + incumbent.—<i>H.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0149" id="link2H_4_0149"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE + </h2> + <p> + FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR + DR. DELANY + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Jove will not attend on less, + When things of more importance press: + You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, + That you, a low Hibernian bard, + Should cool your heels a while, and wait + Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; + And would my lord vouchsafe to grant + This one poor humble boon I want, + Free leave to play his secretary, + As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] + I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, + Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." + And, after several readings over, + It shines most in the marble cover. + How could so fine a taste dispense + With mean degrees of wit and sense? + Nor will my lord so far beguile + The wise and learned of our isle; + To make it pass upon the nation, + By dint of his sole approbation. + The task is arduous, patrons find, + To warp the sense of all mankind: + Who think your Muse must first aspire, + Ere he advance the doctor higher. + You've cause to say he meant you well: + That you are thankful, who can tell? + For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) + Of his intent: you mean your merit. + Ah! <i>quanto rectius, tu adepte, + Qui nil moliris tarn inepte</i>?[2] + Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, + "When thou thy humble lay dost offer + To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, + Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: + Content with what his bounty gave, + No larger income dost thou crave." + But you must have cascades, and all + Iërne's lake, for your canal, + Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on + All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] + It's pity that he can't bestow you + Twelve commoners in caps to row you. + Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] + Held monarchs labouring at the oar; + And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, + Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. + How different is this from Smedley! + (His name is up, he may in bed lie) + "Who only asks some pretty cure, + In wholesome soil and ether pure: + The garden stored with artless flowers, + In either angle shady bowers: + No gay parterre with costly green + Must in the ambient hedge be seen; + But Nature freely takes her course, + Nor fears from him ungrateful force: + No shears to check her sprouting vigour, + Or shape the yews to antic figure." + But you, forsooth, your all must squander + On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; + And when you've been at vast expenses + In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, + Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; + Nor farther buildings, farther planting: + No wonder, when you raise and level, + Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. + Here a convenient box you found, + Which you demolish'd to the ground: + Then built, then took up with your arbour, + And set the house to Rupert Barber. + You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy + Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. + You change a circle to a square, + Then to a circle as you were: + Who can imagine whence the fund is, + That you <i>quadrata</i> change <i>rotundis</i>? + To Fame a temple you erect, + A Flora does the dome protect; + Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow + You place the Muses and Apollo; + There shining 'midst his train, to grace + Your whimsical poetic place. + These stories were of old design'd + As fables: but you have refined + The poets mythologic dreams, + To real Muses, gods, and streams. + Who would not swear, when you contrive thus, + That you're Don Quixote redivivus? + Beneath, a dry canal there lies, + Which only Winter's rain supplies. + O! couldst thou, by some magic spell, + Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6] + Here may it reassume its stream, + And take a greater Patrick's name! + If your expenses rise so high; + What income can your wants supply? + Yet still you fancy you inherit + A fund of such superior merit, + That you can't fail of more provision, + All by my lady's kind decision. + For, the more livings you can fish up, + You think you'll sooner be a bishop: + That could not be my lord's intent, + Nor can it answer the event. + Most think what has been heap'd on you + To other sort of folk was due: + Rewards too great for your flim-flams, + Epistles, riddles, epigrams. + Though now your depth must not be sounded, + The time was, when you'd have compounded + For less than Charley Grattan's school! + Five hundred pound a-year's no fool! + Take this advice then from your friend, + To your ambition put an end, + Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe, + Before you build and you bestow. + Be modest, nor address your betters + With begging, vain, familiar letters. + A passage may be found,[7] I've heard, + In some old Greek or Latian bard, + Which says, "Would crows in silence eat + Their offals, or their better meat, + Their generous feeders not provoking + By loud and inharmonious croaking, + They might, unhurt by Envy's claws, + Live on, and stuff to boot their maws." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth," Part I, Act ii, + Scene 4.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Adapted from Hor., "Epist. ad Pisones," 140.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See the "Petition to the Duke of Grafton," <i>post</i>, + p. 345.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Alluding to Dr. Delany's ambitious choice of fixing in the + island of the Lake of Erin, where Sir Ralph Gore had a villa.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: When residing at Chester, he obliged eight of his tributary + princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. Hume's "History of England," + vol. i, p. 106.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Which had suddenly dried up. See <i>post</i>, vol. ii, "Verses on + the sudden drying up of St. Patrick's Well, near Trinity College, + Dublin."—<i>W.E.B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Hor., "Epist.," lib. I, xvii, 50. + "Sed tacitus pasci si corvus posset, haberet + Plus dapis, et rixae multo minus invidiaeque." + I append the original, for the sake of Swift's very free + rendering.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0150" id="link2H_4_0150"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LIBEL ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET + </h2> + <h3> + 1729 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Deluded mortals, whom the great + Choose for companions <i>tête-à-tête</i>; + Who at their dinners, <i>en famille</i>, + Get leave to sit whene'er you will; + Then boasting tell us where you dined, + And how his lordship was so kind; + How many pleasant things he spoke; + And how you laugh'd at every joke: + Swear he's a most facetious man; + That you and he are cup and can; + You travel with a heavy load, + And quite mistake preferment's road. + Suppose my lord and you alone; + Hint the least interest of your own, + His visage drops, he knits his brow, + He cannot talk of business now: + Or, mention but a vacant post, + He'll turn it off with "Name your toast:" + Nor could the nicest artist paint + A countenance with more constraint. + For, as their appetites to quench, + Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench; + So men of wit are but a kind + Of panders to a vicious mind + Who proper objects must provide + To gratify their lust of pride, + When, wearied with intrigues of state, + They find an idle hour to prate. + Then, shall you dare to ask a place, + You forfeit all your patron's grace, + And disappoint the sole design, + For which he summon'd you to dine. + Thus Congreve spent in writing plays, + And one poor office, half his days: + While Montague,[1] who claim'd the station + To be Mæcenas of the nation, + For poets open table kept, + But ne'er consider'd where they slept: + Himself as rich as fifty Jews, + Was easy, though they wanted shoes; + And crazy Congreve scarce could spare + A shilling to discharge his chair: + Till prudence taught him to appeal + From Pæan's fire to party zeal; + Not owing to his happy vein + The fortunes of his later scene, + Took proper principles to thrive: + And so might every dunce alive.[2] + Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ, + And flourish'd by imputed wit, + From perils of a hundred jails, + Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales. + Thus Gay, the hare with many friends, + Twice seven long years the court attends: + Who, under tales conveying truth, + To virtue form'd a princely youth:[3] + Who paid his courtship with the crowd, + As far as modest pride allow'd; + Rejects a servile usher's place, + And leaves St. James's in disgrace.[4] + Thus Addison, by lords carest, + Was left in foreign lands distrest; + Forgot at home, became for hire + A travelling tutor to a squire: + But wisely left the Muses' hill, + To business shaped the poet's quill, + Let all his barren laurels fade, + Took up himself the courtier's trade, + And, grown a minister of state, + Saw poets at his levee wait.[5] + Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind + Detesting all the statesman kind, + Contemning courts, at courts unseen, + Refused the visits of a queen. + A soul with every virtue fraught, + By sages, priests, or poets taught; + Whose filial piety excels + Whatever Grecian story tells;[6] + A genius for all stations fit, + Whose meanest talent is his wit: + His heart too great, though fortune little, + To lick a rascal statesman's spittle: + Appealing to the nation's taste, + Above the reach of want is placed: + By Homer dead was taught to thrive, + Which Homer never could alive; + And sits aloft on Pindus' head, + Despising slaves that cringe for bread. + True politicians only pay + For solid work, but not for play: + Nor ever choose to work with tools + Forged up in colleges and schools, + Consider how much more is due + To all their journeymen than you: + At table you can Horace quote; + They at a pinch can bribe a vote: + You show your skill in Grecian story; + But they can manage Whig and Tory; + You, as a critic, are so curious + To find a verse in Virgil spurious; + But they can smoke the deep designs, + When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines. + Besides, your patron may upbraid ye, + That you have got a place already; + An office for your talents fit, + To flatter, carve, and show your wit; + To snuff the lights and stir the fire, + And get a dinner for your hire. + What claim have you to place or pension? + He overpays in condescension. + But, reverend doctor, you we know + Could never condescend so low; + The viceroy, whom you now attend, + Would, if he durst, be more your friend; + Nor will in you those gifts despise, + By which himself was taught to rise: + When he has virtue to retire, + He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, + And place you in a better station, + Although it might have pleased the nation. + This may be true—submitting still + To Walpole's more than royal will; + And what condition can be worse? + He comes to drain a beggar's purse; + He comes to tie our chains on faster, + And show us England is our master: + Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing, + To make them work their own undoing. + What has he else to bait his traps, + Or bring his vermin in, but scraps? + The offals of a church distrest; + A hungry vicarage at best; + Or some remote inferior post, + With forty pounds a-year at most? + But here again you interpose— + Your favourite lord is none of those + Who owe their virtues to their stations, + And characters to dedications: + For, keep him in, or turn him out, + His learning none will call in doubt; + His learning, though a poet said it + Before a play, would lose no credit; + Nor Pope would dare deny him wit, + Although to praise it Philips writ. + I own he hates an action base, + His virtues battling with his place: + Nor wants a nice discerning spirit + Betwixt a true and spurious merit; + Can sometimes drop a voter's claim, + And give up party to his fame. + I do the most that friendship can; + I hate the viceroy, love the man. + But you, who, till your fortune's made, + Must be a sweetener by your trade, + Should swear he never meant us ill; + We suffer sore against his will; + That, if we could but see his heart, + He would have chose a milder part: + We rather should lament his case, + Who must obey, or lose his place. + Since this reflection slipt your pen, + Insert it when you write again; + And, to illustrate it, produce + This simile for his excuse: + "So, to destroy a guilty land + An [7]angel sent by Heaven's command, + While he obeys Almighty will, + Perhaps may feel compassion still; + And wish the task had been assign'd + To spirits of less gentle kind." + But I, in politics grown old, + Whose thoughts are of a different mould, + Who from my soul sincerely hate + Both kings and ministers of state; + Who look on courts with stricter eyes + To see the seeds of vice arise; + Can lend you an allusion fitter, + Though flattering knaves may call it bitter; + Which, if you durst but give it place, + Would show you many a statesman's face: + Fresh from the tripod of Apollo, + I had it in the words that follow: + Take notice to avoid offence, + I here except his excellence: + "So, to effect his monarch's ends, + From hell a viceroy devil ascends; + His budget with corruptions cramm'd, + The contributions of the damn'd; + Which with unsparing hand he strews + Through courts and senates as he goes; + And then at Beelzebub's black hall, + Complains his budget was too small." + Your simile may better shine + In verse, but there is truth in mine. + For no imaginable things + Can differ more than gods and kings: + And statesmen, by ten thousand odds, + Are angels just as kings are gods. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Earl of Halifax; see Johnson's "Life of + Montague."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The whole of this paragraph is unjust both to Halifax and + Congreve; for immediately after the production of Congreve's first play, + "The Old Bachelor," Halifax gave him a place in the Pipe Office, and + another in the Customs, of £600 a year. Ultimately he had at least four + sinecure appointments which together afforded him some £1,200 a year. See + Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," edit. Cunningham.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: William, Duke of Cumberland, son to George II, "The + Butcher."] + + [Footnote 4: See <i>ante</i>, p. 215, note.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc. +ADDISON'S <i>Campaign</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0151" id="link2H_4_0151"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DR. DELANY + </h2> + <h3> + ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM. 1729 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —Tanti tibi non sit opaci + Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.—<i>Juv.</i> iii, 54. + + As some raw youth in country bred, + To arms by thirst of honour led, + When at a skirmish first he hears + The bullets whistling round his ears, + Will duck his head aside, will start, + And feel a trembling at his heart, + Till 'scaping oft without a wound + Lessens the terror of the sound; + Fly bullets now as thick as hops, + He runs into a cannon's chops. + An author thus, who pants for fame, + Begins the world with fear and shame; + When first in print you see him dread + Each pop-gun levell'd at his head: + The lead yon critic's quill contains, + Is destined to beat out his brains: + As if he heard loud thunders roll, + Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul! + Concluding that another shot + Will strike him dead upon the spot. + But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping, + He cannot see one creature dropping; + That, missing fire, or missing aim, + His life is safe, I mean his fame; + The danger past, takes heart of grace, + And looks a critic in the face. + Though splendour gives the fairest mark + To poison'd arrows in the dark, + Yet, in yourself when smooth and round, + They glance aside without a wound. + 'Tis said, the gods tried all their art, + How pain they might from pleasure part: + But little could their strength avail; + Both still are fasten'd by the tail; + Thus fame and censure with a tether + By fate are always link'd together. + Why will you aim to be preferr'd + In wit before the common herd; + And yet grow mortified and vex'd, + To pay the penalty annex'd? + 'Tis eminence makes envy rise; + As fairest fruits attract the flies. + Should stupid libels grieve your mind, + You soon a remedy may find; + Lie down obscure like other folks + Below the lash of snarlers' jokes. + Their faction is five hundred odds, + For every coxcomb lends them rods, + And sneers as learnedly as they, + Like females o'er their morning tea. + You say the Muse will not contain + And write you must, or break a vein. + Then, if you find the terms too hard, + No longer my advice regard: + But raise your fancy on the wing; + The Irish senate's praises sing; + How jealous of the nation's freedom, + And for corruptions how they weed 'em; + How each the public good pursues, + How far their hearts from private views; + Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys, + Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1] + Thus grown a member of the club, + No longer dread the rage of Grub. + How oft am I for rhyme to seek! + To dress a thought I toil a week: + And then how thankful to the town, + If all my pains will earn a crown! + While every critic can devour + My work and me in half an hour. + Would men of genius cease to write, + The rogues must die for want and spite; + Must die for want of food and raiment, + If scandal did not find them payment. + How cheerfully the hawkers cry + A satire, and the gentry buy! + While my hard-labour'd poem pines + Unsold upon the printer's lines. + A genius in the reverend gown + Must ever keep its owner down; + 'Tis an unnatural conjunction, + And spoils the credit of the function. + Round all your brethren cast your eyes, + Point out the surest men to rise; + That club of candidates in black, + The least deserving of the pack, + Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud, + With grace and learning unendow'd, + Can turn their hands to every job, + The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2] + Will sooner coin a thousand lies, + Than suffer men of parts to rise; + They crowd about preferment's gate, + And press you down with all their weight; + For as of old mathematicians + Were by the vulgar thought magicians; + So academic dull ale-drinkers + Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers. + Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, + Disdains to serve ignoble ends. + Observe what loads of stupid rhymes + Oppress us in corrupted times; + What pamphlets in a court's defence + Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense? + For though the Muse delights in fiction, + She ne'er inspires against conviction. + Then keep your virtue still unmixt, + And let not faction come betwixt: + By party-steps no grandeur climb at, + Though it would make you England's primate; + First learn the science to be dull, + You then may soon your conscience lull; + If not, however seated high, + Your genius in your face will fly. + When Jove was from his teeming head + Of Wit's fair goddess[3] brought to bed, + There follow'd at his lying-in + For after-birth a sooterkin; + Which, as the nurse pursued to kill, + Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill, + There in the soil began to root, + And litter'd at Parnassus' foot. + From hence the critic vermin sprung, + With harpy claws and poisonous tongue: + Who fatten on poetic scraps, + Too cunning to be caught in traps. + Dame Nature, as the learned show, + Provides each animal its foe: + Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox + Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks + Thus Envy pleads a natural claim + To persecute the Muse's fame; + On poets in all times abusive, + From Homer down to Pope inclusive. + Yet what avails it to complain? + You try to take revenge in vain. + A rat your utmost rage defies, + That safe behind the wainscot lies. + Say, did you ever know by sight + In cheese an individual mite! + Show me the same numeric flea, + That bit your neck but yesterday: + You then may boldly go in quest + To find the Grub Street poet's nest; + What spunging-house, in dread of jail, + Receives them, while they wait for bail; + What alley are they nestled in, + To flourish o'er a cup of gin; + Find the last garret where they lay, + Or cellar where they starve to-day. + Suppose you have them all trepann'd, + With each a libel in his hand, + What punishment would you inflict? + Or call them rogues, or get them kickt? + These they have often tried before; + You but oblige them so much more: + Themselves would be the first to tell, + To make their trash the better sell. + You have been libell'd—Let us know, + What fool officious told you so? + Will you regard the hawker's cries, + Who in his titles always lies? + Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, + It might be something in your praise; + And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, + Would vex one more a thousand times. + Till critics blame, and judges praise, + The poet cannot claim his bays. + On me when dunces are satiric, + I take it for a panegyric. + Hated by fools, and fools to hate, + Be that my motto, and my fate. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while + the new Parliament-house was building.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.] + + [Footnote 3: Pallas.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0152" id="link2H_4_0152"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To form a just and finish'd piece, + Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, + Whose godships are in chief request, + And fit your present subject best; + And, should it be your hero's case, + To have both male and female race, + Your business must be to provide + A score of goddesses beside. + Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, + For which they bring a modern pattern; + Because they might have heard of one,[1] + Who often long'd to eat his son; + But this I think will not go down, + For here the father kept his crown. + Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, + Who met his mother in a grove; + To this we freely shall consent, + Well knowing what the poets meant; + And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, + It may be literally true.[2] + Next, as the laws of verse require, + He must be greater than his sire; + For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, + Was able Saturn to depose; + And sure no Christian poet breathing + Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; + Or, if to blasphemy it tends. + That's but a trifle among friends. + Your hero now another Mars is, + Makes mighty armies turn their a—s: + Behold his glittering falchion mow + Whole squadrons at a single blow; + While Victory, with wings outspread, + Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; + His milk-white steed upon its haunches, + Or pawing into dead men's paunches; + As Overton has drawn his sire, + Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire. + Then from his arm hoarse thunder rolls, + As loud as fifty mustard bowls; + For thunder still his arm supplies, + And lightning always in his eyes. + They both are cheap enough in conscience, + And serve to echo rattling nonsense. + The rumbling words march fierce along, + Made trebly dreadful in your song. + Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, + To sing of wars, choose peaceful times. + What though, for fifteen years and more, + Janus has lock'd his temple-door; + Though not a coffeehouse we read in + Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; + Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, + Though fond of warlike lies as most men; + Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: + For, must thy hero not be dreadful? + Dismissing Mars, it next must follow + Your conqueror is become Apollo: + That he's Apollo is as plain as + That Robin Walpole is Mæcenas; + But that he struts, and that he squints, + You'd know him by Apollo's prints. + Old Phoebus is but half as bright, + For yours can shine both day and night. + The first, perhaps, may once an age + Inspire you with poetic rage; + Your Phoebus Royal, every day, + Not only can inspire, but pay. + Then make this new Apollo sit + Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. + "How from his altitude he stoops + To raise up Virtue when she droops; + On Learning how his bounty flows, + And with what justice he bestows; + Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam! + Be witness if I tell a flam, + What prodigies in arts we drain, + From both your streams, in George's reign. + As from the flowery bed of Nile"— + But here's enough to show your style. + Broad innuendoes, such as this, + If well applied, can hardly miss: + For, when you bring your song in print, + He'll get it read, and take the hint; + (It must be read before 'tis warbled, + The paper gilt and cover marbled.) + And will be so much more your debtor, + Because he never knew a letter. + And, as he hears his wit and sense + (To which he never made pretence) + Set out in hyperbolic strains, + A guinea shall reward your pains; + For patrons never pay so well, + As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. + Next call him Neptune: with his trident + He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; + And, if provoked, he soundly firks his + Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes. + He would have seized the Spanish plate, + Had not the fleet gone out too late; + And in their very ports besiege them, + But that he would not disoblige them; + And make the rascals pay him dearly + For those affronts they give him yearly. + 'Tis not denied, that, when we write, + Our ink is black, our paper white: + And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, + We blacken what was white before: + I think this practice only fit + For dealers in satiric wit. + But you some white-lead ink must get + And write on paper black as jet; + Your interest lies to learn the knack + Of whitening what before was black. + Thus your encomium, to be strong, + Must be applied directly wrong. + A tyrant for his mercy praise, + And crown a royal dunce with bays: + A squinting monkey load with charms, + And paint a coward fierce in arms. + Is he to avarice inclined? + Extol him for his generous mind: + And, when we starve for want of corn, + Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3] + For all experience this evinces + The only art of pleasing princes: + For princes' love you should descant + On virtues which they know they want. + One compliment I had forgot, + But songsters must omit it not; + I freely grant the thought is old: + Why, then, your hero must be told, + In him such virtues lie inherent, + To qualify him God's vicegerent; + That with no title to inherit, + He must have been a king by merit. + Yet, be the fancy old or new, + Tis partly false, and partly true: + And, take it right, it means no more + Than George and William claim'd before. + Should some obscure inferior fellow, + Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4] + When all your list of Gods is out, + Presume to show his mortal snout, + And as a Deity intrude, + Because he had the world subdued; + O, let him not debase your thoughts, + Or name him but to tell his faults.— + Of Gods I only quote the best, + But you may hook in all the rest. + Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed + To praise your empress and her breed; + First of the first, to vouch your lies, + Bring all the females of the skies; + The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, + Must venture down to entertain us: + With bended knees when they adore her, + What dowdies they appear before her! + Nor shall we think you talk at random, + For Venus might be her great-grandam: + Six thousand years has lived the Goddess, + Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; + Besides, your songsters oft have shown + That she has Graces of her own: + Three Graces by Lucina brought her, + Just three, and every Grace a daughter; + Here many a king his heart and crown + Shall at their snowy feet lay down: + In royal robes, they come by dozens + To court their English German cousins: + Beside a pair of princely babies, + That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. + Now see her seated in her throne + With genuine lustre, all her own: + Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, + Her splendour is but borrow'd light; + And only with her brother linkt + Can shine, without him is extinct. + But Carolina shines the clearer + With neither spouse nor brother near her: + And darts her beams o'er both our isles, + Though George is gone a thousand miles. + Thus Berecynthia takes her place, + Attended by her heavenly race; + And sees a son in every God, + Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod. + Now sing his little highness Freddy + Who struts like any king already: + With so much beauty, show me any maid + That could resist this charming Ganymede! + Where majesty with sweetness vies, + And, like his father, early wise. + Then cut him out a world of work, + To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: + Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, + And golden times, and halcyon days; + And swear his line shall rule the nation + For ever—till the conflagration. + But, now it comes into my mind, + We left a little duke behind; + A Cupid in his face and size, + And only wants, to want his eyes. + Make some provision for the younker, + Find him a kingdom out to conquer; + Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, + Make Gulliver his commodore; + Into whose pocket valiant Willy put, + Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. + A skilful critic justly blames + Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names + The sense can ne'er be too jejune, + But smooth your words to fit the tune. + Hanover may do well enough, + But George and Brunswick are too rough; + Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, + And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. + In vain are all attempts from Germany + To find out proper words for harmony: + And yet I must except the Rhine, + Because it clinks to Caroline. + Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes! + Be sung ten hundred thousand times; + Too happy were the poets' crew, + If their own happiness they knew: + Three syllables did never meet + So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: + Nine other tuneful words like that + Would prove even Homer's numbers flat. + Behold three beauteous vowels stand, + With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; + In concord here for ever fix'd, + No jarring consonant betwixt. + May Caroline continue long, + For ever fair and young!—in song. + What though the royal carcass must, + Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust? + Those elements her name compose, + Like atoms, are exempt from blows. + Though Caroline may fill your gaps, + Yet still you must consult your maps; + Find rivers with harmonious names, + Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, + Britannia long will wear like steel, + But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; + And Patience can endure no more + To hear the Belgic lion roar. + Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, + But proud Iberia soundly maul: + Restore the ships by Philip taken, + And make him crouch to save his bacon. + Nassau, who got the name of Glorious, + Because he never was victorious, + A hanger-on has always been; + For old acquaintance bring him in. + To Walpole you might lend a line, + But much I fear he's in decline; + And if you chance to come too late, + When he goes out, you share his fate, + And bear the new successor's frown; + Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. + Reject with scorn that stupid notion, + To praise your hero for devotion; + Nor entertain a thought so odd, + That princes should believe in God; + But follow the securest rule, + And turn it all to ridicule: + 'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, + And gives the maids of honour sport; + For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5] + They now can venture in the dark: + That sound divine the truth has spoke all, + And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local. + This will not give them half the trouble + Of bargains sold, or meanings double. + Supposing now your song is done, + To Mynheer Handel next you run, + Who artfully will pare and prune + Your words to some Italian tune: + Then print it in the largest letter, + With capitals, the more the better. + Present it boldly on your knee, + And take a guinea for your fee. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, + while the latter was Prince of Wales.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to + have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and + one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or + Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander + the Great.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, + distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St. + James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not + considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, + "Moral Essays," Epist. iv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0153" id="link2H_4_0153"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK, A FABLE BY DR. DELANY + </h2> + <h3> + 1730 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —quis iniquae + Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?—<i>-Juv.</i> i, 30. + + In ancient times, as bards indite, + (If clerks have conn'd the records right.) + A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway + His subjects with delight obey: + His tail was beauteous to behold, + Replete with goodly eyes and gold; + Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, + Whose train at once is rich and wise; + And princely ruled he many regions, + And statesmen wise, and valiant legions. + A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, + With every grace and talent blest, + Was sent to sway, with all his skill, + The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2] + No science was to him unknown, + For all the arts were all his own: + In all the living learned read, + Though more delighted with the dead: + For birds, if ancient tales say true, + Had then their Popes and Homers too; + Could read and write in prose and verse, + And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3] + He knew their voices, and their wings, + Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; + Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, + And who attain'd the true sublime. + Their merits he could well descry, + He had so exquisite an eye; + And when that fail'd to show them clear, + He had as exquisite an ear; + It chanced as on a day he stray'd + Beneath an academic shade, + He liked, amidst a thousand throats, + The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, + And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, + And took him home, and made him tame; + Found him on trial true and able, + So cheer'd and fed him at his table. + Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, + And cries out, "Better fed than taught"—Then + jests on game and tame, and reads, + And jests, and so my tale proceeds. + Long had he studied in the wood, + Conversing with the wise and good: + His soul with harmony inspired, + With love of truth and virtue fired: + His brethren's good and Maker's praise + Were all the study of his lays; + Were all his study in retreat, + And now employ'd him with the great. + His friendship was the sure resort + Of all the wretched at the court; + But chiefly merit in distress + His greatest blessing was to bless.— + This fix'd him in his patron's breast, + But fired with envy all the rest: + I mean that noisy, craving crew, + Who round the court incessant flew, + And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, + To fill the maws of sons and cousins: + "Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood + To every thought of common good, + Confining every hope and care, + To their own low, contracted sphere." + These ran him down with ceaseless cry, + But found it hard to tell you why, + Till his own worth and wit supplied + Sufficient matter to deride: + "'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, + To hide her rage in ridicule: + The vulgar eye she best beguiles, + When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: + Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised! + Tormented most when seeming pleased!" + Their spite had more than half expired, + Had he not wrote what all admired; + What morsels had their malice wanted, + But that he built, and plann'd, and planted! + How had his sense and learning grieved them, + But that his charity relieved them! + "At highest worth dull malice reaches, + As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: + Envy defames, as harpies vile + Devour the food they first defile." + Now ask the fruit of all his favour— + "He was not hitherto a saver."— + What then could make their rage run mad? + "Why, what he hoped, not what he had." + "What tyrant e'er invented ropes, + Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes? + Th' inheritance of hope and fame + Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; + Or, if it were, is not so small, + But there is room enough for all." + If he but chance to breathe a song, + (He seldom sang, and never long,) + The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, + Where it was high, pronounced it loud: + Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, + Easy and Friendly was Familiar. + Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, + With solemn air to Virtue's praise, + Alike abusive and erroneous, + They call'd it hoarse and inharmonious. + Yet so it was to souls like theirs, + Tuneless as Abel to the bears! + A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw + Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6] + (Though some, who would be thought to know, + Are positive it was a crow:) + Jack Daw was seconded by Tit, + Tom Tit[7] could write, and so he writ; + A tribe of tuneless praters follow, + The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; + And twenty more their throats let loose, + Down to the witless, waddling Goose. + Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, + Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: + The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, + The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: + The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, + Swore all his singing was but croaking. + Some thought they meant to show their wit, + Might think so still—"but that they writ"— + Could it be spite or envy?—"No— + Who did no ill could have no foe."— + So wise Simplicity esteem'd; + Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; + This question rightly understood, + "What more provokes than doing good? + A soul ennobled and refined + Reproaches every baser mind: + As strains exalted and melodious + Make every meaner music odious."— + At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, + For voice and wisdom long revered, + Esteem'd of all the wise and good, + The Guardian Genius of the wood: + He long in discontent retired, + Yet not obscured, but more admired: + His brethren's servile souls disdaining, + He lived indignant and complaining: + They now afresh provoke his choler, + (It seems the Lark had been his scholar, + A favourite scholar always near him, + And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) + Enraged he canvasses the matter, + Exposes all their senseless chatter, + Shows him and them in such a light, + As more inflames, yet quells their spite. + They hear his voice, and frighted fly, + For rage had raised it very high: + Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, + They hide their heads, and hush their throats. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Ireland.—<i>F</i>] + + [Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in + Dublin.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Dr. T——r.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: Dean Swift.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0154" id="link2H_4_0154"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK. + </h2> + <h3> + 1730 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In ancient times, the wise were able + In proper terms to write a fable: + Their tales would always justly suit + The characters of every brute. + The ass was dull, the lion brave, + The stag was swift, the fox a knave; + The daw a thief, the ape a droll, + The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: + A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop, + Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up. + Far otherwise a great divine + Has learnt his fables to refine; + He jumbles men and birds together, + As if they all were of a feather: + You see him first the Peacock bring, + Against all rules, to be a king; + That in his tail he wore his eyes, + By which he grew both rich and wise. + Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, + A Peacock chose for flight and voice; + Did ever mortal see a peacock + Attempt a flight above a haycock? + And for his singing, doctor, you know + Himself complain'd of it to Juno. + He squalls in such a hellish noise, + He frightens all the village boys. + This Peacock kept a standing force, + In regiments of foot and horse: + Had statesmen too of every kind, + Who waited on his eyes behind; + And this was thought the highest post; + For, rule the rump, you rule the roast. + The doctor names but one at present, + And he of all birds was a Pheasant. + This Pheasant was a man of wit, + Could read all books were ever writ; + And, when among companions privy, + Could quote you Cicero and Livy. + Birds, as he says, and I allow, + Were scholars then, as we are now; + Could read all volumes up to folios, + And feed on fricassees and olios: + This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will, + Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; + And, as he wander'd in his park, + He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; + Was taken with his person outward, + So prettily he pick'd a cow-t—d: + Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, + And in his palace fed and taught him. + The moral of the tale is pleasant, + Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: + A lark he is, and such a lark + As never came from Noah's ark: + And though he had no other notion, + But building, planning, and devotion; + Though 'tis a maxim you must know, + "Who does no ill can have no foe;" + Yet how can I express in words + The strange stupidity of birds? + This Lark was hated in the wood, + Because he did his brethren good. + At last the Nightingale comes in, + To hold the doctor by the chin: + We all can find out what he means, + The worst of disaffected deans: + Whose wit at best was next to none, + And now that little next is gone; + Against the court is always blabbing, + And calls the senate-house a cabin; + So dull, that but for spleen and spite, + We ne'er should know that he could write + Who thinks the nation always err'd, + Because himself is not preferr'd; + His heart is through his libel seen, + Nor could his malice spare the queen; + Who, had she known his vile behaviour, + Would ne'er have shown him so much favour. + A noble lord[1] has told his pranks, + And well deserves the nation's thanks. + O! would the senate deign to show + Resentment on this public foe, + Our Nightingale might fit a cage; + There let him starve, and vent his rage: + Or would they but in fetters bind + This enemy of human kind! + Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, + Thou champion for the commonweal: + Nor on a theme like this repine, + For once to wet thy pen divine: + Bestow that libeller a lash, + Who daily vends seditious trash: + Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, + But in the praise of virtue is dumb: + That scribbler lash, who neither knows + The turn of verse, nor style of prose; + Whose malice, for the worst of ends, + Would have us lose our English friends:[3] + Who never had one public thought, + Nor ever gave the poor a groat. + One clincher more, and I have done, + I end my labours with a pun. + Jove send this Nightingale may fall, + Who spends his day and night in gall! + So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; + I see the greatest owls in you + That ever screech'd, or ever flew. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0155" id="link2H_4_0155"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.—HOR. + <i>Epist.</i>, I, ii, 47. + + It was, my lord, the dexterous shift + Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, + But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, + With silver verge, and surplice clean, + Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, + In looser rhyme to beg a place. + A place he got, yclept a stall, + And eke a thousand pounds withal; + And were he less a witty writer, + He might as well have got a mitre. + Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, + In humble lays my thanks to offer, + Approach your grace with grateful heart, + My thanks and verse both void of art, + Content with what your bounty gave, + No larger income do I crave: + Rejoicing that, in better times, + Grafton requires my loyal lines. + Proud! while my patron is polite, + I likewise to the patriot write! + Proud! that at once I can commend + King George's and the Muses' friend! + Endear'd to Britain; and to thee + (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) + Endear'd by twice three anxious years, + Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; + By love, by wisdom, and by skill; + For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will. + But where shall Smedley make his nest, + And lay his wandering head to rest? + Where shall he find a decent house, + To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? + O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, + In wholesome soil, and ether pure; + The garden stored with artless flowers, + In either angle shady bowers. + No gay parterre, with costly green, + Within the ambient hedge be seen: + Let Nature freely take her course, + Nor fear from me ungrateful force; + No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, + Nor shape the yews to antic figure: + A limpid brook shall trout supply, + In May, to take the mimic fly; + Round a small orchard may it run, + Whose apples redden to the sun. + Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; + For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, + A little Euston[2] may it be, + Euston I'll carve on every tree. + But then, to keep it in repair, + My lord—twice fifty pounds a-year + Will barely do; but if your grace + Could make them hundreds—charming place! + Thou then wouldst show another face. + Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, + 'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: + One shivers with the arctic wind, + One hears the polar axis grind. + Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, + Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. + He has a purse to keep a table, + And eke a soul as hospitable. + My heart is good; but assets fail, + To fight with storms of snow and hail. + Besides, the country's thin of people, + Who seldom meet but at the steeple: + The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, + Ne'er named the thing without a frown, + When, much fatigued with sermon study, + He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; + No fit companion could be found, + To push the lazy bottle round: + Sure then, for want of better folks + To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. + Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, + Where beaux and belles in parties meet; + Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, + And jostle as they troll along; + Where tea and coffee hourly flow, + And gape-seed does in plenty grow; + And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, + Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!" + There Lady Luna in her sphere + Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; + But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, + Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. + There—but 'tis endless to write down + All the amusements of the town; + And spouse will think herself quite undone, + To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; + And care we must our wives to please, + Or else—we shall be ill at ease. + You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, + 'Tis only some convenient tack, + Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, + To be my late, my last retreat; + A decent church, close by its side, + There, preaching, praying, to reside; + And as my time securely rolls, + To save my own and other souls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to + in the preceding poems.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.—<i>N.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there + are two deans.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0156" id="link2H_4_0156"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DUKE'S ANSWER + </h2> + <h3> + BY DR. SWIFT + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, + Where wit in all its glory shines; + Where compliments, with all their pride, + Are by their numbers dignified: + I hope to make you yet as clean + As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. + I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, + And may be something else withal; + And, were you not so good a writer, + I should present you with a mitre. + Write worse, then, if you can—be wise- + Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. + Talk not of making of thy nest: + Ah! never lay thy head to rest! + That head so well with wisdom fraught, + That writes without the toil of thought! + While others rack their busy brains, + You are not in the least at pains. + Down to your dean'ry now repair, + And build a castle in the air. + I'm sure a man of your fine sense + Can do it with a small expense. + There your dear spouse and you together + May breathe your bellies full of ether, + When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, + She'll help your wife when she's in labour, + Well skill'd in midwife artifices, + For she herself oft falls in pieces. + There you shall see a raree show + Will make you scorn this world below, + When you behold the milky-way, + As white as snow, as bright as day; + The glittering constellations roll + About the grinding arctic pole; + The lovely tingling in your ears, + Wrought by the music of the spheres— + Your spouse shall then no longer hector, + You need not fear a curtain-lecture; + Nor shall she think that she is undone + For quitting her beloved London. + When she's exalted in the skies, + She'll never think of mutton-pies; + When you're advanced above Dean Viz, + You'll never think of Goody Griz; + But ever, ever live at ease, + And strive, and strive your wife to please; + In her you'll centre all your joys, + And get ten thousand girls and boys; + Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, + And they like stars shall rise and set. + While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon + Be a new sun and a new moon: + Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, + For then your horns shall be your pride. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the + text.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0157" id="link2H_4_0157"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1] + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The very reverend Dean Smedley, + Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, + Was equally allow'd to shine + As poet, scholar, and divine; + With godliness could well dispense, + Would be a rake, but wanted sense; + Would strictly after Truth inquire, + Because he dreaded to come nigh her. + For Liberty no champion bolder, + He hated bailiffs at his shoulder. + To half the world a standing jest, + A perfect nuisance to the rest; + From many (and we may believe him) + Had the best wishes they could give him. + To all mankind a constant friend, + Provided they had cash to lend. + One thing he did before he went hence, + He left us a laconic sentence, + By cutting of his phrase, and trimming + To prove that bishops were old women. + Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, + She was so terrified at his. + He waded, without any shame, + Through thick and thin to get a name, + Tried every sharping trick for bread, + And after all he seldom sped. + When Fortune favour'd, he was nice; + He never once would cog the dice; + But, if she turn'd against his play, + He knew to stop <i>à quatre trois</i>. + Now sound in mind, and sound in <i>corpus</i>, + (Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise, + He hies from hence at forty-four + (But by his leave he sinks a score) + To the East Indies, there to cheat, + Till he can purchase an estate; + Where, after he has fill'd his chest, + He'll mount his tub, and preach his best, + And plainly prove, by dint of text, + This world is his, and theirs the next. + Lest that the reader should not know + The bank where last he set his toe, + 'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship, + And gave his creditors the slip. + But lest chronology should vary, + Upon the ides of February, + In seventeen hundred eight-and-twenty, + To Fort St. George, a pedler went he. + Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent, +RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: INSCRIPTION, +BY DEAN SMEDLEY, 1729. + + [*text centered] + Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY, + Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus, + Politioribus excultus literis; + Parce pius, impius minime; + Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor; + Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam, + Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus, + Auctor hujus sententiae, PATRES SUNT VETULAE. + Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam; + Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus, + Mente Sana, sano corpore, volens, laetusque, + Lustris plus quam XI numeratis, + Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque, + Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales praedicandum, + <i>Grevae</i>, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, + Arcemque <i>Sancti</i> petens <i>Georgii</i>, vernale per aequinoxium, + Anno Aerae Christianae MDCCXXVIII, + Transfretavit. + Fata vocant—revocentque precamur.] +</pre> + <h3> + END OF VOL. I + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre> + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., +VOLUME I (OF 2)*** + + +******* This file should be named 14353-h.htm or 14353-h.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/3/5/14353 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: +https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + + + +</pre> + + </body> +</html> diff --git a/old/14353.txt b/old/14353.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ba3ab9 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14353.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15884 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume I +(of 2), by Jonathan Swift, Edited by William Ernst Browning + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume I (of 2) + +Author: Jonathan Swift + +Release Date: December 14, 2004 [eBook #14353] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., +VOLUME I (OF 2)*** + + +E-text prepared by Clare Boothby, G. Graustein, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., VOLUME I + +Edited by + +WILLIAM ERNST BROWNING + +Barrister, Inner Temple +Author of "The Life of Lord Chesterfield" + +London +G. Bell and Sons, Ltd. + +1910 + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Jonathan Swift +From the bust by Cunningham in St. Patrick's Cathedral] + + + + +PREFACE + +The works of Jonathan Swift in prose and verse so mutually illustrate +each other, that it was deemed indispensable, as a complement to the +standard edition of the Prose Works, to issue a revised edition of the +Poems, freed from the errors which had been allowed to creep into the +text, and illustrated with fuller explanatory notes. My first care, +therefore, in preparing the Poems for publication, was to collate them +with the earliest and best editions available, and this I have done. + +But, thanks to the diligence of the late John Forster, to whom every +lover of Swift must confess the very greatest obligation, I have been +able to do much more. I have been able to enrich this edition with some +pieces not hitherto brought to light--notably, the original version of +"Baucis and Philemon," in addition to the version hitherto printed; the +original version of the poem on "Vanbrugh's House"; the verses entitled +"May Fair"; and numerous variations and corrections of the texts of +nearly all the principal poems, due to Forster's collation of them with +the transcripts made by Stella, which were found by him at Narford +formerly the seat of Swift's friend, Sir Andrew Fountaine--see Forster's +"Life of Swift," of which, unfortunately, he lived to publish only the +first volume. From Swift's own copy of the "Miscellanies in Prose and +Verse," 1727-32, with notes in his own handwriting, sold at auction last +year, I was able to make several corrections of the poems contained in +those four volumes, which serve to show how Swift laboured his works, and +revised and improved them whenever he had an opportunity of doing so. It +is a mistake to suppose that he was indifferent to literary fame: on the +contrary, he kept some of his works in manuscript for years in order to +perfect them for publication, of which "The Tale of a Tub," "Gulliver's +Travels," and the "Verses on his own Death" are examples. + +I am indebted to Miss Wilmot-Chetwode, of Wordbrooke, for the loan of a +manuscript volume, from which I obtained some various readings. By the +advice of Mr. Elrington Ball, I applied to the librarians of Trinity +College and of the National Library, and from the latter I received a +number of pieces; but I found that the harvest had already been reaped so +fully, that there was nothing left to glean which could with certainty be +ascribed to Swift. On the whole, I believe that this edition of the Poems +will be found as complete as it is now possible to make it. + +In the arrangement of the poems, I have adopted nearly the same order as +in the Aldine edition, for the pieces seem to fall naturally into those +divisions; but with this difference, that I have placed the pieces in +their chronological order in each division. With regard to the notes in +illustration of the text, many of them in the Dublin editions were +evidently written by Swift, especially the notes to the "Verses on his +own Death." And as to the notes of previous editors, I have retained them +so far as they were useful and correct: but to many of them I have made +additions or alterations wherever, on reference to the authorities cited, +or to other works, correction became necessary. For my own notes, I can +only say that I have sought to make them concise, appropriate to the +text, and, above all, accurate. + +Swift and the educated men of his time thought in the classics, and his +poems, as well as those of his friends, abound with allusions to the +Greek and Roman authors, especially to the latter. I have given all the +references, and except in the imitations and paraphrases of so familiar a +writer as Horace, I have appended the Latin text. Moreover, Swift was, +like Sterne, very fond of curious and recondite reading, in which it is +not always easy to track him without some research; but I believe that I +have not failed to illustrate any matter that required elucidation. + +W. E. B. + +May 1910. + + +CONTENTS OF VOLUME I + + +Introduction xv + +Ode to Doctor William Sancroft +Ode to Sir William Temple +Ode to King William +Ode to The Athenian Society +To Mr. Congreve +Occasioned by Sir William Temple's late illness and recovery +Written in a Lady's Ivory Table Book +Mrs. Frances Harris's Petition +A Ballad on the game of Traffic +A Ballad to the tune of the Cutpurse +The Discovery +The Problem +The Description of a Salamander +To Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough +On the Union +On Mrs. Biddy Floyd +The Reverse +Apollo Outwitted +Answer to Lines from May Fair +Vanbrugh's House +Vanbrugh's House +Baucis and Philemon +Baucis and Philemon +The History of Vanbrugh's House +A Grub Street Elegy +The Epitaph +A Description of the Morning +A Description of a City Shower +On the Little House +A Town Eclogue +A Conference +To Lord Harley on his Marriage +Phyllis +Horace, Book IV, Ode ix +To Mr. Delany +An Elegy +To Mrs. Houghton +Verses written on a Window +On another Window +Apollo to the Dean +News from Parnassus +Apollo's Edict +The Description of an Irish Feast +The Progress of Beauty +The Progress of Marriage +The Progress of Poetry +The South Sea Project +Fabula Canis et Umbrae +A Prologue +Epilogue +Prologue +Epilogue +Answer to Prologue and Epilogue +On Gaulstown House +The Country Life +Dr. Delany's Villa +On one of the Windows at Delville +Carberiae Rupes +Carbery Rocks +Copy of the Birthday Verses on Mr. Ford +On Dreams +Dr. Delany to Dr. Swift +The Answer +A Quiet Life and a Good Name +Advice +A Pastoral Dialogue +Desire and Possession +On Censure +The Furniture of a Woman's Mind +Clever Tom Clinch +Dr. Swift to Mr. Pope +A Love Poem +Bouts Rimez +Helter Skelter +The Puppet Show +The Journal of a Modern Lady +The Logicians Refuted +The Elephant; or the Parliament Man +Paulus; an Epigram +The Answer +A Dialogue +On burning a dull Poem +An excellent new Ballad +On Stephen Duck +The Lady's Dressing Room +The Power of Time +Cassinus and Peter +A Beautiful young Nymph +Strephon and Chloe +Apollo; or a Problem solved +The Place of the Damned +The Day of Judgment +Judas +An Epistle to Mr. Gay +To a Lady +Epigram on Busts in Richmond Hermitage +Another +A Conclusion from above Epigrams +Swift's Answer +To Swift on his Birthday with a Paper Book from the Earl of Orrery +Verses on Swift's Birthday with a Silver Standish +Verses occasioned by foregoing Presents +Verses sent to the Dean with an Eagle quill +An Invitation, by Dr. Delany +The Beasts' Confession +The Parson's Case +The hardship upon the Ladies +A Love Song +The Storm +Ode on Science +A Young Lady's Complaint +On the Death of Dr. Swift +On Poetry, a Rhapsody +Verses sent to the Dean on his Birthday +Epigram by Mr. Bowyer +On Psyche +The Dean and Duke +Written by Swift on his own Deafness +The Dean's Complaint +The Dean's manner of living +Epigram by Mr. Bowyer +Verses made for Fruit Women +On Rover, a Lady's Spaniel +Epigrams on Windows +To Janus, on New Year's Day +A Motto for Mr. Jason Hasard +To a Friend +Catullus de Lesbia +On a Curate's complaint of hard duty +To Betty, the Grisette +Epigram from the French +Epigram +Epigram added by Stella +Joan cudgels Ned +Verses on two modern Poets +Epitaph on General Gorges and Lady Meath +Verses on I know not what +Dr. Swift to himself +An Answer to a Friend's question +Epitaph +Epitaph +Verses written during Lord Carteret's administration +An Apology to Lady Carteret +The Birth of Manly Virtue +On Paddy's Character of the "Intelligencer" +An Epistle to Lord Carteret by Delany +An Epistle upon an Epistle +A Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret +To Dr. Delany +Directions for a Birthday Song +The Pheasant and the Lark by Delany +Answer to Delany's Fable +Dean Smedley's Petition to the Duke of Grafton +The Duke's Answer by Swift +Parody on a character of Dean Smedley + + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Dr. Johnson, in his "Life of Swift," after citing with approval Delany's +character of him, as he describes him to Lord Orrery, proceeds to say: +"In the poetical works there is not much upon which the critic can +exercise his powers. They are often humorous, almost always light, and +have the qualities which recommend such compositions, easiness and +gaiety. They are, for the most part, what their author intended. The +diction is correct, the numbers are smooth, and the rhymes exact. There +seldom occurs a hard laboured expression or a redundant epithet; all his +verses exemplify his own definition of a good style--they consist of +'proper words in proper places.'" + +Of his earliest poems it is needless to say more than that if nothing +better had been written by him than those Pindaric Pieces, after the +manner of Cowley--then so much in vogue--the remark of Dryden, "Cousin +Swift, you will never be a Poet," would have been fully justified. But +conventional praise and compliments were foreign to his nature, for his +strongest characteristic was his intense sincerity. He says of himself +that about that time he had writ and burnt and writ again upon all manner +of subjects more than perhaps any man in England; and it is certainly +remarkable that in so doing his true genius was not sooner developed, for +it was not till he became chaplain in Lord Berkeley's household that his +satirical humour was first displayed--at least in verse--in "Mrs. Frances +Harris' Petition."--His great prose satires, "The Tale of a Tub," and +"Gulliver's Travels," though planned, were reserved to a later time.--In +other forms of poetry he soon afterwards greatly excelled, and the title +of poet cannot be refused to the author of "Baucis and Philemon"; the +verses on "The Death of Dr. Swift"; the "Rhapsody on Poetry"; "Cadenus +and Vanessa"; "The Legion Club"; and most of the poems addressed to +Stella, all of which pieces exhibit harmony, invention, and imagination. + +Swift has been unduly censured for the coarseness of his language upon +Certain topics; but very little of this appears in his earlier poems, and +what there is, was in accordance with the taste of the period, which +never hesitated to call a spade a spade, due in part to the reaction from +the Puritanism of the preceding age, and in part to the outspeaking +frankness which disdained hypocrisy. It is shown in Dryden, Pope, Prior, +of the last of whom Johnson said that no lady objected to have his poems +in her library; still more in the dramatists of that time, whom Charles +Lamb has so humorously defended, and in the plays of Mrs. Aphra Behn, +who, as Pope says, "fairly puts all characters to bed." But whatever +coarseness there may be in some of Swift's poems, such as "The Lady's +Dressing Room," and a few other pieces, there is nothing licentious, +nothing which excites to lewdness; on the contrary, such pieces create +simply a feeling of repulsion. No one, after reading the "Beautiful young +Nymph going to bed," or "Strephon and Chloe," would desire any personal +acquaintance with the ladies, but there is a moral in these pieces, and +the latter poem concludes with excellent matrimonial advice. The +coarseness of some of his later writings must be ascribed to his +misanthropical hatred of the "animal called man," as expressed in his +famous letter to Pope of September 1725, aggravated as it was by his +exile from the friends he loved to a land he hated, and by the reception +he met with there, about which he speaks very freely in his notes to the +"Verses on his own Death." + +On the morning of Swift's installation as Dean, the following scurrilous +lines by Smedley, Dean of Clogher, were affixed to the doors of St. +Patrick's Cathedral: + +To-day this Temple gets a Dean + Of parts and fame uncommon, +Us'd both to pray and to prophane, + To serve both God and mammon. +When Wharton reign'd a Whig he was; + When Pembroke--that's dispute, Sir; +In Oxford's time, what Oxford pleased, + Non-con, or Jack, or Neuter. +This place he got by wit and rhime, + And many ways most odd, +And might a Bishop be in time, + Did he believe in God. +Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray, + On thine own church and steeple; +Convert thy Dean on this great day, + Or else God help the people. +And now, whene'er his Deanship dies, + Upon his stone be graven, +A man of God here buried lies, + Who never thought of heaven. + +It was by these lines that Smedley earned for himself a niche in "The +Dunciad." For Swift's retaliation, see the poems relating to Smedley at +the end of the first volume, and in volume ii, at p. 124, note. + +This bitterness of spirit reached its height in "Gulliver's Travels," +surely the severest of all satires upon humanity, and writ, as he tells +us, not to divert, but to vex the world; and ultimately, in the fierce +attack upon the Irish Parliament in the poem entitled "The Legion Club," +dictated by his hatred of tyranny and oppression, and his consequent +passion for exhibiting human nature in its most degraded aspect. + +But, notwithstanding his misanthropical feelings towards mankind in +general, and his "scorn of fools by fools mistook for pride," there never +existed a warmer or sincerer friend to those whom he loved--witness the +regard in which he was held by Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, +and Congreve, and his readiness to assist those who needed his help, +without thought of party or politics. Although, in some of his poems, +Swift rather severely exposed the follies and frailties of the fair sex, +as in "The Furniture of a Woman's Mind," and "The Journal of a Modern +Lady," he loved the companionship of beautiful and accomplished women, +amongst whom he could count some of his dearest and truest friends; but + He loved to be bitter at + A lady illiterate; +and therefore delighted in giving them literary instruction, most notably +in the cases of Stella and Vanessa, whose relations with him arose +entirely from the tuition in letters which they received from him. Again, +when on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, he insisted upon making Lady +Acheson read such books as he thought fit to advise, and in the doggerel +verses entitled "My Lady's Lamentation," she is supposed to resent his +"very imperious" manner of instruction: + +No book for delight +Must come in my sight; +But instead of new plays, +Dull Bacon's Essays, +And pore every day on +That nasty Pantheon. + +As a contrast to his imperiousness, there is an affectionate simplicity +in the fancy names he used to bestow upon his female friends. Sir William +Temple's wife, Dorothea, became Dorinda; Esther Johnson, Stella; Hester +Vanhomrigh, Vanessa; Lady Winchelsea, Ardelia; while to Lady Acheson he +gave the nicknames of Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean. But all was taken by +them in good part; for his rather dictatorial ways were softened by the +fascinating geniality and humour which he knew so well how to employ when +he used to "deafen them with puns and rhyme." + +Into the vexed question of the relations between Swift and Stella I do +not purpose to enter further than to record my conviction that she was +never more to him than "the dearest friend that ever man had." The +suggestion of a concealed marriage is so inconsistent with their whole +conduct to each other from first to last, that if there had been such a +marriage, instead of Swift having been, as he was, a man of _intense +sincerity_, he must be held to have been a most consummate hypocrite. +In my opinion, Churton Collins settled this question in his essays on +Swift, first published in the "Quarterly Review," 1881 and 1882. Swift's +relation with Vanessa is the saddest episode in his life. The story is +amply told in his poem, "Cadenus and Vanessa," and in the letters which +passed between them: how the pupil became infatuated with her tutor; how +the tutor endeavoured to dispel her passion, but in vain, by reason; and +how, at last, she died from love for the man who was unable to give love +in return. That Swift ought, as soon as Hester disclosed her passion for +him, at once to have broken off the intimacy, must be conceded; but how +many men possessed of his kindness of heart would have had the courage to +have acted otherwise than he did? Swift seems, in fact, to have been +constitutionally incapable of the _passion_ of love, for he says, +himself, that he had never met the woman he wished to marry. His annual +tributes to Stella on her birthdays express the strongest regard and +esteem, but he "ne'er admitted love a guest," and he had been so long +used to this Platonic affection, that he had come to regard women as +friends, but never as lovers. Stella, on her part, had the same feeling, +for she never expressed the least discontent at her position, or ever +regarded Swift otherwise than as her tutor, her counsellor, her friend. +In her verses to him on his birthday, 1721, she says: + + Long be the day that gave you birth +Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth; +Late dying may you cast a shred +Of your rich mantle o'er my head; +To bear with dignity my sorrow +One day alone, then die tomorrow. + +Stella naturally expected to survive Swift, but it was not to be. She +died in the evening of the 28th January 1727-8; and on the same night he +began the affecting piece, "On the Death of Mrs. Johnson." (See "Prose +Works," vol. xi.) + +With the death of Stella, Swift's real happiness ended, and he became +more and more possessed by the melancholy which too often accompanies the +broadest humour, and which, in his case, was constitutional. It was, no +doubt, to relieve it, that he resorted to the composition of the doggerel +verses, epigrams, riddles, and trifles exchanged betwixt himself and +Sheridan, which induced Orrery's remark that "Swift composing Riddles is +Titian painting draught-boards;" on which Delany observes that "a Riddle +may be as fine painting as any other in the world. It requires as strong +an imagination, as fine colouring, and as exact a proportion and keeping +as any other historical painting"; and he instances "Pethox the Great," +and should also have alluded to the more learned example--"Louisa to +Strephon." + +On Orrery's seventh Letter, Delany says that if some of the "coin is +base," it is the fine impression and polish which adds value to it, and +cites the saying of another nobleman, that "there is indeed some stuff +in it, but it is Swift's stuff." It has been said that Swift has never +taken a thought from any writer ancient or modern. This is not literally +true, but the instances are not many, and in my notes I have pointed out +the lines snatched from Milton, Denham, Butler--the last evidently a +great favourite. + +It seems necessary to state shortly the causes of Swift not having +obtained higher preferment. Besides that Queen Anne would never be +reconciled to the author of the "Tale of a Tub"--the true purport of +which was so ill-understood by her--he made an irreconcilable enemy of +her friend, the Duchess of Somerset, by his lampoon entitled "The Windsor +Prophecy." But Swift seldom allowed prudence to restrain his wit and +humour, and admits of himself that he "had too much satire in his vein"; +and that "a genius in the reverend gown must ever keep its owner down"; +and says further: + +Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; +He reconciled divinity and wit. + +But that was what his enemies could not do. + +Whatever the excellences and defects of the poems, Swift has erected, not +only by his works, but by his benevolence and his charities, a +_monumentum aere perennius,_ and his writings in prose and verse +will continue to afford instruction and delight when the malevolence of +Jeffrey, the misrepresentations of Macaulay, and the sneers and false +statements of Thackeray shall have been forgotten. + + + + + +#POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT# + +ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1] +LATE LORD BISHOP OF CANTERBURY + +WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, +AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY + + +I + +Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven, + Bright effluence of th'immortal ray, +Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven, +Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day; + First of God's darling attributes, + Thou daily seest him face to face, +Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance + Of time or place, +Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance; + How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes? + How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd, + Or a weak argument by force maintain'd? +In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words, +(For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,) + Contrived to tire all patience out, + And not to satisfy the doubt? + + +II + + But where is even thy Image on our earth? + For of the person much I fear, +Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth, +And God himself has said, He shall not find it here. +For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade, +By dark reverted rays from its reflection made; + Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass, + Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass; + Which all the mimic forms express, +Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress; + So when Cartesian artists try + To solve appearances of sight + In its reception to the eye, +And catch the living landscape through a scanty light, + The figures all inverted show, + And colours of a faded hue; + Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads, + And men seem walking on their heads; + There whole herds suspended lie, + Ready to tumble down into the sky; + Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go + To judge of things above by things below. +Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams, + Or images that sink in streams; + No wonder, then, we talk amiss + Of truth, and what, or where it is; + Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st, +Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost? + + +III + +If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be +(High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee, + If a mind fix'd to combat fate +With those two powerful swords, submission and humility, + Sounds truly good, or truly great; +Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest, + In the divinity of retreat, + Be not the brightest pattern earth can show + Of heaven-born Truth below; + But foolish man still judges what is best + In his own balance, false and light, + Following opinion, dark and blind, + That vagrant leader of the mind, +Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight. + + +IV + +And some, to be large ciphers in a state, +Pleased with an empty swelling to be counted great, +Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space, + Rapt through the wide expanse of thought, + And oft in contradiction's vortex caught, +To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place; +Errors like this did old astronomers misguide, +Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride, + Who, like hard masters, taught the sun + Through many a heedless sphere to run, +Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make, + And thousand incoherent journeys take, + Whilst all th'advantage by it got, + Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. +The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state + Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, +Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still; +But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate, + By gazing upward giddy grow, + And think the church itself does so; + Thus fools, for being strong and num'rous known, + Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own; +And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears, + Because 'tis opposite to theirs. + + +V + +In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise, + Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies + In gath'ring follies from the wise; + Rather put on thy anger and thy spite, + And some kind power for once dispense + Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense, +To make them understand, and feel me when I write; + The muse and I no more revenge desire, +Each line shall stab, shall blast, like daggers and like fire; + Ah, Britain, land of angels! which of all thy sins, + (Say, hapless isle, although + It is a bloody list we know,) +Has given thee up a dwelling-place to fiends? + Sin and the plague ever abound +In governments too easy, and too fruitful ground; + Evils which a too gentle king, + Too flourishing a spring, + And too warm summers bring: + Our British soil is over rank, and breeds + Among the noblest flowers a thousand pois'nous weeds, + And every stinking weed so lofty grows, + As if 'twould overshade the Royal Rose; + The Royal Rose, the glory of our morn, + But, ah! too much without a thorn. + + +VI + +Forgive (original mildness) this ill-govern'd zeal, +'Tis all the angry slighted Muse can do + In the pollution of these days; + No province now is left her but to rail, + And poetry has lost the art to praise, + Alas, the occasions are so few: + None e'er but you, + And your Almighty Master, knew + With heavenly peace of mind to bear +(Free from our tyrant passions, anger, scorn, or fear) +The giddy turns of popular rage, +And all the contradictions of a poison'd age; + The Son of God pronounced by the same breath + Which straight pronounced his death; + And though I should but ill be understood, + In wholly equalling our sin and theirs, + And measuring by the scanty thread of wit + What we call holy, and great, and just, and good, +(Methods in talk whereof our pride and ignorance make use,) + And which our wild ambition foolishly compares + With endless and with infinite; + Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say, +Among thy stubborn sons there haunts that spirit of the Jews, + That those forsaken wretches who to-day + Revile his great ambassador, + Seem to discover what they would have done + (Were his humanity on earth once more) +To his undoubted Master, Heaven's Almighty Son. + + +VII + +But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wondrous proud, + Though very turbulent and very loud; + The crazy composition shows, +Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes, + Made up of iron mixt with clay, + This crumbles into dust, + That moulders into rust, + Or melts by the first shower away. +Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know, +Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so; + And those, alas, do show, + Like all transcendent excellence below; + In both, false mediums cheat our sight, +And far exalted objects lessen by their height: + Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high + To be observed by vulgar eye, + And rolls the silent year + On his own secret regular sphere, +And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here. + + +VIII + +Kind star, still may'st thou shed thy sacred influence here, + Or from thy private peaceful orb appear; + For, sure, we want some guide from Heaven, to show + The way which every wand'ring fool below + Pretends so perfectly to know; + And which, for aught I see, and much I fear, + The world has wholly miss'd; + I mean the way which leads to Christ: +Mistaken idiots! see how giddily they run, + Led blindly on by avarice and pride, + What mighty numbers follow them; + Each fond of erring with his guide: + Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son + In Caesar's court, or in Jerusalem: + Others, ignorantly wise, +Among proud doctors and disputing Pharisees: +What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn; + Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said +That Heaven's high Son was in a village born; + That the world's Saviour had been + In a vile manger laid, + And foster'd in a wretched inn? + + +IX + +Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, +Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state; + Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste, + To mend dilapidations in the last? +And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince, + Thinks Heaven has cancell'd all our sins, +And that his subjects share his happy influence; +Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should, +But wicked kings draw more examples than the good: + And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight +Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress'd, + Finding the mitre almost grown + A load as heavy as the crown, + Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest. + + +X + + Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state, + Nor hurricano from the crown, +Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late, + Which, in its dusky march along the plain, + Swept up whole churches as it list, + Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist; +Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, + And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. + Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne; + The mitre, which his sacred head has worn, +Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn. +Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last, + The bitter cup is from him past: + Fortune in both extremes + Though blasts from contrariety of winds, + Yet to firm heavenly minds, +Is but one thing under two different names; +And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seen, + Confesses ignorance to judge between; +And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, +To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude. + + +XI + +Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, + Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat; + Short glimm'rings of the prelate glorified; +Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide. + Why should the Sun, alas! be proud + To lodge behind a golden cloud? +Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay, +'Tis but a low-born vapour kindled by a ray: + At length 'tis overblown and past, + Puff'd by the people's spiteful blast, +The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, + No deflower'd eye can face the naked light: + Yet does this high perfection well proceed + From strength of its own native seed, +This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, + Bears one, and but one branch of gold, + Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove, +And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve, +To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; + For, whate'er theologic levellers dream, + There are degrees above, I know, + As well as here below, + (The goddess Muse herself has told me so), + Where high patrician souls, dress'd heavenly gay, + Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day. +There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given, + In the metropolis of Heaven; +Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, + Translated to archangel there. + + +XII + +Since, happy saint, since it has been of late + Either our blindness or our fate, + To lose the providence of thy cares +Pity a miserable church's tears, + That begs the powerful blessing of thy prayers. + Some angel, say, what were the nation's crimes, + That sent these wild reformers to our times: + Say what their senseless malice meant, + To tear religion's lovely face: + Strip her of every ornament and grace; +In striving to wash off th'imaginary paint? + Religion now does on her death-bed lie, +Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy; +How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill, +And by their college arts methodically kill: +Reformers and physicians differ but in name, + One end in both, and the design the same; +Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean + Is but the patient's death, and gain-- + Check in thy satire, angry Muse, + Or a more worthy subject choose: +Let not the outcasts of an outcast age +Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage, + Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, + Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd-- + +[The rest of the poem is lost.] + +[Footnote 1: Born Jan., 1616-17; died 1693. For his life, see "Dictionary +of National Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + +ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE + +WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689 + + +I + +Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies! + Till its first emperor, rebellious man, + Deposed from off his seat, + It fell, and broke with its own weight +Into small states and principalities, + By many a petty lord possess'd, +But ne'er since seated in one single breast. + 'Tis you who must this land subdue, + The mighty conquest's left for you, + The conquest and discovery too: + Search out this Utopian ground, + Virtue's Terra Incognita, + Where none ever led the way, +Nor ever since but in descriptions found; + Like the philosopher's stone, +With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none. + + +II + + We have too long been led astray; +Too long have our misguided souls been taught + With rules from musty morals brought, + 'Tis you must put us in the way; + Let us (for shame!) no more be fed + With antique relics of the dead, + The gleanings of philosophy; + Philosophy, the lumber of the schools, + The roguery of alchymy; + And we, the bubbled fools, +Spend all our present life, in hopes of golden rules. + + +III + +But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? + We oddly Plato's paradox make good, +Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all; +Remembrance is our treasure and our food; +Nature's fair table-book, our tender souls, +We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, + Stale memorandums of the schools: + For learning's mighty treasures look + Into that deep grave, a book; + Think that she there does all her treasures hide, +And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since she died; +Confine her walks to colleges and schools; + Her priests, her train, and followers, show + As if they all were spectres too! + They purchase knowledge at th'expense + Of common breeding, common sense, + And grow at once scholars and fools; + Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, +Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility, + And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, + Which greedily they swallow down, +Still cast it up, and nauseate company. + + +IV + + Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! + (If it may lawful be + To curse our greatest enemy,) + Who learn'd himself that heresy first, + (Which since has seized on all the rest,) +That knowledge forfeits all humanity; +Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor, + And fling our scraps before our door! +Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest; +Those mighty epithets, learned, good, and great, +Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, +We find in you at last united grown. + You cannot be compared to one: + I must, like him that painted Venus' face, + Borrow from every one a grace; +Virgil and Epicurus will not do, + Their courting a retreat like you, +Unless I put in Caesar's learning too: + Your happy frame at once controls + This great triumvirate of souls. + + +V + +Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate; + He sav'd his country by delays, + But you by peace.[1] + You bought it at a cheaper rate; +Nor has it left the usual bloody scar, + To show it cost its price in war; +War, that mad game the world so loves to play, + And for it does so dearly pay; +For, though with loss, or victory, a while + Fortune the gamesters does beguile, +Yet at the last the box sweeps all away. + + +VI + + Only the laurel got by peace + No thunder e'er can blast: + Th'artillery of the skies + Shoots to the earth and dies: +And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, +Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. + About the head crown'd with these bays, + Like lambent fire, the lightning plays; +Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, + Makes up its solemn train with death; +It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. + + +VII + +The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks, +Which we call deep designs and politics, +(As in a theatre the ignorant fry, + Because the cords escape their eye, + Wonder to see the motions fly,) + Methinks, when you expose the scene, + Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; +Off fly the vizards, and discover all: + How plain I see through the deceit! + How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! + Look where the pulley's tied above! + Great God! (said I) what have I seen! + On what poor engines move +The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states! + What petty motives rule their fates! +How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake! +The mighty mountain labours with its birth, + Away the frighten'd peasants fly, + Scared at the unheard-of prodigy, +Expect some great gigantic son of earth; + Lo! it appears! + See how they tremble! how they quake! +Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears. + + +VIII + + Then tell, dear favourite Muse! + What serpent's that which still resorts, + Still lurks in palaces and courts? + Take thy unwonted flight, + And on the terrace light. + See where she lies! + See how she rears her head, + And rolls about her dreadful eyes, +To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! +'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence, +And though as some ('tis said) for their defence + Have worn a casement o'er their skin, + So wore he his within, +Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; + And though he oft renew'd the fight, +And almost got priority of sight, + He ne'er could overcome her quite, +In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite; + Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease, +Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace. + + +IX + +Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat, +And in some untouch'd virgin strain, +Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; +Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields; + Go, publish o'er the plain + How mighty a proselyte you gain! +How noble a reprisal on the great! + How is the Muse luxuriant grown! + Whene'er she takes this flight, + She soars clear out of sight. +These are the paradises of her own: + Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse, + Though ne'er so gently led, +To the loved pastures where he used to feed, +Runs violent o'er his usual course. + Wake from thy wanton dreams, + Come from thy dear-loved streams, + The crooked paths of wandering Thames. + Fain the fair nymph would stay, + Oft she looks back in vain, + Oft 'gainst her fountain does complain, + And softly steals in many windings down, + As loth to see the hated court and town; +And murmurs as she glides away. + + +X + + In this new happy scene + Are nobler subjects for your learned pen; + Here we expect from you +More than your predecessor Adam knew; +Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport, +Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court; + How that which we a kernel see, +(Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, + Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,) + Shall ere long grow into a tree; +Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, +Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth, + Where all the fruitful atoms lie; + How some go downward to the root, + Some more ambitious upwards fly, + And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. +You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain, +Your garden's better worth your nobler pain, +Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. + + +XI + +Shall I believe a spirit so divine + Was cast in the same mould with mine? +Why then does Nature so unjustly share +Among her elder sons the whole estate, + And all her jewels and her plate? +Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, +Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare: + Some she binds 'prentice to the spade, + Some to the drudgery of a trade: +Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, +Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw: + Some she condemns for life to try +To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy: +Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied: +In vain I strive to cross the spacious main, + In vain I tug and pull the oar; + And when I almost reach the shore, +Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again: + And yet, to feed my pride, +Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath, +With promise of a mad reversion after death. + + +XII + +Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, + The tribute of an humble Muse, +'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; + Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, +And kindled first with indolence and ease; + And since too oft debauch'd by praise, +'Tis now grown an incurable disease: +In vain to quench this foolish fire I try + In wisdom and philosophy: + In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, + Where nought but weeds will grow +Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) + By an equivocal birth, + Seeds, and runs up to poetry. + +[Footnote 1: Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Holland, +and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty +of Nimeguen, 1679.] + + + +ODE TO KING WILLIAM + +ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND + + +To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown, + Are arts peculiar to dissembling France; +You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown, + And solid virtue does your name advance. + +Your matchless courage with your prudence joins, + The glorious structure of your fame to raise; +With its own light your dazzling glory shines, + And into adoration turns our praise. + +Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown, + (Cowards are monarchs by that title made,) +Part of your merit Chance would call her own, + And half your virtues had been lost in shade. + +But now your worth its just reward shall have: + What trophies and what triumphs are your due! +Who could so well a dying nation save, + At once deserve a crown, and gain it too. + +You saw how near we were to ruin brought, + You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on; +And timely on the coming danger thought, + Which we could neither obviate nor shun. + +Britannia stripp'd of her sole guard, the laws, + Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice; +You straight stepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws + Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize. + +Nor this is all; as glorious is the care + To preserve conquests, as at first to gain: +In this your virtue claims a double share, + Which, what it bravely won, does well maintain. + +Your arm has now your rightful title show'd, + An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, +To which they look as to some guardian God, + That must their doubtful liberty defend. + +Amazed, thy action at the Boyne we see! + When Schomberg started at the vast design: +The boundless glory all redounds to thee, + The impulse, the fight, th'event, were wholly thine. + +The brave attempt does all our foes disarm; + You need but now give orders and command, +Your name shall the remaining work perform, + And spare the labour of your conquering hand. + +France does in vain her feeble arts apply, + To interrupt the fortune of your course: +Your influence does the vain attacks defy + Of secret malice, or of open force. + +Boldly we hence the brave commencement date + Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ; +William's the pledge and earnest given by fate, + Of England's glory, and her lasting joy. + + + + +ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1] + +_Moor Park, Feb._ 14, 1691. + + +I + +As when the deluge first began to fall, + That mighty ebb never to flow again, +When this huge body's moisture was so great, + It quite o'ercame the vital heat; +That mountain which was highest, first of all +Appear'd above the universal main, +To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight; +And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height + It be as great as 'tis in fame, + And nigh to Heaven as is its name; +So, after the inundation of a war, +When learning's little household did embark, +With her world's fruitful system, in her sacred ark, + At the first ebb of noise and fears, +Philosophy's exalted head appears; +And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay, +But plumes her silver wings, and flies away; + And now a laurel wreath she brings from far, + To crown the happy conqueror, + To show the flood begins to cease, +And brings the dear reward of victory and peace. + + +II + +The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline, + When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew, + When the bright sun of peace began to shine, +And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat, + On the high top of peaceful Ararat; +And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew, +The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,) + And thence, with joyful, nimble wing, + Flew dutifully back again, +And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2] + And the Dove-Muse is fled once more, +(Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war,) + And now discovers from afar + A peaceful and a flourishing shore: + No sooner did she land + On the delightful strand, + Than straight she sees the country all around, + Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile, +Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd, + And many a pleasant wood; + As if the universal Nile + Had rather water'd it than drown'd: +It seems some floating piece of Paradise, + Preserved by wonder from the flood, +Long wandering through the deep, as we are told + Famed Delos[3] did of old; + And the transported Muse imagined it +To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit, + Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove; + When, with amazing joy, she hears +An unknown music all around, + Charming her greedy ears + With many a heavenly song +Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love; +While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue. + In vain she catches at the empty sound, +In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, + And courts the wanton echoes as they fly. + + +III + +Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, +The wild excursions of a youthful pen; + Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse, + Whom blind and eager curiosity + (Yet curiosity, they say, +Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse) + Has forced to grope her uncouth way, +After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye: +No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense + For a dear ramble through impertinence; +Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind. +And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, + Though we be of two different factions still, + Both the good-natured and the ill, + Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find +We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit. + In me, who am of the first sect of these, + All merit, that transcends the humble rules + Of my own dazzled scanty sense, +Begets a kinder folly and impertinence + Of admiration and of praise. +And our good brethren of the surly sect, + Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: + For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made +Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; +Yet the same want of brains produces each effect. + And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud + From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd, + Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud, +Who both our follies and impertinences see, +Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me. + + +IV + + But censure's to be understood + Th'authentic mark of the elect, +The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good, + Our shallow search and judgment to direct. + The war, methinks, has made +Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; +Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy +A stock of wisdom and philosophy, + We fondly stay at home, in fear + Of every censuring privateer; +Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale, + And selling basely by retail. + The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, +Who fain would rule the pulpit, as they do the stage, + Wondrous refiners of philosophy, + Of morals and divinity, +By the new modish system of reducing all to sense, + Against all logic, and concluding laws, + Do own th'effects of Providence, + And yet deny the cause. + + +V + +This hopeful sect, now it begins to see +How little, very little, do prevail + Their first and chiefest force + To censure, to cry down, and rail, +Not knowing what, or where, or who you be, + Will quickly take another course: + And, by their never-failing ways + Of solving all appearances they please, +We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall, +And straight deny you to be men, or anything at all. + I laugh at the grave answer they will make, +Which they have always ready, general, and cheap: + 'Tis but to say, that what we daily meet, + And by a fond mistake +Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit, +And think, alas! to be by mortals writ, +Is but a crowd of atoms justling in a heap: + Which, from eternal seeds begun, +Justling some thousand years, till ripen'd by the sun: + They're now, just now, as naturally born, + As from the womb of earth a field of corn. + + +VI + + But as for poor contented me, +Who must my weakness and my ignorance confess, +That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to see; + Methinks I'm satisfied to guess, + That this new, noble, and delightful scene, +Is wonderfully moved by some exalted men, +Who have well studied in the world's disease, +(That epidemic error and depravity, + Or in our judgment or our eye,) +That what surprises us can only please. +We often search contentedly the whole world round, + To make some great discovery, + And scorn it when 'tis found. +Just so the mighty Nile has suffer'd in its fame, + Because 'tis said (and perhaps only said) +We've found a little inconsiderable head, + That feeds the huge unequal stream. +Consider human folly, and you'll quickly own, + That all the praises it can give, +By which some fondly boast they shall for ever live, + Won't pay th'impertinence of being known: + Else why should the famed Lydian king,[4] +(Whom all the charms of an usurped wife and state, +With all that power unfelt, courts mankind to be great, + Did with new unexperienced glories wait,) +Still wear, still dote on his invisible ring? + + +VII + + Were I to form a regular thought of Fame, + Which is, perhaps, as hard t'imagine right, + As to paint Echo to the sight, +I would not draw the idea from an empty name; + Because, alas! when we all die, + Careless and ignorant posterity, + Although they praise the learning and the wit, + And though the title seems to show + The name and man by whom the book was writ, + Yet how shall they be brought to know, +Whether that very name was he, or you, or I? +Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise, + And water-colours of these days: +These days! where e'en th'extravagance of poetry + Is at a loss for figures to express + Men's folly, whimseys, and inconstancy, + And by a faint description makes them less. +Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it? +Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit, + Enthroned with heavenly Wit! + Look where you see + The greatest scorn of learned vanity! + (And then how much a nothing is mankind! +Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air, + Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; + And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, + Which yet whoe'er examines right will find + To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) +And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there, + Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: + And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. + + +VIII + + The juggling sea-god,[5] when by chance trepann'd +By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, + Impatient of all answers, straight became + A stealing brook, and strove to creep away + Into his native sea, + Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; + But disappointed of his fond desire, + Would vanish in a pyramid of fire. + This surly, slippery God, when he design'd + To furnish his escapes, + Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes +Than you, to please and satisfy mankind, +And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, + So well you answer all phenomena there: +Though madmen and the wits, philosophers and fools, +With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream, +And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; + Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame, +Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; +Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night, + The God of learning and of light + Would want a God himself to help him out. + + +IX + + Philosophy, as it before us lies, +Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste + Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, + From every age through which it pass'd, +But always with a stronger relish of the last. + This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd + To be the great original +For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, +In what mock habits have they put her since the fall! + More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages', + She seems a medley of all ages, +With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, + A new commode, a topknot, and a ruff, + Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry, + With a long sweeping train +Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, + All of old cut with a new dye: + How soon have you restored her charms, + And rid her of her lumber and her books, + Drest her again genteel and neat, + And rather tight than great! +How fond we are to court her to our arms! + How much of heaven is in her naked looks! + + +X + +Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, + And ev'n my very thoughts transfers + And changes all to beauty and the praise + Of that proud tyrant sex of hers. + The rebel Muse, alas! takes part, + But with my own rebellious heart, +And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire + To fan th'unhappy fire. + Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? +Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! + Rather forgive what my first transport said: +May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, + Lie upon you and on your children's head! +For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see + The fatal time when that could be!) + Have even increased their pride and cruelty. + Woman seems now above all vanity grown, + Still boasting of her great unknown +Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, + Or the vast charges of a smile; + Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late + You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, +And which they've now the consciences to weigh + In the same balance with our tears, + And with such scanty wages pay + The bondage and the slavery of years. +Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; + And had they common generosity, + They would not use us thus. + Well--though you've raised her to this high degree, + Ourselves are raised as well as she; + And, spite of all that they or you can do, +'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, +Still to be of the same exalted sex with you. + + +XI + + Alas, how fleeting and how vain +Is even the nobler man, our learning and our wit! + I sigh whene'er I think of it: + As at the closing an unhappy scene + Of some great king and conqueror's death, + When the sad melancholy Muse +Stays but to catch his utmost breath. +I grieve, this nobler work, most happily begun, +So quickly and so wonderfully carried on, +May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse. + There is a noontide in our lives, + Which still the sooner it arrives, +Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, +And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, +Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. + No conquest ever yet begun, +And by one mighty hero carried to its height, +E'er flourished under a successor or a son; +It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pass'd, +And vanish'd to an empty title in the last. + For, when the animating mind is fled, + (Which nature never can retain, + Nor e'er call back again,) +The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. + + +XII + + And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare + With what unhappy men shall dare + To be successors to these great unknown, + On learning's high-establish'd throne. + Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, +Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, +Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth + From Ignorance's universal North, +And with blind rage break all this peaceful government: +Yet shall the traces of your wit remain, + Like a just map, to tell the vast extent + Of conquest in your short and happy reign: + And to all future mankind shew + How strange a paradox is true, + That men who lived and died without a name +Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame. + + +[Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses, +said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this +denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to +Dryden."--Johnson in his "Life of Swift."--_W. E. B._ + +In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton, +the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and +Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was +prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became +fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana. +See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which +made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and +mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii, +9.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.--_W. E. B._] + + + +TO MR. CONGREVE + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693 + + +Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, + The Muse was called in a poetic hour, +And insolently thrice the slighted maid +Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; +Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, +Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine. + Once highly honoured! false is the pretence +You make to truth, retreat, and innocence! +Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down +The most ungenerous vices of the town; +Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before +I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, +Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, +So much in mode, so very city-born; +'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, +Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; +But find some new address, some fresh deceit, +Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; +These are the beaten methods of the stews, +Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, +Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, +By prostituting her they first debauch. + Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame +This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; +First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, +Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; +Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, +The greatest compliment she ever made, +And wisely judge, no power beneath divine +Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; +For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd +A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt. + Nor tax the goddess of a mean design +To praise your parts by publishing of mine; +That be my thought when some large bulky writ +Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; +There to surmount what bears me up, and sing +Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing. +This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, +Were my desires but heighten'd to my power. + Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, +Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; +Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride +That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; +A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, +Gets between them and my resentment's weight, +Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, +T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen. + Thus I look down with mercy on the age, +By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: +For never did poetic mind before +Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; +The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind +Serves by retail to furnish half mankind. +With indignation I behold your wit +Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, +By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain +From broken scraps and filings of your brain. +Through native dross your share is hardly known, +And by short views mistook for all their own; +So small the gains those from your wit do reap, +Who blend it into folly's larger heap, +Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass, +When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass. + Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, +Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal. +These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain +With those they rob, by what their trade does gain. +Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds +O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds, +Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam, +As ancient nature's modern masters dream; +This bids some curious praters here below +Call Titan sick, because their sight is so; +And well, methinks, does this allusion fit +To scribblers, and the god of light and wit; +Those who by wild delusions entertain +A lust of rhyming for a poet's vein, +Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night, +But can no more obscure my Congreve's light, +Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray +Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day. + What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit? +Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit? +How would you blush the shameful birth to hear +Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear; +For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since, +Round all the circles of impertinence, +Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie +Before it grew a city butterfly; +I'm sure I found them other kind of things +Than those with backs of silk and golden wings; +A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise +As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies: +For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread, +And court in prologues, all are country bred; +Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins +Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns; +Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux +Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows: +These are the lords of the poetic schools, +Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules; +Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds +O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods; +Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes, +Which worshipp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes; +And can you think the wise forbear to laugh +At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf? + Haply you judge these lines severely writ +Against the proud usurpers of the pit; +Stay while I tell my story, short, and true; +To draw conclusions shall be left to you; +Nor need I ramble far to force a rule, +But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school. + Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent +With other cattle to the city went; +Where having cast his coat, and well pursued +The methods most in fashion to be lewd, +Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down, +Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town; +A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit, +Confounded in that Babel of the pit; +Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild, +Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child; +Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts, +Before the play, or else between the acts; +Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds +Should spring such short and transitory kinds, +Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote, +Last just as long as every cuckoo's note: +What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate! +'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate, +My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed +Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: +When man's ill genius to my presence sent +This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant; +Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace, +Squander'd his noisy talents to my face; +Named every player on his fingers' ends, +Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends; +Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease +Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2] +Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd, +Who heard you meant to write heroics next; +For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite, +And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night. + Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, +Rendering shades things, and substances of names; +Such high companions may delusion keep, +Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep. +As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, +Render'd the topping beauty of the town, +Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, +To boast of favours that he never got; +Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, +Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; +And not the meanest coxcomb you can find, +But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; +Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown +To every lewd pretender of the town. +Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, +You find, to be the fashionable wit; +These are the slaves whom reputation chains, +Whose maintenance requires no help from brains. +For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, +Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; +Whose name must not within my lines be shown, +Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4] +Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, +And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; +I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass, +Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass; +Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, +Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. + Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent +In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; +In how ill season her resentments rule, +What's that to her if mankind be a fool? +Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, +In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5] +Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, +She still is welcome with her innocent song; +Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, +What poor regards would merit all below! +How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, +And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet! + Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave +Gives murmuring passage to a lasting wave: +'Tis the world's watery hour-glass streaming fast, +Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; +Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, +And the young Muse's early favour felt; +Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, +Confessing Albion once her darling seat; +Far in this primitive cell might we pursue +Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; +Here would we sing--But, ah! you think I dream, +And the bad world may well believe the same; +Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, +While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I. + Since thus I wander from my first intent, +Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, +Take this short lesson from the god of bays, +And let my friend apply it as he please: +Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, + But give the vigorous fancy room. + For when, like stupid alchymists, you try + To fix this nimble god, + This volatile mercury, + The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; + Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find +More than _fade_ insipid mixture left behind.[6] + While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, +And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom; +The Muse like some bright country virgin shows +Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; +They, in their lewd and fashionable prate, +Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; +Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, +Current like copper, and as often paid: +She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep +Near better animals, her father's sheep, +Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, +To think what cattle she is got among; +But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, +In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid. + 'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, +The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; +Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, +Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies. + In this descending sheet you'll haply find +Some short refreshment for your weary mind, +Nought it contains is common or unclean, +And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7] + + +[Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an +estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor +Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and _post_, p. 43.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where +the wits of that time used to assemble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and +notes, edit. 1786.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite +multitude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name +mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together +with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.--_S._] + +[Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently +gives the name of Apollo.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it +is lost.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of +"Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY + +WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693 + + +Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike +At distant hours the mind with forms so like! +Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain +Meets, and salutes her sister link again; +Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, +Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; +Or whether dead Imagination's ghost +Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; +Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, +Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; +Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride +O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: + Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, +Where her own Temple was her darling theme; +There first the visionary sound was heard, +When to poetic view the Muse appear'd. +Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray +Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; +Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, +Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; +Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show +Approaching joy at strife with parting woe. + As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, +Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, +Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, +Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; +When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, +A sign God's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: +Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine +Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine. + What mortal change does in thy face appear, +Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here! +With how undecent clouds are overcast +Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past! +Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, +Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: + As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, +Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, +And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear +Late I beheld on every face appear; +Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, +Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; +Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long +Not dared to injure with our lowly song; +Sprung from a better world, and chosen then +The best companion for the best of men: +As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, +Lives pious witness of a better age; +So men may see what once was womankind, +In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind. + You that would grief describe, come here and trace +Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: +Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart +Farther than its own palace in her heart: +Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, +At least confine the tyrant to his cell. +And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen +Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? +Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, +And grief flung sables on each menial look; +The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, +That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; +So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, +Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; +So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread +That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.-- +Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ +The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; +And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, +Who dare revile the integrity of verse: +Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!-- +But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; +Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect +Thy just submission for this bold neglect. + Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use +At the divine appearance of the Muse, +Which to divulge might shake profane belief, +And tell the irreligion of my grief; +Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, +And shaped my passion in such words as these! + Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, +Thou universal cause of all my woes; +Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late +A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; +The malice thou inspirest I never fail +On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; +Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, +Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: +Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, +Deals out to man the planet of his birth: +But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine, +And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: +Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, +That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, +But a wild form dependent on the brain, +Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; +Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, +Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; +Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, +Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: +In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, +A walking vapour, like thy sister fame. +But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, +A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; +Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, +So highly courted by the brisk and gay? +Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look +On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; +Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, +Assign'd for life to unremitting grief; +For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, +If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. +Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, +And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, +That we the wretched, creeping far behind, +Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; +Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born +With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3] +Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, +Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; +But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace +Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face. +Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows +Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: +See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, +These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; +Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, +Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; +March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, +Still scattering desolation where they go. +To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, +Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; +To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, +That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; +From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, +Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; +Such were thy rules to be poetically great: +"Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; +Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; +Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; +Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, +Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4] +And since unhappy distance thus denies +T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; +Since thy few ill-presented graces seem +To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem--" + Madness like this no fancy ever seized, +Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; +Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds +Is all the poor content delusion finds.-- +There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour +I here renounce thy visionary power; +And since thy essence on my breath depends +Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends. + + +[Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter +Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to +Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at +Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died +in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and +amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his +wife.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "--when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main." +POPE, _Essay on Criticism_, 372-3.] + +[Footnote 4: "Hic murus aheneus esto, + Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa." +HOR., _Epist. 1_, I, 60.] + + + +WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698 + + +Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, +And think thou seest my owner's heart, +Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite +As hard, as senseless, and as light; +Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes, +But hid with caution from the wise. +Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;" +Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:" +Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;" +There, in her own, "For an el breth:" +Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" +There, "A safe way to use perfume:" +Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; +On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"-- +"Madam, I die without your grace"-- +"Item, for half a yard of lace." +Who that had wit would place it here, +For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer? +To think that your brains' issue is +Exposed to th'excrement of his, +In pow'r of spittle and a clout, +Whene'er he please, to blot it out; +And then, to heighten the disgrace, +Clap his own nonsense in the place. +Whoe'er expects to hold his part +In such a book, and such a heart, +If he be wealthy, and a fool, +Is in all points the fittest tool; +Of whom it may be justly said, +He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. + + + + +MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699 + + +This, the most humorous example of _vers de societe_ in the English +language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of +distinction at that period.--_W. E. B._ + + +To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1] + The humble petition of Frances Harris, +Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; +Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber, + because I was cold; +And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, + (besides farthings) in money and gold; +So because I had been buying things for my lady last night, +I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right. +Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, +Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock, +I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock. +So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was + unript, +And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; +Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; +And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead. +So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light; +But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have + sunk outright. +"Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"--"Indeed," says I, "never worse: +But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?" +"Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!" +"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case." +So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: +However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. +So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, +But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. +So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round, +And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was + found. +So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing: +Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing. +"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have + had?" +"Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad: +For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail." +"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." +Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years + come spring, +And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." +"Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord + Shrewsbury's, +Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of _gooseberries_." +So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief: +(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:) +However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: +"Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out: +'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10] +But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. +'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole + in my wages: +Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. +Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands, +That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands." +"The _devil_ take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!" +So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught. +So, you know, what could I say to her any more? +I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. +Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: +"No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon." +So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, +Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. +So, as the _devil_ would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, +"_Parson_" said I, "can you cast a _nativity_, when a body's plunder'd?" +(Now you must know, he hates to be called _Parson_, like the _devil!_) +"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; +If your money be gone, as a learned _Divine_ says,[12] d'ye see, +You are no _text_ for my handling; so take that from me: +I was never taken for a _Conjurer_ before, I'd have you to know." +"Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; +You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife; +I never took one in _your coat_ for a conjurer in all my life." +With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, +"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. +Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do? +I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" +Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry; +I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will + I." +Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to? +For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. + The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' + protection, +And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; +And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, +With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: +And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, +Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his _trade_,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever + _pray_. + + +[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.] + +[Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.] + +[Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.] + +[Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.] + +[Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.] + +[Footnote 6: Galway.] + +[Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed +the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.] + +[Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.] + +[Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st +Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p. +79--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 11: Swift.] + +[Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.] + +[Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a _trade_. See his +letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver, +"Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC + +WRITTEN AT THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, 1699 + + +My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal, + Delivers cards about, +But the first knave does seldom fail + To find the doctor out. + +But then his honour cried, Gadzooks! + And seem'd to knit his brow: +For on a knave he never looks + But he thinks upon Jack How.[2] + +My lady, though she is no player, + Some bungling partner takes, +And, wedged in corner of a chair, + Takes snuff, and holds the stakes. + +Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense + For pair royals and sequents; +But, wisely cautious of her pence, + The castle seldom frequents. + +Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases, + I'd won it, on my word, +If I had but a pair of aces, + And could pick up a third. + +But Weston has a new-cast gown + On Sundays to be fine in, +And, if she can but win a crown, + 'Twill just new dye the lining. + +"With these is Parson Swift,[5] + Not knowing how to spend his time, +Does make a wretched shift, + To deafen them with puns and rhyme." + + + +[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.] + +[Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.] + +[Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her, +_post_, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially +with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works," +ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.] + +[Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John +Germaine.] + + + + +A BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF THE CUT-PURSE[1] + +WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702 + + +I + +Once on a time, as old stories rehearse, + A friar would need show his talent in Latin; +But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse, + Because he could find no word to come pat in; + Then all in the place + He left a void space, + And so went to bed in a desperate case: +When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle! +He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle. + CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; + Who would not write verses with such an assistant? + + +II + +This put me the friar into an amazement; + For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; +That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; + And it needs must be one that could both read and write; + Yet he did not know, + If it were friend or foe, + Or whether it came from above or below; +Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf, +For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. + + +III + +Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains + In making a ballad, but was at a stand; +He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains, + When he found a new help from invisible hand. + Then, good Doctor Swift + Pay thanks for the gift, + For you freely must own you were at a dead lift; +And, though some malicious young spirit did do't, +You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot. + CHO. Let censuring, &c. + + +[Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the +author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which +gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit +hand, as if a third person had done it.--_Swift_. + +The _Cut-Purse_ is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in +Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the +ballad is: + "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse + Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE DISCOVERY + +When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1] + Statesmen and mob expected wonders, +Nor thought to find so great a peer + Ere a week past committing blunders. +Till on a day cut out by fate, + When folks came thick to make their court, +Out slipt a mystery of state + To give the town and country sport. +Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs, + His lordship's premier minister; +And who in all profound affairs, + Is held as needful as his clyster.[2] +With head reclining on his shoulder, + He deals and hears mysterious chat, +While every ignorant beholder + Asks of his neighbour, who is that? +With this he put up to my lord, + The courtiers kept their distance due, +He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word; + Then to a corner both withdrew. +Imagine now my lord and Bush + Whispering in junto most profound, +Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3] + While all the rest stood gaping round. +At length a spark, not too well bred, + Of forward face and ear acute, +Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head, + To overhear the grand dispute; +To learn what Northern kings design, + Or from Whitehall some new express, +Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin; + For sure (thought he) it can't be less. +My lord, said Bush, a friend and I, + Disguised in two old threadbare coats, +Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy + How markets went for hay and oats. +With that he draws two handfuls out, + The one was oats, the other hay; +Puts this to's excellency's snout, + And begs he would the other weigh. +My lord seems pleased, but still directs + By all means to bring down the rates; +Then, with a congee circumflex, + Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. +Our listener stood awhile confused, + But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, +Enraged to see the world abused, + By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: To Ireland, as one of the Lords Justices.] + +[Footnote 2: Who, by insinuating that the post of secretary was +unsuitable for a clergyman, obtained it for himself, though it had been +promised to Swift; and when Swift claimed the Deanery of Derry, in virtue +of Lord Berkeley's promise of the "first good preferment that should fall +in his gift," the earl referred him to Bush, who told him that it was +promised to another, but that if he would lay down a thousand pounds for +it he should have the preference. Swift, enraged at the insult, +immediately left the castle; but was ultimately pacified by being +presented with the Rectory of Agher and the Vicarages of Laracor and +Rathbeggan. See Forster's "Life of Swift," p. 111; Birkbeck Hill's +"Letters of Swift," and "Prose Works," vol. xi, 380.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Always taken before my lord went to council.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 3: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal"; the celebrated farce +written by the Duke of Buckingham, in conjunction with Martin Clifford, +Butler, Sprat, and others, in ridicule of the rhyming tragedies then in +vogue, and especially of Dryden in the character of Bayes.--See Malone's +"Life of Dryden," p. 95.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The usurping kings in "The Rehearsal," Act I, Sc. 1; Act II, +Sc. 1; always whispering each other.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +THE PROBLEM, + +"THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS WHEN HE IS IN LOVE" + + +Did ever problem thus perplex, +Or more employ the female sex? +So sweet a passion who would think, +Jove ever form'd to make a stink? +The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, +Whether it be a truth or lie. +Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, +Works in my lord by stool and sweat, +Which brings a stink from every pore, +And from behind and from before; +Yet what is wonderful to tell it, +None but the favourite nymph can smell it. +But now, to solve the natural cause +By sober philosophic laws; +Whether all passions, when in ferment, +Work out as anger does in vermin; +So, when a weasel you torment, +You find his passion by his scent. +We read of kings, who, in a fright, +Though on a throne, would fall to sh--. +Beside all this, deep scholars know, +That the main string of Cupid's bow, +Once on a time was an a-- gut; +Now to a nobler office put, +By favour or desert preferr'd +From giving passage to a t--; +But still, though fix'd among the stars, +Does sympathize with human a--. +Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech, +Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch, +Till the kind looseness comes, and then, +Conclude the bow relax'd again. + And now, the ladies all are bent, +To try the great experiment, +Ambitious of a regent's heart, +Spread all their charms to catch a f-- +Watching the first unsavoury wind, +Some ply before, and some behind. +My lord, on fire amid the dames, +F--ts like a laurel in the flames. +The fair approach the speaking part, +To try the back-way to his heart. +For, as when we a gun discharge, +Although the bore be none so large, +Before the flame from muzzle burst, +Just at the breech it flashes first; +So from my lord his passion broke, +He f--d first and then he spoke. + The ladies vanish in the smother, +To confer notes with one another; +And now they all agreed to name +Whom each one thought the happy dame. +Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, +I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink. +You smell the stink! by G--d, you lie, +Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. +Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear; +Let's not fall out; we all had share; +And, by the most I can discover, +My lord's a universal lover. + + + + +THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER, 1705 + +From Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. x, 67; lib. xxix. + +As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are +Call'd _Pompey, Scipio_, and _Caesar;_ +As pies and daws are often styl'd +With Christian nicknames, like a child; +As we say _Monsieur_ to an ape, +Without offence to human shape; +So men have got, from bird and brute, +Names that would best their nature suit. +The _Lion, Eagle, Fox_, and _Boar_, +Were heroes' titles heretofore, +Bestow'd as hi'roglyphics fit +To show their valour, strength, or wit: +For what is understood by _fame_, +Besides the getting of a _name?_ +But, e'er since men invented guns, +A diff'rent way their fancy runs: +To paint a hero, we inquire +For something that will conquer _fire._ +Would you describe _Turenne_[1] or _Trump?_[2] +Think of a _bucket_ or a _pump._ +Are these too low?--then find out grander, +Call my LORD CUTTS a _Salamander._[3] +'Tis well;--but since we live among +Detractors with an evil tongue, +Who may object against the term, +Pliny shall prove what we affirm: +Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply, +And I'll be judg'd by standers by. +First, then, our author has defined +This reptile of the serpent kind, +With gaudy coat, and shining train; +But loathsome spots his body stain: +Out from some hole obscure he flies, +When rains descend, and tempests rise, +Till the sun clears the air; and then +Crawls back neglected to his den.[4] + So, when the war has raised a storm, +I've seen a snake in human form, +All stain'd with infamy and vice, +Leap from the dunghill in a trice, +Burnish and make a gaudy show, +Become a general, peer, and beau, +Till peace has made the sky serene, +Then shrink into its hole again. +"All this we grant--why then, look yonder, +Sure that must be a Salamander!" + Further, we are by Pliny told, +This serpent is extremely cold; +So cold, that, put it in the fire, +'Twill make the very flames expire: +Besides, it spues a filthy froth +(Whether thro' rage or lust or both) +Of matter purulent and white, +Which, happening on the skin to light, +And there corrupting to a wound, +Spreads leprosy and baldness round.[5] + So have I seen a batter'd beau, +By age and claps grown cold as snow, +Whose breath or touch, where'er he came, +Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame: +And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel, +Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel, +Receive the filth which he ejects, +She soon would find the same effects +Her tainted carcass to pursue, +As from the Salamander's spue; +A dismal shedding of her locks, +And, if no leprosy, a pox. +"Then I'll appeal to each bystander, +If this be not a Salamander?" + + +[Footnote 1: The famous Mareschal Turenne, general of the French forces, +called the greatest commander of the age.] + +[Footnote 2: Admiral of the States General in their war with England, +eminent for his courage and his victories.] + +[Footnote 3: Who obtained this name from his coolness under fire at the +siege of Namur. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. +267.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 4: "Animal lacertae figura, stellatum, numquam nisi magnis +imbribus proveniens et serenitate desinens."--Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," lib. +x, 67.] + +[Footnote 5: "Huic tantus rigor ut ignem tactu restinguat non alio modo +quam glacies. ejusdem sanie, quae lactea ore vomitur, quacumque parte +corporis humani contacta toti defluunt pili, idque quod contactum est +colorem in vitiliginem mutat."--Lib. x, 67. "Inter omnia venenata +salamandrae scelus maximum est. . . . nam si arbori inrepsit omnia poma +inficit veneno, et eos qui ederint necat frigida vi nihil aconito +distans."--Lib. xxix, 4, 23.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO CHARLES MORDAUNT, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH[1] + + + Mordanto fills the trump of fame, +The Christian world his deeds proclaim, +And prints are crowded with his name. + + In journeys he outrides the post, +Sits up till midnight with his host, +Talks politics, and gives the toast. + + Knows every prince in Europe's face, +Flies like a squib from place to place, +And travels not, but runs a race. + + From Paris gazette a-la-main, +This day arriv'd, without his train, +Mordanto in a week from Spain. + + A messenger comes all a-reek +Mordanto at Madrid to seek; +He left the town above a week. + + Next day the post-boy winds his horn, +And rides through Dover in the morn: +Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. + + Mordanto gallops on alone, +The roads are with his followers strewn, +This breaks a girth, and that a bone; + + His body active as his mind, +Returning sound in limb and wind, +Except some leather lost behind. + + A skeleton in outward figure, +His meagre corps, though full of vigour, +Would halt behind him, were it bigger. + + So wonderful his expedition, +When you have not the least suspicion, +He's with you like an apparition. + + Shines in all climates like a star; +In senates bold, and fierce in war; +A land commander, and a tar: + + Heroic actions early bred in, +Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, +But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden.[2] + + +[Footnote 1: Who in the year 1705 took Barcelona, and in the winter +following with only 280 horse and 900 foot enterprized and accomplished +the conquest of Valentia.--_Pope_. + + "--he whose lightning pierc'd th'Iberian lines, + Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, + Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain + Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." + POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Sat. 1. + +Lord Peterborough seems to have been equally famous for his skill in +cookery. See note to above Satire, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and +Courthope, iii, 298.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: See Voltaire's "History of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden." + "He left the name at which the world grew pale, + To point a moral or adorn a tale." + JOHNSON, _Vanity of Human Wishes_.] + + + + +ON THE UNION + +The queen has lately lost a part +Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart, +For want of which, by way of botch, +She pieced it up again with SCOTCH. +Blest revolution! which creates +Divided hearts, united states! +See how the double nation lies, +Like a rich coat with skirts of frize: +As if a man, in making posies, +Should bundle thistles up with roses. +Who ever yet a union saw +Of kingdoms without faith or law?[2] +Henceforward let no statesman dare +A kingdom to a ship compare; +Lest he should call our commonweal +A vessel with a double keel: +Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd, +And got about a league from land, +By change of wind to leeward side, +The pilot knew not how to guide. +So tossing faction will o'erwhelm +Our crazy double-bottom'd realm. + + +[Footnote 1: The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: _I.e._, Differing in religion and law.] + + + + +ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; + +OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. 1707 + + +When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat +To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a +country scene, +Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: +From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy +Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. +The Graces from the court did next provide +Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: +These Venus cleans'd from ev'ry spurious grain +Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. +Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; +Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD. + + + + +THE REVERSE + +(TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR, MRS. CLUDD + +Venus one day, as story goes, +But for what reason no man knows, +In sullen mood and grave deport, +Trudged it away to Jove's high court; +And there his Godship did entreat +To look out for his best receipt: +And make a monster strange and odd, +Abhorr'd by man and every god. +Jove, ever kind to all the fair, +Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, +Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took +A neatly bound and well-gilt book; +Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, +But what was very choice and rare. +Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,-- +It might be more, for aught I knew; +But, be the matter more or less, +'Mong friends 'twill break no squares, I guess. +Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, +Here's one will fit you to a T. +But, as the writing doth prescribe, +'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. +Away he went, and search'd the stews, +And every street about the Mews; +Diseases, impudence, and lies, +Are found and brought him in a trice. +From Hackney then he did provide, +A clumsy air and awkward pride; +From lady's toilet next he brought +Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. +These Jove put in an old close-stool, +And with them mix'd the vain, the fool. + But now came on his greatest care, +Of what he should his paste prepare; +For common clay or finer mould +Was much too good, such stuff to hold. +At last he wisely thought on mud; +So raised it up, and call'd it--_Cludd._ +With this, the lady well content, +Low curtsey'd, and away she went. + + + + +APOLLO OUTWITTED + +TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,[1] UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA + + +Phoebus, now short'ning every shade, + Up to the northern _tropic_ came, +And thence beheld a lovely maid, + Attending on a royal dame. + +The god laid down his feeble rays, + Then lighted from his glitt'ring coach; +But fenc'd his head with his own bays, + Before he durst the nymph approach. + +Under those sacred leaves, secure + From common lightning of the skies, +He fondly thought he might endure + The flashes of Ardelia's eyes. + +The nymph, who oft had read in books + Of that bright god whom bards invoke, +Soon knew Apollo by his looks, + And guess'd his business ere he spoke. + +He, in the old celestial cant, + Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, +Whate'er she would desire, to grant-- + But wise Ardelia knew his tricks. + +Ovid had warn'd her to beware + Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, +Under pretence of taking air, + To pick up sublunary ladies. + +Howe'er, she gave no flat denial, + As having malice in her heart; +And was resolv'd upon a trial, + To cheat the god in his own art. + +"Hear my request," the virgin said; + "Let which I please of all the Nine +Attend, whene'er I want their aid, + Obey my call, and only mine." + +By vow oblig'd, by passion led, + The god could not refuse her prayer: +He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, + Thrice mutter'd something to the air. + +And now he thought to seize his due; + But she the charm already try'd: +Thalia heard the call, and flew + To wait at bright Ardelia's side. + +On sight of this celestial _prude_, + Apollo thought it vain to stay; +Nor in her presence durst be rude, + But made his leg and went away. + +He hop'd to find some lucky hour, + When on their queen the Muses wait; +But Pallas owns Ardelia's power: + For vows divine are kept by Fate. + +Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke: + "Deceitful nymph! I see thy art; +And, though I can't my gift revoke, + I'll disappoint its nobler part. + +"Let stubborn pride possess thee long, + And be thou negligent of fame; +With ev'ry Muse to grace thy song, + May'st thou despise a poet's name! + +"Of modest poets be thou first; + To silent shades repeat thy verse, +Till Fame and Echo almost burst, + Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. + +"And last, my vengeance to compleat, + May you descend to take renown, +Prevail'd on by the thing you hate, + A Whig! and one that wears a gown!" + + +[Footnote 1: Afterwards Countess of Winchelsea.--_Scott_. See +Journal to Stella Aug. 7, 1712. The Countess was one of Swift's intimate +friends and correspondents. See "Prose Works," xi, 121.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANSWER TO LINES FROM MAY FAIR[1] + +NOW FIRST PUBLISHED + + +I + +In pity to the empty'ng Town, + Some God May Fair invented, +When Nature would invite us down, + To be by Art prevented. + +II + +What a corrupted taste is ours + When milk maids in mock state +Instead of garlands made of Flowers + Adorn their pails with plate. + +III + +So are the joys which Nature yields + Inverted in May Fair, +In painted cloth we look for fields, + And step in Booths for air. + +IV + +Here a Dog dancing on his hams + And puppets mov'd by wire, +Do far exceed your frisking lambs, + Or song of feather'd quire. + +V +Howe'er, such verse as yours I grant + Would be but too inviting: +Were fair Ardelia not my Aunt, + Or were it Worsley's writing.[2] + + +[Footnote 1: Some ladies, among whom were Mrs. Worsley and Mrs. Finch, to +the latter of whom Swift addressed, under the name of Ardelia, the +preceding poem, appear to have written verses to him from May Fair, +offering him such temptations as that fashionable locality supplied to +detain him from the country and its pleasures: and thus he +replies.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 1: There is some playful allusion in this last stanza, not now +decipherable.--_Forster_.] + + + + +VANBRUGH'S HOUSE[1] + +BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + + +In times of old, when Time was young, +And poets their own verses sung, +A verse would draw a stone or beam, +That now would overload a team; +Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, +Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. +Each number had its diff'rent power; +Heroic strains could build a tower; +Sonnets and elegies to Chloris, +Might raise a house about two stories; +A lyric ode would slate; a catch +Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + Now Poets feel this art is lost, +Both to their own and landlord's cost. +Not one of all the tuneful throng +Can hire a lodging for a song. +For Jove consider'd well the case, +That poets were a numerous race; +And if they all had power to build, +The earth would very soon be fill'd: +Materials would be quickly spent, +And houses would not give a rent. +The God of Wealth was therefore made +Sole patron of the building trade; +Leaving to wits the spacious air, +With license to build castles there: +In right whereof their old pretence +To lodge in garrets comes from thence. +There is a worm by Phoebus bred, +By leaves of mulberry is fed, +Which unprovided where to dwell, +Conforms itself to weave a cell; +Then curious hands this texture take, +And for themselves fine garments make. +Meantime a pair of awkward things +Grow to his back instead of wings; +He flutters when he thinks he flies, +Then sheds about his spawn and dies. +Just such an insect of the age +Is he that scribbles for the stage; +His birth he does from Phoebus raise, +And feeds upon imagin'd bays; +Throws all his wit and hours away +In twisting up an ill spun Play: +This gives him lodging and provides +A stock of tawdry shift besides. +With the unravell'd shreds of which +The under wits adorn their speech: +And now he spreads his little fans, +(For all the Muses Geese are Swans) +And borne on Fancy's pinions, thinks +He soars sublimest when he sinks: +But scatt'ring round his fly-blows, dies; +Whence broods of insect-poets rise. + Premising thus, in modern way, +The greater part I have to say; +Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, +In higher strain than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) +Is both a Herald and a Poet; +No wonder then if nicely skill'd +In each capacity to build. +As Herald, he can in a day +Repair a house gone to decay; +Or by achievements, arms, device, +Erect a new one in a trice; +And poets, if they had their due, +By ancient right are builders too: +This made him to Apollo pray +For leave to build--the poets way. +His prayer was granted, for the God +Consented with the usual nod. + After hard throes of many a day +Van was delivered of a play, +Which in due time brought forth a house, +Just as the mountain did the mouse. +One story high, one postern door, +And one small chamber on a floor, +Born like a phoenix from the flame: +But neither bulk nor shape the same; +As animals of largest size +Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; +A type of modern wit and style, +The rubbish of an ancient pile; +So chemists boast they have a power, +From the dead ashes of a flower +Some faint resemblance to produce, +But not the virtue, taste, nor juice. +So modern rhymers strive to blast +The poetry of ages past; +Which, having wisely overthrown, +They from its ruins build their own. + + +[Footnote 1: This is the earlier version of the Poem discovered by +Forster at Narford, the residence of Mr. Fountaine. See Forster's "Life +of Swift," p. 163.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1] + +BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703 + +In times of old, when Time was young, +And poets their own verses sung, +A verse would draw a stone or beam, +That now would overload a team; +Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, +Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. +Each number had its diff'rent power; +Heroic strains could build a tower; +Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, +Might raise a house about two stories; +A lyric ode would slate; a catch +Would tile; an epigram would thatch. + But, to their own or landlord's cost, +Now Poets feel this art is lost. +Not one of all our tuneful throng +Can raise a lodging for a song. +For Jove consider'd well the case, +Observed they grew a numerous race; +And should they build as fast as write, +'Twould ruin undertakers quite. +This evil, therefore, to prevent, +He wisely changed their element: +On earth the God of Wealth was made +Sole patron of the building trade; +Leaving the Wits the spacious air, +With license to build castles there: +And 'tis conceived their old pretence +To lodge in garrets comes from thence. + Premising thus, in modern way, +The better half we have to say; +Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, +In higher strains than we began. + Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) +Is both a Herald[2] and a Poet; +No wonder then if nicely skill'd +In both capacities to build. +As Herald, he can in a day +Repair a house gone to decay; +Or, by achievements, arms, device, +Erect a new one in a trice; +And as a poet, he has skill +To build in speculation still. +"Great Jove!" he cried, "the art restore +To build by verse as heretofore, +And make my Muse the architect; +What palaces shall we erect! +No longer shall forsaken Thames +Lament his old Whitehall in flames; +A pile shall from its ashes rise, +Fit to invade or prop the skies." + Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god, +Consenting with the usual nod, +Told Van, he knew his talent best, +And left the choice to his own breast. +So Van resolved to write a farce; +But, well perceiving wit was scarce, +With cunning that defect supplies: +Takes a French play as lawful prize;[3] +Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, +Not once suspecting Jove would smoke; +And (like a wag set down to write) +Would whisper to himself, "a _bite_." +Then, from this motley mingled style, +Proceeded to erect his pile. +So men of old, to gain renown, did +Build Babel with their tongues confounded. +Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best +To turn the matter to a jest; +Down from Olympus' top he slides, +Laughing as if he'd burst his sides: +Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks, +Why then old plays deserve old bricks; +And since you're sparing of your stuff, +Your building shall be small enough. +He spake, and grudging, lent his aid; +Th'experienced bricks, that knew their trade, +(As being bricks at second hand,) +Now move, and now in order stand. + The building, as the Poet writ, +Rose in proportion to his wit-- +And first the prologue built a wall; +So wide as to encompass all. +The scene, a wood, produc'd no more +Than a few scrubby trees before. +The plot as yet lay deep; and so +A cellar next was dug below; +But this a work so hard was found, +Two acts it cost him under ground. +Two other acts, we may presume, +Were spent in building each a room. +Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift +To raise a roof with act the fift. +The epilogue behind did frame +A place, not decent here to name. + Now, Poets from all quarters ran, +To see the house of brother Van; +Looked high and low, walk'd often round; +But no such house was to be found. +One asks the watermen hard by, +"Where may the Poet's palace lie?" +Another of the Thames inquires, +If he has seen its gilded spires? +At length they in the rubbish spy +A thing resembling a goose-pie. +Thither in haste the Poets throng, +And gaze in silent wonder long, +Till one in raptures thus began +To praise the pile and builder Van: + "Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trail +Thy house about thee like a snail: +Or harness'd to a nag, at ease +Take journeys in it like a chaise; +Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt, +Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt! +Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all +Thou'rt well contrived, tho' thou art small: +For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isle +May lodge within thy spacious pile. +Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign, +Thy mother burnt, art born again, +Born like a phoenix from the flame: +But neither bulk nor shape the same; +As animals of largest size +Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; +A type of modern wit and style, +The rubbish of an ancient pile; +So chemists boast they have a power, +From the dead ashes of a flower +Some faint resemblance to produce, +But not the virtue, taste, or juice. +So modern rhymers wisely blast +The poetry of ages past; +Which, after they have overthrown, +They from its ruins build their own." + + +[Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in +all editions of Swift's works.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of +Clarencieux king of arms.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from +Moliere.--_Scott_. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was +indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only +one taken from Moliere was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Depit +Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked +Wife," were original.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + +ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES +IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. +IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + + +In ancient time, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter's night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Came to a village hard by Rixham,[2] +Ragged and not a groat betwixt 'em. +It rain'd as hard as it could pour, +Yet they were forced to walk an hour +From house to house, wet to the skin, +Before one soul would let 'em in. +They call'd at every door: "Good people, +My comrade's blind, and I'm a creeple! +Here we lie starving in the street, +'Twould grieve a body's heart to see't, +No Christian would turn out a beast, +In such a dreadful night at least; +Give us but straw and let us lie +In yonder barn to keep us dry." +Thus in the stroller's usual cant, +They begg'd relief, which none would grant. +No creature valued what they said, +One family was gone to bed: +The master bawled out half asleep, +"You fellows, what a noise you keep! +So many beggars pass this way, +We can't be quiet, night nor day; +We cannot serve you every one; +Pray take your answer, and be gone." +One swore he'd send 'em to the stocks; +A third could not forbear his mocks; +But bawl'd as loud as he could roar +"You're on the wrong side of the door!" +One surly clown look't out and said, +"I'll fling the p--pot on your head: +You sha'nt come here, nor get a sous! +You look like rogues would rob a house. +Can't you go work, or serve the King? +You blind and lame! 'Tis no such thing. +That's but a counterfeit sore leg! +For shame! two sturdy rascals beg! +If I come down, _I'll_ spoil your trick, +And cure you both with a good stick." + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having thro' all the village past, +To a small cottage came at last +Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, +Call'd thereabout good man Philemon; +Who kindly did the saints invite +In his poor house to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +Whilst he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fry'd; +Which tost up in a pan with batter, +And served up in an earthen platter, +Quoth Baucis, "This is wholesome fare, +Eat, honest friends, and never spare, +And if we find our victuals fail, +We can but make it out in ale." + To a small kilderkin of beer, +Brew'd for the good time of the year, +Philemon, by his wife's consent, +Stept with a jug, and made a vent, +And having fill'd it to the brink, +Invited both the saints to drink. +When they had took a second draught, +Behold, a miracle was wrought; +For, Baucis with amazement found, +Although the jug had twice gone round, +It still was full up to the top, +As they ne'er had drunk a drop. +You may be sure so strange a sight, +Put the old people in a fright: +Philemon whisper'd to his wife, +"These men are--Saints--I'll lay my life!" +The strangers overheard, and said, +"You're in the right--but be'nt afraid: +No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their village shall be drown'd; +Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes." + Scarce had they spoke, when fair and soft, +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; +The heavy wall went clambering after. +The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, +Became a steeple with a spire. +The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fastened to a joist, +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below: +In vain; for a superior force +Applied at bottom stops its course: +Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + The wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increas'd by new intestine wheels; +But what adds to the wonder more, +The number made the motion slower. +The flyer, altho't had leaden feet, +Would turn so quick you scarce could see't; +But, now stopt by some hidden powers, +Moves round but twice in twice twelve hours, +While in the station of a jack, +'Twas never known to turn its back, +A friend in turns and windings tried, +Nor ever left the chimney's side. +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But, up against the steeple rear'd, +Became a clock, and still adher'd; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon declares, +Warning the cookmaid not to burn +That roast meat, which it cannot turn. + The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like a huge insect, up the wall; +There stuck, and to a pulpit grew, +But kept its matter and its hue, +And mindful of its ancient state, +Still groans while tattling gossips prate. +The mortar only chang'd its name, +In its old shape a font became. + The porringers, that in a row, +Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, +To a less noble substance chang'd, +Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Chevy Chase, and English Mall,[3] +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Enlarged in picture, size, and letter, +And painted, lookt abundance better, +And now the heraldry describe +Of a churchwarden, or a tribe. +A bedstead of the antique mode, +Composed of timber many a load, +Such as our grandfathers did use, +Was metamorphos'd into pews; +Which yet their former virtue keep +By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, with such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees, +The holy men desired their host +To ask for what he fancied most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Replied in complimental style: +"Your goodness, more than my desert, +Makes you take all things in good part: +You've raised a church here in a minute, +And I would fain continue in it; +I'm good for little at my days, +Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat reach down his heels; +The sleeves new border'd with a list, +Widen'd and gather'd at his wrist, +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +A shambling awkward gait he took, +With a demure dejected look, +Talk't of his offerings, tythes, and dues, +Could smoke and drink and read the news, +Or sell a goose at the next town, +Decently hid beneath his gown. +Contriv'd to preach old sermons next, +Chang'd in the preface and the text. +At christ'nings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wish'd women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; +Against dissenters would repine. +And stood up firm for "right divine;" +Carried it to his equals higher, +But most obedient to the squire. +Found his head fill'd with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. +Instead of homespun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;[4] +Her petticoat, transform'd apace, +Became black satin, flounced with lace. +"Plain Goody" would no longer down, +'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes. +Amaz'd to see her look so prim, +And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which prov'd their last, +Discoursing o'er old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +To the churchyard, to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cry'd out, +"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- +"Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true, +And really yours is budding too-- +Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; +It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, +In short, they both were turn'd to yews. +Old Goodman Dobson of the Green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folk to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening prayer, +He gathers all the parish there; +Points out the place of either yew, +Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; +At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd +How much the other tree was griev'd, +Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, +So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. + + + +[Footnote 1: I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster +found in Swift's handwriting at Narford; and which has never been +published. It is well known that, at Addison's suggestion, Swift made +extensive changes in this, "one of the happiest of his poems," concerning +which Forster says, in his "Life of Swift," at p. 165: "The poem, as +printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I +found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the +latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has +been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the +addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two. The question +can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and, +in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison."--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: The "village hard by Rixham" of the original has as little +connection with "Chilthorne" as the "village down in Kent" of the altered +version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for +either.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: See the next poem for note on this line. Chevy Chase seems +more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered +version.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M. +Colbert Planche's "Costume," p. 395.--_W. E. B_.] + + + +BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1] + +ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF +CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. +IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID + +In ancient times, as story tells, +The saints would often leave their cells, +And stroll about, but hide their quality, +To try good people's hospitality. + It happen'd on a winter night, +As authors of the legend write, +Two brother hermits, saints by trade, +Taking their tour in masquerade, +Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went +To a small village down in Kent; +Where, in the strollers' canting strain, +They begg'd from door to door in vain, +Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win; +But not a soul would let them in. + Our wand'ring saints, in woful state, +Treated at this ungodly rate, +Having thro' all the village past, +To a small cottage came at last +Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, +Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; +Who kindly did these saints invite +In his poor hut to pass the night; +And then the hospitable sire +Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; +While he from out the chimney took +A flitch of bacon off the hook, +And freely from the fattest side +Cut out large slices to be fry'd; +Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink, +Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, +And saw it fairly twice go round; +Yet (what was wonderful) they found +'Twas still replenished to the top, +As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. +The good old couple were amaz'd, +And often on each other gaz'd; +For both were frighten'd to the heart, +And just began to cry, "What _art_!" +Then softly turn'd aside, to view +Whether the lights were burning blue. +The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, +Told them their calling and their errand: +"Good folk, you need not be afraid, +We are but saints," the hermits said; +"No hurt shall come to you or yours: +But for that pack of churlish boors, +Not fit to live on Christian ground, +They and their houses shall be drown'd; +While you shall see your cottage rise, +And grow a church before your eyes." + They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, +The roof began to mount aloft; +Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter; +The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. + The chimney widen'd, and grew higher +Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, +And there stood fasten'd to a joist, +But with the upside down, to show +Its inclination for below: +In vain; for a superior force +Applied at bottom stops its course: +Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, +'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + A wooden jack, which had almost +Lost by disuse the art to roast, +A sudden alteration feels, +Increas'd by new intestine wheels; +And, what exalts the wonder more, +The number made the motion slower. +The flyer, though it had leaden feet, +Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; +But, slacken'd by some secret power, +Now hardly moves an inch an hour. +The jack and chimney, near ally'd, +Had never left each other's side; +The chimney to a steeple grown, +The jack would not be left alone; +But, up against the steeple rear'd, +Became a clock, and still adher'd; +And still its love to household cares, +By a shrill voice at noon, declares, +Warning the cookmaid not to burn +That roast meat, which it cannot turn. +The groaning-chair began to crawl, +Like an huge snail, half up the wall; +There stuck aloft in public view, +And with small change, a pulpit grew. + The porringers, that in a row +Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show, +To a less noble substance chang'd, +Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. + The ballads, pasted on the wall, +Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3] +Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, +The little Children in the Wood, +Now seem'd to look abundance better, +Improved in picture, size, and letter: +And, high in order plac'd, describe +The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4] + A bedstead of the antique mode, +Compact of timber many a load, +Such as our ancestors did use, +Was metamorphos'd into pews; +Which still their ancient nature keep +By lodging folk disposed to sleep. + The cottage, by such feats as these, +Grown to a church by just degrees, +The hermits then desired their host +To ask for what he fancy'd most. +Philemon, having paused a while, +Return'd them thanks in homely style; +Then said, "My house is grown so fine, +Methinks, I still would call it mine. +I'm old, and fain would live at ease; +Make me the parson if you please." + He spoke, and presently he feels +His grazier's coat fall down his heels: +He sees, yet hardly can believe, +About each arm a pudding sleeve; +His waistcoat to a cassock grew, +And both assumed a sable hue; +But, being old, continued just +As threadbare, and as full of dust. +His talk was now of tithes and dues: +Could smoke his pipe, and read the news; +Knew how to preach old sermons next, +Vamp'd in the preface and the text; +At christ'nings well could act his part, +And had the service all by heart; +Wish'd women might have children fast, +And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; +Against dissenters would repine, +And stood up firm for "right divine;" +Found his head fill'd with many a system; +But classic authors,--he ne'er mist 'em. + Thus having furbish'd up a parson, +Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. +Instead of homespun coifs, were seen +Good pinners edg'd with colberteen; +Her petticoat, transform'd apace, +Became black satin, flounced with lace. +"Plain Goody" would no longer down, +'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown. +Philemon was in great surprise, +And hardly could believe his eyes. +Amaz'd to see her look so prim, +And she admir'd as much at him. + Thus happy in their change of life, +Were several years this man and wife: +When on a day, which prov'd their last, +Discoursing o'er old stories past, +They went by chance, amidst their talk, +[5]To the churchyard to take a walk; +When Baucis hastily cry'd out, +"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- +"Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? +I hope you don't believe me jealous! +But yet, methinks, I feel it true, +And really yours is budding too--Nay,--now +I cannot stir my foot; +It feels as if 'twere taking root." + Description would but tire my Muse, +In short, they both were turn'd to yews. +Old Goodman Dobson of the Green +Remembers he the trees has seen; +He'll talk of them from noon till night, +And goes with folk to show the sight; +On Sundays, after evening prayer, +He gathers all the parish there; +Points out the place of either yew, +Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: +Till once a parson of our town, +To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; +At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd +How much the other tree was griev'd, +Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted, +So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. + + +[Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in +accordance with Addison's suggestions.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orleans. See "Hudibras," "Lady's Answer," verse +285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular +ballad was written. The line in the text is from "Hudibras," Part I, +c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla: + "A bold virago, stout and tall, + As Joan of France, or English Mall." +The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii, +239.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country +churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.--_Dublin Edition_.] + + +[Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.--_Dublin Edition_.] + + + + +THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE +1708 + +When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, +And call'd to take the cards away, +Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, +How Miss pick'd every painted card, +And, busy both with hand and eye, +Soon rear'd a house two stories high. +Van's genius, without thought or lecture +Is hugely turn'd to architecture: +He view'd the edifice, and smiled, +Vow'd it was pretty for a child: +It was so perfect in its kind, +He kept the model in his mind. + But, when he found the boys at play +And saw them dabbling in their clay, +He stood behind a stall to lurk, +And mark the progress of their work; +With true delight observed them all +Raking up mud to build a wall. +The plan he much admired, and took +The model in his table-book: +Thought himself now exactly skill'd, +And so resolved a house to build: +A real house, with rooms and stairs, +Five times at least as big as theirs; +Taller than Miss's by two yards; +Not a sham thing of play or cards: +And so he did; for, in a while, +He built up such a monstrous pile, +That no two chairmen could be found +Able to lift it from the ground. +Still at Whitehall it stands in view, +Just in the place where first it grew; +There all the little schoolboys run, +Envying to see themselves outdone. + From such deep rudiments as these, +Van is become, by due degrees, +For building famed, and justly reckon'd, +At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3] +No wonder, since wise authors show, +That best foundations must be low: +And now the duke has wisely ta'en him +To be his architect at Blenheim. + But raillery at once apart, +If this rule holds in every art; +Or if his grace were no more skill'd in +The art of battering walls than building, +We might expect to see next year +A mouse-trap man chief engineer. + + +[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 51, "The Reverse."--_W, E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De +Architectura."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of +his majesty's works.--_Scott_.] + + + + +A GRUB-STREET ELEGY + +ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708 + + +Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, +Though we all took it for a jest: +Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd, +Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd. +Strange, an astrologer should die +Without one wonder in the sky; +Not one of all his crony stars +To pay their duty at his hearse! +No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! +No comet with a flaming beard! +The sun hath rose and gone to bed, +Just as if Partridge were not dead; +Nor hid himself behind the moon +To make a dreadful night at noon. +He at fit periods walks through Aries, +Howe'er our earthly motion varies; +And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator, +As if there had been no such matter. + Some wits have wonder'd what analogy +There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology; +How Partridge made his optics rise +From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. + A list the cobbler's temples ties, +To keep the hair out of his eyes; +From whence 'tis plain the diadem +That princes wear derives from them; +And therefore crowns are now-a-days +Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; +Which plainly shows the near alliance +'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science. + Besides, that slow-paced sign Boeoetes, +As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis; +But Partridge ended all disputes; +He knew his trade, and call'd it _boots_.[3] + The horned moon,[4] which heretofore +Upon their shoes the Romans wore, +Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, +And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, +Shows how the art of cobbling bears +A near resemblance to the spheres. +A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, +(A great refiner in barometry,) +Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; +And what is parchment else but leather? +Which an astrologer might use +Either for almanacks or shoes. + Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, +At once did practise both these arts: +And as the boding owl (or rather +The bat, because her wings are leather) +Steals from her private cell by night, +And flies about the candle-light; +So learned Partridge could as well +Creep in the dark from leathern cell, +And in his fancy fly as far +To peep upon a twinkling star. + Besides, he could confound the spheres, +And set the planets by the ears; +To show his skill, he Mars could join +To Venus in aspect malign; +Then call in Mercury for aid, +And cure the wounds that Venus made. + Great scholars have in Lucian read, +When Philip King of Greece was dead +His soul and spirit did divide, +And each part took a different side; +One rose a star; the other fell +Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5] + Thus Partridge still shines in each art, +The cobbling and star-gazing part, +And is install'd as good a star +As any of the Caesars are. + Triumphant star! some pity show +On cobblers militant below, +Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, +Torment by pissing out their lights, +Or through a chink convey their smoke, +Enclosed artificers to choke. + Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, +May'st follow still thy calling there. +To thee the Bull will lend his hide, +By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd; +For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, +And scrape her pitchy sides for wax: +Then Ariadne kindly lends +Her braided hair to make thee ends; +The points of Sagittarius' dart +Turns to an awl by heavenly art; +And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, +Will forge for thee a paring-knife. +For want of room by Virgo's side, +She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride, +To take thee kindly in between; +And then the Signs will be Thirteen. + + + +[Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by +Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 _et seq.--W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 3: See his Almanack.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver +which distinguished the wearer as a senator. + "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."--Juvenal, _Sat_. vii, 192; and +Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.] + +[Footnote 6: + "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens + Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit." +VIRG., _Georg._, i, 34.] + + + + +THE EPITAPH + +Here, five feet deep, lies on his back +A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; +Who to the stars, in pure good will, +Does to his best look upward still. +Weep, all you customers that use +His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; +And you that did your fortunes seek, +Step to his grave but once a-week; +This earth, which bears his body's print, +You'll find has so much virtue in't, +That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell +Whate'er concerns you full as well, +In physic, stolen goods, or love, +As he himself could, when above. + + + + +A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING + +WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1] + + +Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach +Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. +Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, +And softly stole to discompose her own; +The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door +Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. +Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, +Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. +The youth with broomy stumps began to trace +The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2] +The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, +Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: +Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; +And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. +The turnkey now his flock returning sees, +Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3] +The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, +And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. + + +[Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, +1786.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: To find old nails.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the +prison.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1] + +WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238 + + +Careful observers may foretell the hour, +(By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower. +While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er +Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. +Returning home at night, you'll find the sink +Strike your offended sense with double stink. +If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: +You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. +A coming shower your shooting corns presage, +Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; +Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; +He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. +Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, +A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, +That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, +And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. +Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, +While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; +Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean +Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: +You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop +To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. +Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, +But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, +And wafted with its foe by violent gust, +'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3] +Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, +When dust and rain at once his coat invade? +Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, +Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! +Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, +Threatening with deluge this _devoted_ town. +To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, +Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. +The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, +Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. +The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, +While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. +Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, +Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. +Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5] +Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. +Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, +While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, +And ever and anon with frightful din +The leather sounds; he trembles from within. +So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, +Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, +(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, +Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) +Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear, +And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. + Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, +And bear their trophies with them as they go: +Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell +What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell. +They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, +From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, +And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, +Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7] +Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, +Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, +Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. + + +[Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in +the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis +the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of +Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: +"there never was such a Shower since Danaee's," etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost +the right pronunciation, have _aches_ as one syllable; and then to +complete the metre have foisted in "aches _will_ throb." Thus, what the +poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See +Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81, +edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line +407, where persons are mentioned who + "Can by their Pangs and _Aches_ find + All turns and changes of the wind."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S +_Dispensary_.] + +[Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the +"Miscellanies": + "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, + Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.] + +[Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in +"The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of +Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition +of Pope, 8vo, 1751.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK +1710 + +Whoever pleases to inquire +Why yonder steeple wants a spire, +The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1] +The philosophic cause will show. +Once on a time a western blast, +At least twelve inches overcast, +Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all, +Which came with a prodigious fall; +And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, +Lit with its bottom on the ground: +For, by the laws of gravitation, +It fell into its proper station. + This is the little strutting pile +You see just by the churchyard stile; +The walls in tumbling gave a knock, +And thus the steeple got a shock; +From whence the neighbouring farmer calls +The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2] + The vicar once a-week creeps in, +Sits with his knees up to his chin; +Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, +Till the small ragged flock is met. + A traveller, who by did pass, +Observed the roof behind the grass; +On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, +And saw the parson creeping out: +Was much surprised to see a crow +Venture to build his nest so low. + A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought +The crib was down, the blackbird caught. +A third, who lost his way by night, +Was forced for safety to alight, +And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, +His horse had like to spoil his hoof. + Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, +This building was design'd a model; +Or of a pigeon-house or oven, +To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. + Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, +And every one was pleased that heard it; +All that you make this stir about +Is but a still which wants a spout. +The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd +More probably than all the rest; +He said, but that it wanted room, +It might have been a pigmy's tomb. + The doctor's family came by, +And little miss began to cry, +Give me that house in my own hand! +Then madam bade the chariot stand, +Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, +Pray, reach that thing here to the child: +That thing, I mean, among the kale; +And here's to buy a pot of ale. + The clerk said to her in a heat, +What! sell my master's country seat, +Where he comes every week from town! +He would not sell it for a crown. +Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; +In half an hour thou'lt make another. + Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss +A finer house ten times than this; +The dean will give me willow sticks, +And Joe my apron-full of bricks. + + +[Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, +for venerable white locks.--_Scott_. He had a claim on the Irish +Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works," +vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire +for a collector's place.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.] + +[Footnote 4: Stella.] + +[Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.] + +[Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.] + + + + +A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1] + +_Scene, the Royal Exchange_ + +CORYDON + +Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, +No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, +While other girls confess the genial spring, +And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, +Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, +And throw each useless chafing-dish away; +Why sits my Phillis discontented here, +Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? +Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, +Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play? + +PHILLIS + +Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, +Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: +Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, +Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; +Then how you swore, how many vows you made! +Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, +Waft the soft accents to the gods above. +Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) +I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame. + +CORYDON + +When I forget the favour you bestow'd, +Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road: +Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, +And mass be sung where operas are seen. +The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, +Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; +Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, +At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum. + +PHILLIS + +But what to me does all that love avail, +If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, +Each night with wine and wenches you regale? +My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, +And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. +On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, +And with shrill voice invite them as they go. +Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine, +And unregarded wave upon the twine. +The week flies round, and when my profit's known, +I hardly clear enough to change a crown. + +CORYDON + +Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, +Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; +As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, +And ruddy peaches them; as first in place +Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, +And ice on that: so Phillis does appear +In playhouse and in Park, above the rest +Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest. + +PHILLIS + +And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, +Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, +And views me hourly with a scornful eye. + +CORYDON + +She might as well with bright Cleora vie. + +PHILLIS + +With this large petticoat I strive in vain +To hide my folly past, and coming pain; +'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, +Observe the symptoms I had once before: +A second babe at Wapping must be placed, +When I scarce bear the charges of the last. + +CORYDON + +What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, +Five shillings, and a coral for his gums; +To-morrow I intend him something more. + +PHILLIS + +I sent a frock and pair of shoes before. + +CORYDON + +However, you shall home with me to-night, +Forget your cares, and revel in delight, +I have in store a pint or two of wine, +Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine. + + And now on either side, and all around, +The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; +Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, +And ties her hood, preparing to be gone. + +L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T. + + +[Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals," +and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed +by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."--_Scott_.] + + +A CONFERENCE + +BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1] + + +CHARIOT + +My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, +To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; +Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day +At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; +And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion +Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;-- +Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love +As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; +Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, +I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; +And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, +Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together. + +CHAIR + +By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, +With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry. +By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; +He that makes love to me, must make it in French. +Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, +Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit? +Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, +No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix: +Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, +With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat. +Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat, +And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat. +You may think that you make a figure most shining, +But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining. +Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry, +To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry? +If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due +In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to. + +CHARIOT + +Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; +Is it your French breeding has made you so pert? +Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: +Who is it that values your ---- or your fox? +Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed +His bloody red hand to her bloody red head. +You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail +Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; +And although it may pass for gold on a ninny, +Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea. +Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, +Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket. +I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; +Your velvet was wore before in a mant, +On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,-- +The fire she carries hath changed its colour. +Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, +If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; +They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, +Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare. +We know how your lady was on you befriended; +You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: +But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; +She is two or three years above being out. +Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour +On one he can't hope of e'er making _bigger_. + + +[Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom +Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll +of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, +whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery." +See, _post_, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] +OCTOBER 31, 1713 + +Among the numbers who employ +Their tongues and pens to give you joy, +Dear Harley! generous youth, admit +What friendship dictates more than wit. +Forgive me, when I fondly thought +(By frequent observations taught) +A spirit so inform'd as yours +Could never prosper in amours. +The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, +With all acquired and natural parts, +Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, +Was an unfortunate gallant. +Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, +The nymph had soon been brought to yield; +Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, +The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. +Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, +Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; +For such is all the sex's flight, +They fly from learning, wit, and light; +They fly, and none can overtake +But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. + How then, dear Harley, could I guess +That you should meet, in love, success? +For, if those ancient tales be true, +Phoebus was beautiful as you; +Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, +For wit and learning spoil'd his face. +And since the same resemblance held +In gifts wherein you both excell'd, +I fancied every nymph would run +From you, as from Latona's son. +Then where, said I, shall Harley find +A virgin of superior mind, +With wit and virtue to discover, +And pay the merit of her lover? +This character shall Ca'endish claim, +Born to retrieve her sex's fame. +The chief among the glittering crowd, +Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, +(As fools are insolent and vain) +Madly aspired to wear her chain; +But Pallas, guardian of the maid, +Descending to her charge's aid, +Held out Medusa's snaky locks, +Which stupified them all to stocks. +The nymph with indignation view'd +The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; +For Pallas, with celestial light, +Had purified her mortal sight; +Show'd her the virtues all combined, +Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. + Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, +Display their various nets for hearts: +Their looks are all by method set, +When to be prude, and when coquette; +Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, +Their only pride is to refuse. +But, when a goddess would bestow +Her love on some bright youth below, +Round all the earth she casts her eyes; +And then, descending from the skies, +Makes choice of him she fancies best, +And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. +Thus the bright empress of the morn[3] +Chose for her spouse a mortal born: +The goddess made advances first; +Else what aspiring hero durst? +Though, like a virgin of fifteen, +She blushes when by mortals seen; +Still blushes, and with speed retires, +When Sol pursues her with his fires. + Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen +Struck with Endymion's graceful mien +Down from her silver chariot came, +And to the shepherd own'd her flame. + Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, +And chaster than the Queen of Night +Descended from her sphere to find +A mortal of superior kind. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married +Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of +Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the +Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and +Swift.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel +tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven; +hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716 + + +Desponding Phyllis was endu'd +With ev'ry talent of a prude: +She trembled when a man drew near; +Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: +If o'er against her you were placed, +She durst not look above your waist: +She'd rather take you to her bed, +Than let you see her dress her head; +In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, +Repeat the absolution loud: +In church, secure behind her fan, +She durst behold that monster man: +There practis'd how to place her head, +And bite her lips to make them red; +Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, +Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. +And heave her bosom unaware, +For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare. + At length a lucky lover came, +And found admittance to the dame, +Suppose all parties now agreed, +The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, +The vicar and the ring bespoke: +Guess, how could such a match be broke? +See then what mortals place their bliss in! +Next morn betimes the bride was missing: +The mother scream'd, the father chid; +Where can this idle wench be hid? +No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, +And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; +Because her father used to say, +The girl had such a bashful way! + Now John the butler must be sent +To learn the road that Phyllis went: +The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; +For John must neither light nor stop, +But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, +And bring her back alive or dead. + See here again the devil to do! +For truly John was missing too: +The horse and pillion both were gone! +Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. + Old Madam, who went up to find +What papers Phyl had left behind, +A letter on the toilet sees, +"To my much honour'd father--these--" +('Tis always done, romances tell us, +When daughters run away with fellows,) +Fill'd with the choicest common-places, +By others used in the like cases. +"That long ago a fortune-teller +Exactly said what now befell her; +And in a glass had made her see +A serving-man of low degree. +It was her fate, must be forgiven; +For marriages were made in Heaven: +His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, +She'd do't if 'twere to do again: +Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin; +For John was come of honest kin. +Love never thinks of rich and poor; +She'd beg with John from door to door. +Forgive her, if it be a crime; +She'll never do't another time. +She ne'er before in all her life +Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife." +One argument she summ'd up all in, +"The thing was done and past recalling; +And therefore hoped she should recover +His favour when his passion's over. +She valued not what others thought her, +And was--his most obedient daughter." +Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, +Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: +Away they rode in homely sort, +Their journey long, their money short; +The loving couple well bemir'd; +The horse and both the riders tir'd: +Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; +Phyl cried! and John began to curse: +Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, +When first she ventured out with him; +John wish'd that he had broke a leg, +When first for her he quitted Peg. + But what adventures more befell 'em, +The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; +How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, +Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd: +How oft she broke her marriage vows, +In kindness to maintain her spouse, +Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; +For now the surgeon must be paid, +To whom those perquisites are gone, +In Christian justice due to John. + When food and raiment now grew scarce, +Fate put a period to the farce, +And with exact poetic justice; +For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; +They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, +Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore. + + +[Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.--_Swift_.] + + + + +HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX +ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718 + +Virtue conceal'd within our breast +Is inactivity at best: +But never shall the Muse endure +To let your virtues lie obscure; +Or suffer Envy to conceal +Your labours for the public weal. +Within your breast all wisdom lies, +Either to govern or advise; +Your steady soul preserves her frame, +In good and evil times, the same. +Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, +Stand in your sacred presence awed; +Your hand alone from gold abstains, +Which drags the slavish world in chains. + Him for a happy man I own, +Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2] +And happy he who wisely knows +To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; +Or, if it please the powers divine, +Can suffer want and not repine. +The man who infamy to shun +Into the arms of death would run; +That man is ready to defend, +With life, his country or his friend. + + +[Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less +friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, _passim_; and +an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.--_W. E. B._] + + +[Footnote 2: + "Non possidentem multa vocaveris + recte beatum: rectius occupat + nomen beati, qui deorum + muneribus sapienter uti + duramque callet pauperiem pati, + pejusque leto flagitium timet."] + + +TO MR. DELANY,[1] + +OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING + +To you whose virtues, I must own +With shame, I have too lately known; +To you, by art and nature taught +To be the man I long have sought, +Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, +Placed you in life too far behind: +Or, what I should repine at more, +Placed me in life too far before: +To you the Muse this verse bestows, +Which might as well have been in prose; +No thought, no fancy, no sublime, +But simple topics told in rhyme. + Three gifts for conversation fit +Are humour, raillery, and wit: +The last, as boundless as the wind, +Is well conceived, though not defined; +For, sure by wit is only meant +Applying what we first invent. +What humour is, not all the tribe +Of logic-mongers can describe; +Here only nature acts her part, +Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: +For wit and humour differ quite; +That gives surprise, and this delight, +Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, +Only by affectation spoil'd; +'Tis never by invention got, +Men have it when they know it not. + Our conversation to refine, +True humour must with wit combine: +From both we learn to rally well, +Wherein French writers most excel; +[2]Voiture, in various lights, displays +That irony which turns to praise: +His genius first found out the rule +For an obliging ridicule: +He flatters with peculiar air +The brave, the witty, and the fair: +And fools would fancy he intends +A satire where he most commends. + But as a poor pretending beau, +Because he fain would make a show, +Nor can afford to buy gold lace, +Takes up with copper in the place: +So the pert dunces of mankind, +Whene'er they would be thought refined, +Because the diff'rence lies abstruse +'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, +To show their parts will scold and rail, +Like porters o'er a pot of ale. + Such is that clan of boisterous bears, +Always together by the ears; +Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe +That meet for nothing but to gibe; +Who first run one another down, +And then fall foul on all the town; +Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, +And call'd by excellence The Club. +I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, +All special friends, and always jar. + The mettled and the vicious steed +Do not more differ in their breed, +Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, +As rudeness is to repartee. + If what you said I wish unspoke, +'Twill not suffice it was a joke: +Reproach not, though in jest, a friend +For those defects he cannot mend; +His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, +If named with scorn, gives just offence. + What use in life to make men fret, +Part in worse humour than they met? +Thus all society is lost, +Men laugh at one another's cost: +And half the company is teazed +That came together to be pleased: +For all buffoons have most in view +To please themselves by vexing you. + When jests are carried on too far, +And the loud laugh begins the war, +You keep your countenance for shame, +Yet still you think your friend to blame; +For though men cry they love a jest, +'Tis but when others stand the test; +And (would you have their meaning known) +They love a jest when 'tis their own. + You wonder now to see me write +So gravely where the subject's light; +Some part of what I here design +Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; +Who full of humour, fire, and wit, +Not always judges what is fit, +But loves to take prodigious rounds, +And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, +You must, although the point be nice, +Venture to give him some advice; +Few hints from you will set him right, +And teach him how to be polite. +Bid him like you, observe with care, +Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; +Nor indiscreetly to suppose +All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose. +To study the obliging jest, +By reading those who teach it best; +For prose I recommend Voiture's, +For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. +He'll find the secret out from thence, +To rhyme all day without offence; +And I no more shall then accuse +The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse. + If he be guilty, you must mend him; + If he be innocent, defend him. + + + +[Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, +born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged +Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. +Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too +hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died +1648.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.] + +[Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively +party, _post_, p. 137.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +AN ELEGY[1] + +ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; +WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720 + +Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, +By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; +Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound +Redeem him from his prison underground. +His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst +Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. +Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know +His faithful steward in the shades below. +He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; +He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: +And by his looks, had he held out his palms, +He might be thought an object fit for alms. +So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, +He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself. + Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; +Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; +And under hand and seal, the Irish nation +Were forc'd to own to him their obligation. + He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, +In half a minute is not worth a groat. +His coffers from the coffin could not save, +Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave. +A golden monument would not be right, +Because we wish the earth upon him light. + Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, +Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; +He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; +The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. + Old as he was, no vulgar known disease +On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; +"[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight +Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; +And, as he saw his darling money fail, +Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." +He who so long was current, 'twould be strange +If he should now be cry'd down since his change. + The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; +Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! +A dismal banker must that banker be, +Who gives no bills but of mortality! + + +[Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who +died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be +in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was +brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the +company.--_C. Walker_.] + +[Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.--_F_.] + + + + +EPITAPH ON THE SAME + +Beneath this verdant hillock lies +Demar, the wealthy and the wise, +His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, +Have put his carcass in a chest; +The very chest in which, they say, +His other self, his money, lay. +And, if his heirs continue kind +To that dear self he left behind, +I dare believe, that four in five +Will think his better self alive. + + +[Footnote 1: + "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd + His money bags together sew'd + And that he might securely rest," +Variation--From the Chetwode MS.--_W. E. B_.] + + + +TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, +ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT + +You always are making a god of your spouse; +But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; +Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, +And you adore him, because he adores you. +Your argument's weak, and so you will find; +For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. + + + + +VERSES +WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S + +Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? +Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. +In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, +You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. +In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, +You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. +O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, +Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request! +Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, +Instead of the deans, make the deanery double. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St. +Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his +hospitality. See Journal to Stella, _passim_, "Prose Works," vol. +ii--_W. E. B._] + + + +ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1] + +A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, +Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, +Found out a new method at once of confessing, +And making the most of so mighty a blessing: +To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse, +By making his patron preside in his house; +And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, +That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense; +So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat +With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. +Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, +Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine. + + +[Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as +appears from the verses which follow.--_Scott_.] + + + +APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720 + +Right Trusty, and so forth--we let you know +We are very ill used by you mortals below. +For, first, I have often by chemists been told, +(Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold; +Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it, +That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it. +Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine, +I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine; +To me the good fellows apply for relief, +Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef: +Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards +Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards. +That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think, +And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink. +But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd, +I alone can inspire the poetical crowd: +This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College, +Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge. +This every pretender in rhyme will admit, +Without troubling his head about judgment or wit. +These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom, +And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em. +They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls, +And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls. + But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany, +Whom I for your sake have used better than any, +And, of my mere motion, and special good grace, +Intended in time to succeed in your place, +On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came, +With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name, +To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass, +Where for fear of the cold I never can pass, +Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil, +Of value five shillings, in English a pencil, +Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write, +While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light. +My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath, +That she stopt in her course to look at them both; +That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding; +And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading: +That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day, +But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey: +And by the description, I certainly know, +'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago; +Whom when I with the best of my talents endued, +On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude: +That some verses were writ with felonious intent, +Direct to the North, where I never once went: +That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane, +But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again; +Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4] +And presently guessed the fancy was mine. +She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen +At night between Cavan Street and College Green. + Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown, +The reason is plain, they are none of his own; +And observe while you live that no man is shy +To discover the goods he came honestly by. +If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it, +And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it. +Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark, +There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark; +And let them be seen by the world if he dare, +I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware. +But as for the poem he writ on your sash, +I think I have now got him under my lash; +My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow, +And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow. +Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread +In all parts of the globe where your language is read. + He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal, +When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual: +But the secret is this; I did lately intend +To write a few verses on you as my friend: +I studied a fortnight, before I could find, +As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind, +And resolved the next winter (for that is my time, +When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme; +Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus; +When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us, +Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick +(For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,) +And from my own stock provided with topics, +He gets to a window beyond both the tropics, +There out of my sight, just against the north zone, +Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own; +And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow: +Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo? +High treason by statute! yet here you object, +He only stole hints, but the verse is correct; +Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd; +So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd. +Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance, +We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence. +Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire, +To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire; +We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen, +To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. +And we order our subjects of every degree +To believe all his verses were written by me: +And under the pain of our highest displeasure, +To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure. +And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime, +I'm too much revenged already by Time, +In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases, +But will now be her friend whenever she pleases. +And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover +Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over. + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also +with the copy transcribed by Stella.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: Diana.] + +[Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran: + "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line + And found by the wit the Fancy was mine + For none of his poems were ever yet shown + Which he in his conscience could claim for his own." +_Forster_.] + + + +NEWS FROM PARNASSUS +BY DR. DELANY + +OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720 + + +Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. +The poets assembled here on the eleventh, +Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know +He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below; +But declared that no bard should this honour inherit, +Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit: +Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case, +For each bard believed he'd a right to the place; +So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate, +He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate: +'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose, +Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose; +Till at length he determined that every bard +Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard. + First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1] +Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration: +"Since the soul of great Milton was given to me, +I hope the convention will quickly agree."-- +"Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool? +Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school? +Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time, +And given in return neither reason nor rhyme." +To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you, +I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you: +Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd, +Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd; +That at my instigation, a poem you writ, +Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit; +That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice, +Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice. +Jove sent her to me, her power to try; +The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny? +She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire. +Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher." + The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding, +For he merited much for his wit and his breeding. +'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him, +He else might expect they should pay what they owe him. +And therefore they prudently chose to discard +The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward: +The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance, +"You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France: +You bend your ambition to rise in the state; +I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great." + Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3] +"The convention allows me a versificator." +Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit; +By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit. +I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth, +The greatest objection against you's your youth; +Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside; +If you live you shall certainly one day preside." + Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets, +"'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4] + You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before; +But give me the bard that can teach them to soar. +Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess, +Who lately attempted my style with success; +Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit, +And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit: +Who makes it appear, by all he has writ, +His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit; +Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease, +But excels even Virgil in elegant praise: +Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due +Yet writes in a manner entirely new; +Though none with more ease their depths can explore, +Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store; +Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see, +In scorning to borrow from any but me: +It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays +Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays. +This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift: +The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No. +66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir +Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift +writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and +he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into +blank verse.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a +"formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a +"pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and +"Odyssey."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."--_N_.] + +[Footnote 5: Diana.] + + + + +APOLLO'S EDICT +OCCASIONED BY "NEWS FROM PARNASSUS" + +Ireland is now our royal care, +We lately fix'd our viceroy there. +How near was she to be undone, +Till pious love inspired her son! +What cannot our vicegerent do, +As poet and as patriot too? +Let his success our subjects sway, +Our inspirations to obey, +And follow where he leads the way: +Then study to correct your taste; +Nor beaten paths be longer traced. + No simile shall be begun, +With rising or with setting sun; +And let the secret head of Nile +Be ever banish'd from your isle. + When wretched lovers live on air, +I beg you'll the chameleon spare; +And when you'd make a hero grander, +Forget he's like a salamander.[1] + No son of mine shall dare to say, +Aurora usher'd in the day, +Or ever name the milky-way. +You all agree, I make no doubt, +Elijah's mantle is worn out. + The bird of Jove shall toil no more +To teach the humble wren to soar. +Your tragic heroes shall not rant, +Nor shepherds use poetic cant. +Simplicity alone can grace +The manners of the rural race. +Theocritus and Philips be +Your guides to true simplicity. + When Damon's soul shall take its flight, +Though poets have the second-sight, +They shall not see a trail of light. +Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, +Nor a new star adorn the skies: +For who can hope to place one there, +As glorious as Belinda's hair? +Yet, if his name you'd eternize, +And must exalt him to the skies; +Without a star this may be done: +So Tickell mourn'd his Addison. + If Anna's happy reign you praise, +Pray, not a word of halcyon days: +Nor let my votaries show their skill +In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2] +For know I cannot bear to hear +The mimicry of "deep, yet clear." + Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, +Against the phoenix I protest. +When poets soar in youthful strains, +No Phaethon to hold the reins. + When you describe a lovely girl, +No lips of coral, teeth of pearl. + Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, +However beauteous, for his mother; +Nor shall his darts at random fly +From magazine in Celia's eye. +With woman compounds I am cloy'd, +Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3] +For foreign aid what need they roam, +Whom fate has amply blest at home? + Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, +Has form'd a model for your land, +Whom Jove endued with every grace; +The glory of the Granard race; +Now destined by the powers divine +The blessing of another line. +Then, would you paint a matchless dame, +Whom you'd consign to endless fame? +Invoke not Cytherea's aid, +Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; +Nor need you on the Graces call; +Take qualities from Donegal.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," _ante_, p. +46.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.] + +[Footnote 3: _Ante_, p. 50.] + +[Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of +Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.--_Scott_.] + + + + +THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST + +Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen +Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was +composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having +reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he +executed the following very spirited translation.--_W. E. B._ + +TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720 + +O'ROURKE'S noble fare + Will ne'er be forgot, +By those who were there, + Or those who were not. + +His revels to keep, + We sup and we dine +On seven score sheep, + Fat bullocks, and swine. + +Usquebaugh to our feast + In pails was brought up, +A hundred at least, + And a madder[1] our cup. + +O there is the sport! + We rise with the light +In disorderly sort, + From snoring all night. + +O how was I trick'd! + My pipe it was broke, +My pocket was pick'd, + I lost my new cloak. + +I'm rifled, quoth Nell, + Of mantle and kercher,[2] +Why then fare them well, + The de'el take the searcher. + +Come, harper, strike up; + But, first, by your favour, +Boy, give us a cup: + Ah! this hath some savour. + +O'Rourke's jolly boys + Ne'er dreamt of the matter, +Till, roused by the noise, + And musical clatter, + +They bounce from their nest, + No longer will tarry, +They rise ready drest, + Without one Ave-Mary. + +They dance in a round, + Cutting capers and ramping; +A mercy the ground + Did not burst with their stamping. + +The floor is all wet + With leaps and with jumps, +While the water and sweat + Splish-splash in their pumps. + +Bless you late and early, + Laughlin O'Enagin![3] +But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. + Margery Grinagin.[5] + +Bring straw for our bed, + Shake it down to the feet, +Then over us spread + The winnowing sheet. + +To show I don't flinch, + Fill the bowl up again: +Then give us a pinch + Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6] + +Good lord! what a sight, + After all their good cheer, +For people to fight + In the midst of their beer! + +They rise from their feast, + And hot are their brains, +A cubit at least + The length of their skeans.[7] + +What stabs and what cuts, + What clattering of sticks; +What strokes on the guts, + What bastings and kicks! + +With cudgels of oak, + Well harden'd in flame, +A hundred heads broke, + A hundred struck lame. + +You churl, I'll maintain + My father built Lusk, +The castle of Slane, + And Carrick Drumrusk: + +The Earl of Kildare, + And Moynalta his brother, +As great as they are, + I was nurst by their mother.[8] + +Ask that of old madam: + She'll tell you who's who, +As far up as Adam, + She knows it is true. + +Come down with that beam, + If cudgels are scarce, +A blow on the weam, + Or a kick on the a----se. + + +[Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the +women.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: An Irish oath.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,--_F_.] + +[Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; +their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or +foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.--_F_.] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1] + +When first Diana leaves her bed, + Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, +A frowzy dirty-colour'd red + Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face: + +But by degrees, when mounted high, + Her artificial face appears +Down from her window in the sky, + Her spots are gone, her visage clears. + +'Twixt earthly females and the moon, + All parallels exactly run; +If Celia should appear too soon, + Alas, the nymph would be undone! + +To see her from her pillow rise, + All reeking in a cloudy steam, +Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, + Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme! + +The soot or powder which was wont + To make her hair look black as jet, +Falls from her tresses on her front, + A mingled mass of dirt and sweat. + +Three colours, black, and red, and white + So graceful in their proper place, +Remove them to a different light, + They form a frightful hideous face: + +For instance, when the lily slips + Into the precincts of the rose, +And takes possession of the lips, + Leaving the purple to the nose: + +So Celia went entire to bed, + All her complexion safe and sound; +But, when she rose, the black and red, + Though still in sight, had changed their ground. + +The black, which would not be confined, + A more inferior station seeks, +Leaving the fiery red behind, + And mingles in her muddy cheeks. + +The paint by perspiration cracks, + And falls in rivulets of sweat, +On either side you see the tracks + While at her chin the conflu'nts meet. + +A skilful housewife thus her thumb, + With spittle while she spins anoints; +And thus the brown meanders come + In trickling streams betwixt her joints. + +But Celia can with ease reduce, + By help of pencil, paint, and brush, +Each colour to its place and use, + And teach her cheeks again to blush. + +She knows her early self no more, + But fill'd with admiration stands; +As other painters oft adore + The workmanship of their own hands. + +Thus, after four important hours, + Celia's the wonder of her sex; +Say, which among the heavenly powers + Could cause such wonderful effects? + +Venus, indulgent to her kind, + Gave women all their hearts could wish, +When first she taught them where to find + White lead, and Lusitanian dish. + +Love with white lead cements his wings; + White lead was sent us to repair +Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things, + A lady's face, and China-ware. + +She ventures now to lift the sash; + The window is her proper sphere; +Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash, + Nor let the beaux approach too near. + +Take pattern by your sister star; + Delude at once and bless our sight; +When you are seen, be seen from far, + And chiefly choose to shine by night. + +In the Pall Mall when passing by, + Keep up the glasses of your chair, +Then each transported fop will cry, + "G----d d----n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!" + +But art no longer can prevail, + When the materials all are gone; +The best mechanic hand must fail, + Where nothing's left to work upon. + +Matter, as wise logicians say, + Cannot without a form subsist; +And form, say I, as well as they, + Must fail if matter brings no grist. + +And this is fair Diana's case; + For, all astrologers maintain, +Each night a bit drops off her face, + When mortals say she's in her wane: + +While Partridge wisely shows the cause + Efficient of the moon's decay, +That Cancer with his pois'nous claws + Attacks her in the milky way: + +But Gadbury,[2] in art profound, + From her pale cheeks pretends to show +That swain Endymion is not sound, + Or else that Mercury's her foe. + +But let the cause be what it will, + In half a month she looks so thin, +That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill, + See but her forehead and her chin. + +Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, + Till midnight never shows her head; +So rotting Celia strolls the street, + When sober folks are all a-bed: + +For sure, if this be Luna's fate, + Poor Celia, but of mortal race, +In vain expects a longer date + To the materials of her face. + +When Mercury her tresses mows, + To think of oil and soot is vain: +No painting can restore a nose, + Nor will her teeth return again. + +Two balls of glass may serve for eyes, + White lead can plaister up a cleft; +But these, alas, are poor supplies + If neither cheeks nor lips be left. + +Ye powers who over love preside! + Since mortal beauties drop so soon, +If ye would have us well supplied, + Send us new nymphs with each new moon! + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with the copy transcribed by +Stella.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of +ephemerides.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in +August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see +"Dictionary of National Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1] + +AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, +A reverend Dean began to woo[2] +A handsome, young, imperious girl, +Nearly related to an earl.[3] +Her parents and her friends consent; +The couple to the temple went: +They first invite the Cyprian queen; +'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" +But Cupid in disdain could scarce +Forbear to bid them kiss his ---- +The Graces next, and all the Muses, +Were bid in form, but sent excuses. +Juno attended at the porch, +With farthing candle for a torch; +While mistress Iris held her train, +The faded bow bedropt with rain. +Then Hebe came, and took her place, +But show'd no more than half her face. + Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, +In joy the marriage-day was spent; +The marriage-_day_, you take me right, +I promise nothing for the night. +The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, +Assumes an artificial vigour; +A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace +His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; +Like the faint red upon a pippin, +Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. + And thus set out this happy pair, +The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; +But, what I gladly would forget, +The swain is old, the nymph coquette. +Both from the goal together start; +Scarce run a step before they part; +No common ligament that binds +The various textures of their minds; +Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, +Less corresponding than their years. +The Dean desires his coffee soon, +She rises to her tea at noon. +While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, +She at the glass consults her looks; +While Betty's buzzing at her ear, +Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! +So odd a choice how could she make! +Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. +Then, on her finger ends she counts, +Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. +The Dean, she heard her uncle say, +Is sixty, if he be a day; +His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; +You see the crow's feet round his eyes. + At one she rambles to the shops, +To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; +Or calls a council of her maids, +And tradesmen, to compare brocades. +Her weighty morning business o'er, +Sits down to dinner just at four; +Minds nothing that is done or said, +Her evening work so fills her head. +The Dean, who used to dine at one, +Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; +In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, +Looks like the chaplain of the household; +Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, +In French brocades, and Flanders lace; +He wonders what employs her brain, +But never asks, or asks in vain; +His mind is full of other cares, +And, in the sneaking parson's airs, +Computes, that half a parish dues +Will hardly find his wife in shoes. + Canst thou imagine, dull divine, +'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? +Hath she no other wants beside? +You feed her lust as well as pride, +Enticing coxcombs to adore, +And teach her to despise thee more. + If in her coach she'll condescend +To place him at the hinder end, +Her hoop is hoist above his nose, +His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] +She drops him at the church, to pray, +While she drives on to see the play. +He like an orderly divine, +Comes home a quarter after nine, +And meets her hasting to the ball: +Her chairmen push him from the wall. +The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, +And calls the family to prayers; +Then goes alone to take his rest +In bed, where he can spare her best. +At five the footmen make a din, +Her ladyship is just come in; +The masquerade began at two, +She stole away with much ado; +And shall be chid this afternoon, +For leaving company so soon: +She'll say, and she may truly say't, +She can't abide to stay out late. + But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, +Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: +The cause, alas! is quickly guest; +The town has whisper'd round the jest. +Think on some remedy in time, +The Dean you see, is past his prime, +Already dwindled to a lath: +No other way but try the Bath. + For Venus, rising from the ocean, +Infused a strong prolific potion, +That mix'd with Acheloues spring, +The horned flood, as poets sing, +Who, with an English beauty smitten, +Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; +The genial virtue with him brought, +And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; +Then fled, and left his horn behind, +For husbands past their youth to find; +The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, +Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, +Where childless wives crowd every morn, +To drink in Acheloues horn;[6] +Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs +Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. +And here the father often gains +That title by another's pains. + Hither, though much against his grain +The Dean has carried Lady Jane. +He, for a while, would not consent, +But vow'd his money all was spent: +Was ever such a clownish reason! +And must my lady slip her season? +The doctor, with a double fee, +Was bribed to make the Dean agree. + Here, all diversions of the place +Are proper in my lady's case: +With which she patiently complies, +Merely because her friends advise; +His money and her time employs +In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; +Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, +Since others oft have found one there; +Where if the Dean by chance appears, +It shames his cassock and his years. +He keeps his distance in the gallery, +Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; +For 'twould his character expose, +To bathe among the belles and beaux. + So have I seen, within a pen, +Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; +But, when let out, they run and muddle, +As instinct leads them, in a puddle; +The sober hen, not born to swim, +With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] + The Dean, with all his best endeavour, +Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. +A victim to the last essays +Of vigour in declining days, +He dies, and leaves his mourning mate +(What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. + The widow goes through all her forms: +New lovers now will come in swarms. +O, may I see her soon dispensing +Her favours to some broken ensign! +Him let her marry for his face, +And only coat of tarnish'd lace; +To turn her naked out of doors, +And spend her jointure on his whores; +But, for a parting present, leave her +A rooted pox to last for ever! + + + +[Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated +January, 1721-2.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 2: + "A rich divine began to woo," + "A grave divine resolved to woo," +are Swift's successive changes of this line.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but +he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: + "If by a more than usual grace + She lends him in her chariot place, + Her hoop is hoist above his nose + For fear his gown should soil her clothes."--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib. +ix.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was +erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to +James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of +Modena, having conceived after bathing there.--Collinson's "History of +Somersetshire."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first +draft.--_Forster_.] + +[Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.--_Forster_.] + + + + +THE PROGRESS OF POETRY + +The farmer's goose, who in the stubble +Has fed without restraint or trouble, +Grown fat with corn and sitting still, +Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; +And hardly waddles forth to cool +Her belly in the neighbouring pool! +Nor loudly cackles at the door; +For cackling shows the goose is poor. + But, when she must be turn'd to graze, +And round the barren common strays, +Hard exercise, and harder fare, +Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; +Her body light, she tries her wings, +And scorns the ground, and upward springs; +While all the parish, as she flies, +Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. + Such is the poet fresh in pay, +The third night's profits of his play; +His morning draughts till noon can swill, +Among his brethren of the quill: +With good roast beef his belly full, +Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, +Deep sunk in plenty and delight, +What poet e'er could take his flight? +Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, +What poet e'er could sing a note? +Nor Pegasus could bear the load +Along the high celestial road; +The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, +To raise the lumber from the earth. + But view him in another scene, +When all his drink is Hippocrene, +His money spent, his patrons fail, +His credit out for cheese and ale; +His two-years coat so smooth and bare, +Through every thread it lets in air; +With hungry meals his body pined, +His guts and belly full of wind; +And, like a jockey for a race, +His flesh brought down to flying case: +Now his exalted spirit loathes +Encumbrances of food and clothes; +And up he rises like a vapour, +Supported high on wings of paper. +He singing flies, and flying sings, +While from below all Grub-Street rings. + + + + +THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721 + +Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, +Arma virum, tabulaeque, et Troia gaza per undas. +VIRG. + +For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, +projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and +ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, +see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," +Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and +arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his +grandfather.--_W. E. B._ + + +Ye wise philosophers, explain + What magic makes our money rise, +When dropt into the Southern main; + Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes? + +Put in your money fairly told; + _Presto_! be gone--'Tis here again: +Ladies and gentlemen, behold, + Here's every piece as big as ten. + +Thus in a basin drop a shilling, + Then fill the vessel to the brim, +You shall observe, as you are filling, + The pond'rous metal seems to swim: + +It rises both in bulk and height, + Behold it swelling like a sop; +The liquid medium cheats your sight: + Behold it mounted to the top! + +In stock three hundred thousand pounds, + I have in view a lord's estate; +My manors all contiguous round! + A coach-and-six, and served in plate! + +Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, + Puts all upon a desperate bet; +Then plunges in the Southern waves, + Dipt over head and ears--in debt. + +So, by a calenture misled, + The mariner with rapture sees, +On the smooth ocean's azure bed, + Enamell'd fields and verdant trees: + +With eager haste he longs to rove + In that fantastic scene, and thinks +It must be some enchanted grove; + And in he leaps, and down he sinks. + +Five hundred chariots just bespoke, + Are sunk in these devouring waves, +The horses drown'd, the harness broke, + And here the owners find their graves. + +Like Pharaoh, by directors led, + They with their spoils went safe before; +His chariots, tumbling out the dead, + Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore. + +Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, + The young adventurer o'er the deep +An eagle's flight and state assumes, + And scorns the middle way to keep. + +On paper wings he takes his flight, + With wax the father bound them fast; +The wax is melted by the height, + And down the towering boy is cast. + +A moralist might here explain + The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] +Describe his fall into the main, + And from a fable form a truth. + +His wings are his paternal rent, + He melts the wax at every flame; +His credit sunk, his money spent, + In Southern Seas he leaves his name. + +Inform us, you that best can tell, + Why in that dangerous gulf profound, +Where hundreds and where thousands fell, + Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd? + +So have I seen from Severn's brink + A flock of geese jump down together; +Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, + And, swimming, never wet a feather. + +But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, + Directors better knew their tools; +We see the nation's credit crack'd, + Each knave has made a thousand fools. + +One fool may from another win, + And then get off with money stored; +But, if a sharper once comes in, + He throws it all, and sweeps the board. + +As fishes on each other prey, + The great ones swallowing up the small, +So fares it in the Southern Sea; + The whale directors eat up all. + +When stock is high, they come between, + Making by second-hand their offers; +Then cunningly retire unseen, + With each a million in his coffers. + +So, when upon a moonshine night, + An ass was drinking at a stream, +A cloud arose, and stopt the light, + By intercepting every beam: + +The day of judgment will be soon, + Cries out a sage among the crowd; +An ass has swallow'd up the moon! + The moon lay safe behind the cloud. + +Each poor subscriber to the sea + Sinks down at once, and there he lies; +Directors fall as well as they, + Their fall is but a trick to rise. + +So fishes, rising from the main, + Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; +The moisture dried, they sink again, + And dip their fins again to fly. + +Undone at play, the female troops + Come here their losses to retrieve; +Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, + Like Lapland witches in a sieve. + +Thus Venus to the sea descends, + As poets feign; but where's the moral? +It shows the Queen of Love intends + To search the deep for pearl and coral. + +The sea is richer than the land, + I heard it from my grannam's mouth, +Which now I clearly understand; + For by the sea she meant the South. + +Thus, by directors we are told, + "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; +Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, + Look round, and see how thick it lies: + +"We, gentlemen, are your assisters, + We'll come, and hold you by the chin."-- +Alas! all is not gold that glisters, + Ten thousand sink by leaping in. + +O! would those patriots be so kind, + Here in the deep to wash their hands, +Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find + The sea indeed had golden sands. + +A shilling in the bath you fling, + The silver takes a nobler hue, +By magic virtue in the spring, + And seems a guinea to your view. + +But, as a guinea will not pass + At market for a farthing more, +Shown through a multiplying glass, + Than what it always did before: + +So cast it in the Southern seas, + Or view it through a jobber's bill; +Put on what spectacles you please, + Your guinea's but a guinea still. + +One night a fool into a brook + Thus from a hillock looking down, +The golden stars for guineas took, + And silver Cynthia for a crown. + +The point he could no longer doubt; + He ran, he leapt into the flood; +There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, + All cover'd o'er with slime and mud. + +"Upon the water cast thy bread, + And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] +But gold, upon this ocean spread, + Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it: + +There is a gulf, where thousands fell, + Here all the bold adventurers came, +A narrow sound, though deep as Hell-- + 'Change Alley is the dreadful name. + +Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, + Yet he that on the surface lies, +Without a pilot seldom knows + The time it falls, or when 'twill rise. + +Subscribers here by thousands float, + And jostle one another down; +Each paddling in his leaky boat, + And here they fish for gold, and drown. + +"Now buried in the depth below, + Now mounted up to Heaven again, +They reel and stagger to and fro, + At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4] + +Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, + A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, +Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, + And strip the bodies of the dead. + +But these, you say, are factious lies, + From some malicious Tory's brain; +For, where directors get a prize, + The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain. + +Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, + Some cully often wins a bet, +By venturing on the cheating side, + Though not into the secret let. + +While some build castles in the air, + Directors build them in the seas; +Subscribers plainly see them there, + For fools will see as wise men please. + +Thus oft by mariners are shown + (Unless the men of Kent are liars) +Earl Godwin's castles overflown, + And palace roofs, and steeple spires. + +Mark where the sly directors creep, + Nor to the shore approach too nigh! +The monsters nestle in the deep, + To seize you in your passing by. + +Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, + Who, taught by instinct how to shun +The crocodile, that lurking lies, + Run as they drink, and drink and run. + +Antaeus could, by magic charms, + Recover strength whene'er he fell; +Alcides held him in his arms, + And sent him up in air to Hell. + +Directors, thrown into the sea, + Recover strength and vigour there; +But may be tamed another way, + Suspended for a while in air. + +Directors! for 'tis you I warn, + By long experience we have found +What planet ruled when you were born; + We see you never can be drown'd. + +Beware, nor overbulky grow, + Nor come within your cully's reach; +For, if the sea should sink so low + To leave you dry upon the beach, + +You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: + Your foes already waiting stand, +To tear you like a founder'd hulk, + While you lie helpless on the sand. + +Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, + The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: +The monster into parts divide, + And strip the bones, and melt the oil. + +Oh! may some western tempest sweep + These locusts whom our fruits have fed, +That plague, directors, to the deep, + Driven from the South Sea to the Red! + +May he, whom Nature's laws obey, + Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, +"Quiet the raging of the sea, + And still the madness of the crowd!" + +But never shall our isle have rest, + Till those devouring swine run down, +(The devils leaving the possest) + And headlong in the waters drown. + +The nation then too late will find, + Computing all their cost and trouble, +Directors' promises but wind, + South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble. + + + +[Footnote 1: Phaethon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. +xi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.] + +[Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.] + +[Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in +1866.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE + +ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, +Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: +Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alte +Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps +Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una. +Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; +Illudit species, ac dentibus aera mordet. + + + + +A PROLOGUE + +BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS SENT WITH THE PROLOGUE + +The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not +allowing you to act, unless you would pay him L300 per annum; upon +which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. + The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company +of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, +etc. to act in. + + +Our set of strollers, wandering up and down, +Hearing the house was empty, came to town; +And, with a license from our good lord mayor, +Went to one Griffith, formerly a player: +Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe, +To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe, +To let our company supply their places, +And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces. +Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me; +I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he. +When we perform, look sharp among our crew, +There's not a creature here you ever knew. +The former folks were servants to the king; +We, humble strollers, always on the wing. +Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole, +Rather than starve, a better man would stroll. + Stay! let me see--Three hundred pounds a-year, +For leave to act in town!--'Tis plaguy dear. +Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark, +For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk. +Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix, +The public should bestow the actors six; +A score of guineas given underhand, +For a good word or so, we understand. +To help an honest lad that's out of place, +May cost a crown or so; a common case: +And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought +To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat. +But, in the chronicles of former ages, +Who ever heard of servants paying wages? + I pity Elrington with all my heart; +Would he were here this night to act my part! +I told him what it was to be a stroller; +How free we acted, and had no comptroller: +In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor, +First get a license, then produce our ware; +We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum: +Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come; +And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on, +Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone. +I told him in the smoothest way I could, +All this, and more, yet it would do no good. +But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks, +He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2] +To whom our country has been always dear, +Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here, +Owns all your favours, here intends to stay, +And, as a stroller, act in every play: +And the whole crew this resolution takes, +To live and die all strollers, for your sakes; +Not frighted with an ignominious name, +For your displeasure is their only shame. + A pox on Elrington's majestic tone! +Now to a word of business in our own. + Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last: +Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. +Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss, +The next we act shall be as good as this. + + +[Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great +reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by +Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the +death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the +management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic +consideration. He died in July, 1732.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in +comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786; +Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National +Biography."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +EPILOGUE[1] + +TO MR. HOPPY'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, AT SMOCK-ALLEY + + +HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, +I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. +He's not the first person who never did write, +And yet has been fed by a benefit-night. +The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye, +In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury. +But then you must know, those players still act on +Some very good reasons, for such benefaction. + A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail; +From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. +Your emerited actors, and actresses too, +For what they have done (though no more they can do) +And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G----, +And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea; +A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright, +Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night. + Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found +That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound, +Paid to him clear money once every year: +And however some think it a little too dear, +Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow, +Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow. + First, because by the King to us he was sent, +To guide the whole session of this parliament. +To preside in our councils, both public and private, +And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at. +When bold B---- roars, and meek M---- raves, +When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be----h by halves, +When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories; +And to himself constant when a member no more is, +But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes; +As S----t is dull, and with S----d, who dotes; +Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low, +And with eloquent bow, the house he must show, +That that worthy member who spoke last must give +The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive, +That his sentiment on this affair isn't right; +That he mightily wonders which way he came by't: +That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown; +And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down. + For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear, +Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year, +And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood, +To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good; +To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit; +And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit. +To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat, +And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat: +All which he deserves; for although all the day +He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay; +And if he rise early to watch for the state, +To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late. +Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say +Hop has got all the money for our acting this play, +Which makes us poor actors look _je ne scai quoy_. + + +[Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the +avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the +company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to +have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But +it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous +guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's +accuracy of numbers.--_Scott_. Perhaps so, but the note to this +piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the _Captain_, one evening, at the +end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at +_Gallstown_"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous +guests." This is very different from "composed."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PROLOGUE[1] + +TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. +BY DR. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721 + + +Great cry, and little wool--is now become +The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom; +No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp; +Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. +Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry; +Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! +Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange +To shift your clothes, since you delight in change. +One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell-- +The men will like you every bit as well. + See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff, +And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough; +My wife admires me more, and swears she never, +In any dress, beheld me look so clever. +And if a man be better in such ware, +What great advantage must it give the fair! +Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds; +Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds; +Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find +Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined-- +And what are they but maggots in the mind? +For which I think it reason to conclude, +That clothes may change our temper like our food. +Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes +Too much about the party-colour'd dyes; +Although the lustre is from you begun, +We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun. + How sweet and innocent's the country maid, +With small expense in native wool array'd; +Who copies from the fields her homely green, +While by her shepherd with delight she's seen! +Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool +How much more lovely, and how beautiful, +Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove! +While wool would help to warm us into love! +Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, +We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece! + + +[Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the +Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish +Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.--_W. E. B._] + + + +EPILOGUE +TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. +BY THE DEAN. SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH + +Who dares affirm this is no pious age, +When charity begins to tread the stage? +When actors, who at best are hardly savers, +Will give a night of benefit to weavers? +Stay--let me see, how finely will it sound! +_Imprimis_, From his grace[1] a hundred pound. +Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors; +And then comes in the _item_ of the actors. +_Item_, The actors freely give a day-- +The poet had no more who made the play. + But whence this wondrous charity in players? +They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: +Under the rose, since here are none but friends, +(To own the truth) we have some private ends. +Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, +Hold up the prices of their old brocades; +We'll dress in manufactures made at home; +Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2] +We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen +And Antony shall court her in ratteen. +In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad, +And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid, +In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, +See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; +And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, +With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage. +In short, our kings and princesses within +Are all resolved this project to begin; +And you, our subjects, when you here resort, +Must imitate the fashion of the court. + O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, +Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: +But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, +And scarce a crown is left to see the play. +Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs +Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; +But wit and weaving had the same beginning; +Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: +And, next, observe how this alliance fits, +For weavers now are just as poor as wits: +Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, +For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; +But weavers will be kinder to the players, +And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs. +And to your knowledge, there is often less in +The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing. + + +[Footnote 1: Archbishop King.] + +[Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.," +lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish +Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANSWER +TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE. +IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY. + +Femineo generi tribuantur. + +The Muses, whom the richest silks array, +Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; +The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, +And gives each colour to the pictured maids; +Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, +Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine. +And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff +And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? + The player in mimic piety may storm, +Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm: +The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, +May curse the belles and chintzes of the age: +Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, +And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. + The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, +Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; +Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, +Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: +Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, +And be the emblem of your innocence. + Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, +Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour: +Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, +Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. +Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, +For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these? +Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade +Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid. +Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, +Thus act subservient to a poplin gown? +Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough +The under petticoat be made of stuff. +Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May, +When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay! +And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they? + In what weak colours would the plaid appear, +Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair! +The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff; +Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough? +Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, +Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, +Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, +And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky! +Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full: +And all this for the benefit of wool! + "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers, +That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?" +The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, +Demand their care, to make their webs complete: +These may they tend, their promises receive; +We cannot pay too much for what they give! + + + + +ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE + +THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. +BY DR. DELANY + +'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, +You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; +'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, +You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; +'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, +And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; +'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, +And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; +'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, +Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; +'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, +And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; +'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, +'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, +'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, +It is part of the new, and part of the old; +It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse-- +wish then, dear George, it were better or worse. + +[Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George +Rochfort, Esq.--_F._] + + + + +THE COUNTRY LIFE + +PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, +THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort. +_George_, his eldest son. +_Nim_, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting. +_Dan_, Mr. Jackson, a parson. +Gaulstown, the Baron's seat. +_Sheridan_, a pedant and pedagogue. +_Delany_, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor +of Ireland. +Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal. +Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady. + + +Thalia, tell, in sober lays, +How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days; +And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, +Yet _Neget quis carmina Gallo?_ +Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I +Not Sheridan, but friend Delany. +Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers +We sally forth at different hours; +At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, +Goes round the house to wake the rest; +At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, +Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2] +At ten my lady comes and hectors +And kisses George, and ends our lectures; +And when she has him by the neck fast, +Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast. +We squander there an hour or more, +And then all hands, boys, to the oar; +All, heteroclite Dan except, +Who never time nor order kept, +But by peculiar whimseys drawn, +Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn: +O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, +Or mars a text, or mends his hose; +Or--but proceed we in our journal-- +At two, or after, we return all: +From the four elements assembling, +Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, +From airy garrets some descend, +Some from the lake's remotest end; +My lord and Dean the fire forsake, +Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; +The loiterers quake, no corner hides them +And Lady Betty soundly chides them. +Now water brought, and dinner done; +With "Church and King" the ladies gone. +Not reckoning half an hour we pass +In talking o'er a moderate glass. +Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief +Steals off to doze away his beef; +And this must pass for reading Hammond-- +While George and Dean go to backgammon. +George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, +And then, again, boys, to the oar. +But when the sun goes to the deep, +(Not to disturb him in his sleep, +Or make a rumbling o'er his head, +His candle out, and he a-bed,) +We watch his motions to a minute, +And leave the flood when he goes in it. +Now stinted in the shortening day, +We go to prayers and then to play, +Till supper comes; and after that +We sit an hour to drink and chat. +'Tis late--the old and younger pairs, +By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs. +The weary Dean goes to his chamber; +And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, +So when the circle we have run, +The curtain falls and all is done. + I might have mention'd several facts, +Like episodes between the acts; +And tell who loses and who wins, +Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; +How Dan caught nothing in his net, +And how the boat was overset. +For brevity I have retrench'd +How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: +It would be an exploit to brag on, +How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; +How steady in the storm he sat, +And saved his oar, but lost his hat: +How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) +Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; +How skilfully Dan mends his nets; +How fortune fails him when he sets; +Or how the Dean delights to vex +The ladies, and lampoon their sex: +I might have told how oft Dean Perceval +Displays his pedantry unmerciful, +How haughtily he cocks his nose, +To tell what every schoolboy knows: +And with his finger and his thumb, +Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: +But now there needs no more be said on't, +Nor how his wife, that female pedant, +Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: +For candles how she trucks her dripping; +Was forced to send three miles for yeast, +To brew her ale, and raise her paste; +Tells everything that you can think of, +How she cured Charley of the chincough; +What gave her brats and pigs the measles, +And how her doves were killed by weasels; +How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright +She had with dreams the other night. + But now, since I have gone so far on, +A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; +And tell how little weight he sets +On all Whig papers and gazettes; +But for the politics of Pue,[4] +Thinks every syllable is true: +And since he owns the King of Sweden [5] +Is dead at last, without evading, +Now all his hopes are in the czar; +"Why, Muscovy is not so far; +Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, +And in a month he's at your gates; +Perhaps from what the packet brings, +By Christmas we shall see strange things." +Why should I tell of ponds and drains, +What carps we met with for our pains; +Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable +To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? +But you, who are a scholar, know +How transient all things are below, +How prone to change is human life! +Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife-- +This grand event has broke our measures; +Their reign began with cruel seizures; +The Dean must with his quilt supply +The bed in which those tyrants lie; +Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, +(My lady says, she can't afford one,) +George is half scared out of his wits, +For Clem gets all the dainty bits. +Henceforth expect a different survey, +This house will soon turn topsyturvy; +They talk of farther alterations, +Which causes many speculations. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for +his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: The butler.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p. +347.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a +"petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to +"Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of +Gaulstown.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1] + +WOULD you that Delville I describe? +Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: +For who would be satirical +Upon a thing so very small? + You scarce upon the borders enter, +Before you're at the very centre. +A single crow can make it night, +When o'er your farm she takes her flight: +Yet, in this narrow compass, we +Observe a vast variety; +Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, +Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs, +And hills and dales, and woods and fields, +And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields: +All to your haggard brought so cheap in, +Without the mowing or the reaping: +A razor, though to say't I'm loth, +Would shave you and your meadows both. + Though small's the farm, yet here's a house +Full large to entertain a mouse; +But where a rat is dreaded more +Than savage Caledonian boar; +For, if it's enter'd by a rat, +There is no room to bring a cat. + A little rivulet seems to steal +Down through a thing you call a vale, +Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, +Like rain along a blade of leek: +And this you call your sweet meander, +Which might be suck'd up by a gander, +Could he but force his nether bill +To scoop the channel of the rill. +For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, +Were it as big as city gutter. +Next come I to your kitchen garden, +Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; +And round this garden is a walk +No longer than a tailor's chalk; +Thus I compare what space is in it, +A snail creeps round it in a minute. +One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze +Up through a tuft you call your trees: +And, once a year, a single rose +Peeps from the bud, but never blows; +In vain then you expect its bloom! +It cannot blow for want of room. + In short, in all your boasted seat, +There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. + + +[Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's +friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is +unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.--_W. E. B._] + + + +ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE + +A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, +Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. +This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent, +And bid him go ask what his votary meant? +"Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: +'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser! +Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, +I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; +For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; +And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train." + + + + +CARBERIAE RUPES + +IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723 + + +Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo +Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, +Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa +Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur +Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis. +Nam, longa venti rabie, atque aspergine crebra +Aequorei laticis, specus ima rupe cavatur: +Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant; +Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas. +Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem +Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum +In capita anguipedum coelo jaculasse gigantum. + Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu +Exesa e scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, +Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo +Cautibus enorme junctis laquearia tecti +Formantur; moles olim ruitura superne. +Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, +Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae. + Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, +Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; +Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextra +Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, +Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procella: +Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia late, +Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, +Terretur tamen, et longe fugit, arva relinquens. + Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, +Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, +Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt. + Piscator terra non audet vellere funem; +Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aera sudum +Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat. + + + + +CARBERY ROCKS + +TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN + +Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds +Its airy head amid the azure clouds, +Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props, +Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops; +With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound, +From shore to shore the rocks return the sound: +The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, +And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: +For, long the whirling winds and beating tides +Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides. +Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge +Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge. +Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, +When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; +Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, +To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load. + Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide +Presents an orifice on either side. +A dismal orifice, from sea to sea +Extended, pervious to the God of Day: +Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form +An arch, the ruin of a future storm: +High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, +And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake. + But when bleak Winter with his sullen train +Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; +When o'er the craggy steep without control, +Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; +Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, +Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, +Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, +Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, +Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: +Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore. +The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks +Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, +Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, +Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. + The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, +The wither'd herb improvident they crop, +Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, +Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep. + The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, +Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, +Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, +Wearies with vows the monarch of the main. + + + + +COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES + +ON MR. FORD[1] + + +COME, be content, since out it must, +For Stella has betray'd her trust; +And, whispering, charged me not to say +That Mr. Ford was born to-day; +Or, if at last I needs must blab it, +According to my usual habit, +She bid me, with a serious face, +Be sure conceal the time and place; +And not my compliment to spoil, +By calling this your native soil; +Or vex the ladies, when they knew +That you are turning forty-two: +But, if these topics shall appear +Strong arguments to keep you here, +I think, though you judge hardly of it, +Good manners must give place to profit. + The nymphs, with whom you first began, +Are each become a harridan; +And Montague so far decay'd, +Her lovers now must all be paid; +And every belle that since arose, +Has her contemporary beaux. +Your former comrades, once so bright, +With whom you toasted half the night, +Of rheumatism and pox complain, +And bid adieu to dear champaign. +Your great protectors, once in power, +Are now in exile or the Tower. +Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, +Who hate your person and your cause, +If once they get you on the spot, +You must be guilty of the plot; +For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire, +But use you ten times worse than Prior. + In London! what would you do there? +Can you, my friend, with patience bear +(Nay, would it not your passion raise +Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase) +To see a scoundrel strut and hector, +A foot-boy to some rogue director, +To look on vice triumphant round, +And virtue trampled on the ground? +Observe where bloody **** stands +With torturing engines in his hands, +Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail, +Threatening the pillory and jail: +If this you think a pleasing scene, +To London straight return again; +Where, you have told us from experience, +Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians. + I thought my very spleen would burst, +When fortune hither drove me first; +Was full as hard to please as you, +Nor persons' names nor places knew: +But now I act as other folk, +Like prisoners when their gaol is broke. + If you have London still at heart, +We'll make a small one here by art; +The difference is not much between +St. James's Park and Stephen's Green; +And Dawson Street will serve as well +To lead you thither as Pall Mall. +Nor want a passage through the palace, +To choke your sight, and raise your malice. +The Deanery-house may well be match'd, +Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2] +Nor shall I, when you hither come, +Demand a crown a-quart for stum. +Then for a middle-aged charmer, +Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3] +She's now as handsome every bit, +And has a thousand times her wit +The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, +Will half supply a Gay and Pope. +Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not, +No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot. +I throw into the bargain Tim; +In London can you equal him? +What think you of my favourite clan, +Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan; +Fellows of modest worth and parts, +With cheerful looks and honest hearts? + Can you on Dublin look with scorn? +Yet here were you and Ormond born. + O! were but you and I so wise, +To see with Robert Grattan's eyes! +Robin adores that spot of earth, +That literal spot which gave him birth; +And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste, +As fine as Hampton-court at least." +When to your friends you would enhance +The praise of Italy or France, +For grandeur, elegance, and wit, +We gladly hear you, and submit; +But then, to come and keep a clutter, +For this or that side of a gutter, +To live in this or t'other isle, +We cannot think it worth your while; +For, take it kindly or amiss, +The difference but amounts to this, +We bury on our side the channel +In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7] +You for the news are ne'er to seek; +While we, perhaps, may wait a week; +You happy folks are sure to meet +A hundred whores in every street; +While we may trace all Dublin o'er +Before we find out half a score. + You see my arguments are strong, +I wonder you held out so long; +But, since you are convinced at last, +We'll pardon you for what has past. +So--let us now for whist prepare; +Twelve pence a corner, if you dare. + + +[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his +friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the +poem, "Stella at Wood Park."--Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's +intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a +fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and +nation."--_Nichols_.] + +[Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till +about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, +"exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind +than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the +Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i, +172.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death +of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.] + +[Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.--_H._] + +[Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.--_H._] + +[Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in +1733.] + + + + +ON DREAMS + +AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS + +Petronii Fragmenta, xxx. + + +THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, +And with false flitting shades our minds delude +Jove never sends us downward from the skies; +Nor can they from infernal mansions rise; +But are all mere productions of the brain, +And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1] + +For when in bed we rest our weary limbs, +The mind unburden'd sports in various whims; +The busy head with mimic art runs o'er +The scenes and actions of the day before.[2] + +The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, +To regal rage devotes some patriot's head. +With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, +The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt. + +The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, +And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. +With like remorse his brother of the trade, +The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. + +The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, +And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. +Nor less Tom-t--d-man, of true statesman mould, +Collects the city filth in search of gold. + +Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, +And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. +His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, +Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob. + +The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, +Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. +The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, +Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes. + +The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, +As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: +While the sly mountebank attends his trade, +Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. + +The hireling senator of modern days +Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: +And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace +Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face. + + +[Footnote 1: +"Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, +Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, +Sed sibi quisque facit."] + +[Footnote 2: + "Nam cum prostrata sopore +Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, +Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, +IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724 + + +Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, +Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. +Can anything be more unkind? +Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? +Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,-- +A friend that loves to see and hear you. +Why am I robb'd of that delight, +When you can be no loser by't +Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) +That if you heard you'd be no gainer? +For sure you are not yet to learn, +That hearing is not your concern. +Then be your doors no longer barr'd: +Your business, sir, is to be heard. + + + + +THE ANSWER + +The wise pretend to make it clear, +'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. +Why are we then so fond of two, +When by experience one would do? + 'Tis true, say they, cut off the head, +And there's an end; the man is dead; +Because, among all human race, +None e'er was known to have a brace: +But confidently they maintain, +That where we find the members twain, +The loss of one is no such trouble, +Since t'other will in strength be double. +The limb surviving, you may swear, +Becomes his brother's lawful heir: +Thus, for a trial, let me beg of +Your reverence but to cut one leg off, +And you shall find, by this device, +The other will be stronger twice; +For every day you shall be gaining +New vigour to the leg remaining. +So, when an eye has lost its brother, +You see the better with the other, +Cut off your hand, and you may do +With t'other hand the work of two: +Because the soul her power contracts, +And on the brother limb reacts. + But yet the point is not so clear in +Another case, the sense of hearing: +For, though the place of either ear +Be distant, as one head can bear, +Yet Galen most acutely shows you, +(Consult his book _de partium usu_) +That from each ear, as he observes, +There creep two auditory nerves, +Not to be seen without a glass, +Which near the _os petrosum_ pass; +Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there, +One goes to this, and one to t'other ear; +Which made my grandam always stuff her ears +Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers. +You see my learning; but, to shorten it, +When my left ear was deaf a fortnight, +To t'other ear I felt it coming on: +And thus I solve this hard phenomenon. + +'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies +To weak, or old, or clouded eyes: +Your arms, though both your eyes were lost, +Would guard your nose against a post: +Without your legs, two legs of wood +Are stronger, and almost as good: +And as for hands, there have been those +Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1] +But no contrivance yet appears +To furnish artificial ears. + + +[Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot. +And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush +betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it +done at all.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME +TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724 + +NELL scolded in so loud a din, +That Will durst hardly venture in: +He mark'd the conjugal dispute; +Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute; +But, when he saw his friend appear, +Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!" +At sight of Will she bawl'd no more, +But hurried out and clapt the door. + Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell, +(Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell. +Why what a peal the jade has rung! +D--n her, why don't you slit her tongue? +For nothing else will make it cease. +Dear Will, I suffer this for peace: +I never quarrel with my wife; +I bear it for a quiet life. +Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it; +Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it. + Will went again to visit Dick; +And entering in the very nick, +He saw virago Nell belabour, +With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour. +Poor Will, who needs must interpose, +Received a brace or two of blows. +But now, to make my story short, +Will drew out Dick to take a quart. +Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims; +Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs? +If she were mine, and had such tricks, +I'd teach her how to handle sticks: +Z--ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1] +Or truck the carrion for tobacco: +I'd send her far enough away---- +Dear Will; but what would people say? +Lord! I should get so ill a name, +The neighbours round would cry out shame. + Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; +But who believed him when he said it? +Can he, who makes himself a slave, +Consult his peace, or credit save? +Dick found it by his ill success, +His quiet small, his credit less. +She served him at the usual rate; +She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: +And what he thought the hardest case, +The parish jeer'd him to his face; +Those men who wore the breeches least, +Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. +At home he was pursued with noise; +Abroad was pester'd by the boys: +Within, his wife would break his bones: +Without, they pelted him with stones; +The 'prentices procured a riding,[2] +To act his patience and her chiding. +False patience and mistaken pride! +There are ten thousand Dicks beside; +Slaves to their quiet and good name, +Are used like Dick, and bear the blame. + + +[Footnote 1: See _post_, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."] + +[Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to +ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in +this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through +the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and +her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, +enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix, +370, 578.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS +1726 + +Ye poets ragged and forlorn, + Down from your garrets haste; +Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, + Not yet consign'd to paste; + +I know a trick to make you thrive; + O, 'tis a quaint device: +Your still-born poems shall revive, + And scorn to wrap up spice. + +Get all your verses printed fair, + Then let them well be dried; +And Curll[1] must have a special care + To leave the margin wide. + +Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; + And when he sets to write, +No letter with an envelope + Could give him more delight. + +When Pope has fill'd the margins round, + Why then recall your loan; +Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, + And swear they are your own. + +[Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, +_passim.--W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer +(preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the +covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters +themselves.] + + + + +A PASTORAL DIALOGUE + +WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, +WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1] + + +This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the +following explanatory introduction: + +Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It +was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond +was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of +Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer +there. It is within a mile of Richmond. + +"Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now +Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the +Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles +from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert +the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the +ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the +above dialogue."--_Dublin Edition_, 1734. + + +In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, +And all that he or they can say; +Sing on I must, and sing I will, +Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill. + Last Friday night, as neighbours use, +This couple met to talk of news: +For, by old proverbs, it appears, +That walls have tongues, and hedges ears. + +MARBLE HILL + +Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, +Your mistress now is grown a queen; +You'll find it soon by woful proof, +She'll come no more beneath your roof. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +The kingly prophet well evinces, +That we should put no trust in princes: +My royal master promised me +To raise me to a high degree: +But now he's grown a king, God wot, +I fear I shall be soon forgot. +You see, when folks have got their ends, +How quickly they neglect their friends; +Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, +Pray God, they now may find as true! + +MARBLE HILL + +My house was built but for a show, +My lady's empty pockets know; +And now she will not have a shilling, +To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; +For all the courtly madams round +Now pay four shillings in the pound; +'Tis come to what I always thought: +My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2] +Had you and I been courtiers born, +We should not thus have lain forlorn; +For those we dext'rous courtiers call, +Can rise upon their masters' fall: +But we, unlucky and unwise, +Must fall because our masters rise. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +My master, scarce a fortnight since, +Was grown as wealthy as a prince; +But now it will be no such thing, +For he'll be poor as any king; +And by his crown will nothing get, +But like a king to run in debt. + +MARBLE HILL + +No more the Dean, that grave divine, +Shall keep the key of my (no) wine; +My ice-house rob, as heretofore, +And steal my artichokes no more; +Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen +Bedraggled in my walks so green: +Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; +And here no more will dangle Pope. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, +To spunge a breakfast once a-week; +To cry the bread was stale, and mutter +Complaints against the royal butter. +But now I fear it will be said, +No butter sticks upon his bread.[4] +We soon shall find him full of spleen, +For want of tattling to the queen; +Stunning her royal ears with talking; +His reverence and her highness walking: +While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller, +Sits mounted on the garden-roller. +A goodly sight to see her ride, +With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. +In velvet cap his head lies warm, +His hat, for show, beneath his arm. + +MARBLE HILL + +Some South-Sea broker from the city +Will purchase me, the more's the pity; +Lay all my fine plantations waste, +To fit them to his vulgar taste: +Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, +My master Pope will break his heart. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +In my own Thames may I be drownded, +If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: +Except her majesty prevails +To place me with the Prince of Wales; +And then I shall be free from fears, +For he'll be prince these fifty years. +I then will turn a courtier too, +And serve the times as others do. +Plain loyalty, not built on hope, +I leave to your contriver, Pope; +None loves his king and country better, +Yet none was ever less their debtor. + +MARBLE HILL + +Then let him come and take a nap +In summer on my verdant lap; +Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, +To Kensington, or hot St. James's; +Nor shall I dull in silence sit; +For 'tis to me he owes his wit; +My groves, my echoes, and my birds, +Have taught him his poetic words. +We gardens, and you wildernesses, +Assist all poets in distresses. +Him twice a-week I here expect, +To rattle Moody[7] for neglect; +An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge +In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; +And I can hardly get him down +Three times a-week to brush my gown. + +RICHMOND LODGE + +I pity you, dear Marble Hill; +But hope to see you flourish still. +All happiness--and so adieu. + +MARBLE HILL + +Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you. + + +[Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after +supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden +on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at +the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th, +wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room +where he was born.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the +narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to +Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death, +described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy +could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and +states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the +King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty +thousand pounds to her family.--See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p. +304; v, p. 456.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his +esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral +Epistle."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean +suspected.] + +[Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.--_Dublin +Edition_.] + +[Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England +after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of +religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See +Voltaire, "Siecle de Louis XIV."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: The gardener.] + + + + +DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727 + + + 'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire +In men, Possession and Desire! +Think what they wish so great a blessing; +So disappointed when possessing! + A moralist profoundly sage +(I know not in what book or page, +Or whether o'er a pot of ale) +Related thus the following tale. + Possession, and Desire, his brother, +But still at variance with each other, +Were seen contending in a race; +And kept at first an equal pace; +'Tis said, their course continued long, +For this was active, that was strong: +Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt, +Misled them many a league about; +Seduced by some deceiving light, +They take the wrong way for the right; +Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, +They often climb, and often creep. + Desire, the swifter of the two, +Along the plain like lightning flew: +Till, entering on a broad highway, +Where power and titles scatter'd lay, +He strove to pick up all he found, +And by excursions lost his ground: +No sooner got, than with disdain +He threw them on the ground again; +And hasted forward to pursue +Fresh objects, fairer to his view, +In hope to spring some nobler game; +But all he took was just the same: +Too scornful now to stop his pace, +He spurn'd them in his rival's face. + Possession kept the beaten road, +And gather'd all his brother strew'd; +But overcharged, and out of wind, +Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind. + Desire had now the goal in sight; +It was a tower of monstrous height; +Where on the summit Fortune stands, +A crown and sceptre in her hands; +Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell, +Where many a bold adventurer fell. +Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile, +And saw the treacherous goddess smile; +But as he climb'd to grasp the crown, +She knock'd him with the sceptre down! +He tumbled in the gulf profound; +There doom'd to whirl an endless round. + Possession's load was grown so great, +He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight; +And, as he now expiring lay, +Flocks every ominous bird of prey; +The raven, vulture, owl, and kite, +At once upon his carcass light, +And strip his hide, and pick his bones, +Regardless of his dying groans. + + + + +ON CENSURE +1727 + +Ye wise, instruct me to endure +An evil, which admits no cure; +Or, how this evil can be borne, +Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. +Bare innocence is no support, +When you are tried in Scandal's court. +Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; +All others, who inferior sit, +Conceive themselves in conscience bound +To join, and drag you to the ground. +Your altitude offends the eyes +Of those who want the power to rise. +The world, a willing stander-by, +Inclines to aid a specious lie: +Alas! they would not do you wrong; +But all appearances are strong. + Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay +On what detracting people say! +For let mankind discharge their tongues +In venom, till they burst their lungs, +Their utmost malice cannot make +Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; +Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, +Or put one feature out of place; +Nor will you find your fortune sink +By what they speak or what they think; +Nor can ten hundred thousand lies +Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. + The most effectual way to balk +Their malice, is--to let them talk. + + + + +THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND +1727 + + +A set of phrases learn'd by rote; +A passion for a scarlet coat; +When at a play, to laugh or cry, +Yet cannot tell the reason why; +Never to hold her tongue a minute, +While all she prates has nothing in it; +Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, +And take his nonsense all for wit; +Her learning mounts to read a song, +But half the words pronouncing wrong; +Has every repartee in store +She spoke ten thousand times before; +Can ready compliments supply +On all occasions cut and dry; +Such hatred to a parson's gown, +The sight would put her in a swoon; +For conversation well endued, +She calls it witty to be rude; +And, placing raillery in railing, +Will tell aloud your greatest failing; +Nor make a scruple to expose +Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; +Can at her morning tea run o'er +The scandal of the day before; +Improving hourly in her skill, +To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. + In choosing lace, a critic nice, +Knows to a groat the lowest price; +Can in her female clubs dispute, +What linen best the silk will suit, +What colours each complexion match, +And where with art to place a patch. + If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, +Can finely counterfeit a fright; +So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, +She ravishes all hearts to hear her. +Can dext'rously her husband teaze, +By taking fits whene'er she please; +By frequent practice learns the trick +At proper seasons to be sick; +Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, +At once creating love and pity; +If Molly happens to be careless, +And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, +She gets a cold as sure as death, +And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; +Admires how modest women can +Be so robustious like a man. + In party, furious to her power; +A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; +Her arguments directly tend +Against the side she would defend; +Will prove herself a Tory plain, +From principles the Whigs maintain; +And, to defend the Whiggish cause, +Her topics from the Tories draws. + O yes! if any man can find +More virtues in a woman's mind, +Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1] +She'll pay the charges to a farthing; +Take notice, she has my commission +To add them in the next edition; +They may outsell a better thing: +So, holla, boys; God save the King! + + +[Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.--_F._] + + + + +CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727 + + +As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, +Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, +He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, +And promised to pay for it when he came back. +His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; +His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't. +The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, +And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!" +But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, +Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side! +And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, +He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!" +The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; +Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: +Then said, I must speak to the people a little; +But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1] +My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) +He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. +Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, +Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; +My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, +And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; +Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, +Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch. + + +[Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.--_F._] + + +[Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was +the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of +stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD" + +1727 + + +POPE has the talent well to speak, + But not to reach the ear; +His loudest voice is low and weak, + The Dean too deaf to hear. + +Awhile they on each other look, + Then different studies choose; +The Dean sits plodding on a book; + Pope walks, and courts the Muse. + +Now backs of letters, though design'd + For those who more will need 'em, +Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, + Himself can hardly read 'em. + +Each atom by some other struck, + All turns and motions tries; +Till in a lump together stuck, + Behold a poem rise: + +Yet to the Dean his share allot; + He claims it by a canon; +That without which a thing is not, + Is _causa sine qua non_. + +Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; + For, had our deaf divine +Been for your conversation fit, + You had not writ a line. + +Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed + The sexton reason'd well; +And justly half the merit claim'd, + Because he rang the bell. + + + + +A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS + +WRITTEN AT LONDON + + +By poets we are well assured +That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; +A complicated heap of ills, +Despising boluses and pills. +Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, +Since first I gave my heart to you. +Now, by your cruelty hard bound, +I strain my guts, my colon wound. +Now jealousy my grumbling tripes +Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. +When pity in those eyes I view, +My bowels wambling make me spew. +When I an amorous kiss design'd, +I belch'd a hurricane of wind. +Once you a gentle sigh let fall; +Remember how I suck'd it all; +What colic pangs from thence I felt, +Had you but known, your heart would melt, +Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, +Till Nature pointed out a vent. +How have you torn my heart to pieces +With maggots, humours, and caprices! +By which I got the hemorrhoids; +And loathsome worms my _anus_ voids. +Whene'er I hear a rival named, +I feel my body all inflamed; +Which, breaking out in boils and blains, +With yellow filth my linen stains; +Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, +Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; +And then I drag a bloated _corpus_, +Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; +When, if I cannot purge or stale, +I must be tapp'd to fill a pail. + + +[Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.--_H._] + + +BOUTS RIMEZ[1] + +ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA + + +Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, + Of classic beauty, _haec et illa_; +Not all his birch inspires such wit + As th'ogling beams of Domitilla. + +Let nobles toast, in bright champaign, + Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; +I'll drink her health, again, again, + In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla. + +At Goodman's Fields I've much admired + The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; +But what are they to the soft step, + The gliding air of Domitilla? + +Virgil has eternized in song + The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3] +Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; + He might have dream'd of Domitilla. + +Great Theodose condemn'd a town + For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4] +And deuce take London! if some knight + O' th' city wed not Domitilla. + +Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, + Gives us a medal of Plantilla; +But O! the empress has not eyes, + Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla. + +Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, + Piled on the mules of king At-tila, +Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) + Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla. + +Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, + Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- +--bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let + To verse--but now for Domitilla. + +Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch + To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6] +And thus I offer up my catch + To the snow-white hands of Domitilla. + + +[Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a +line, and to which rhymes must be found.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, _inter alia_, for his +enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints. +See his Works, _edit._ Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a +remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to +Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the +"Journal."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.] + +[Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several +books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."] + + + + +HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS +UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT + + +Now the active young attorneys +Briskly travel on their journeys, +Looking big as any giants, +On the horses of their clients; +Like so many little Marses +With their tilters at their a--s, +Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, +And with harness-buckles furnish'd, +And with whips and spurs so neat, +And with jockey-coats complete, +And with boots so very greasy, +And with saddles eke so easy, +And with bridles fine and gay, +Bridles borrow'd for a day, +Bridles destined far to roam, +Ah! never, never to come home. +And with hats so very big, sir, +And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, +And with ruffles to be shown, +Cambric ruffles not their own; +And with Holland shirts so white, +Shirts becoming to the sight, +Shirts bewrought with different letters, +As belonging to their betters. +With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, +Gotten from their dainty doxies, +And with rings so very trim, +Lately taken out of lim--[1] +And with very little pence, +And as very little sense; +With some law, but little justice, +Having stolen from my hostess, +From the barber and the cutler, +Like the soldier from the sutler; +From the vintner and the tailor, +Like the felon from the jailor; +Into this and t'other county, +Living on the public bounty; +Thorough town and thorough village, +All to plunder, all to pillage: +Thorough mountains, thorough valleys, +Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, +Some to--kiss with farmers' spouses, +And make merry in their houses; +Some to tumble country wenches +On their rushy beds and benches; +And if they begin a fray, +Draw their swords, and----run away; +All to murder equity, +And to take a double fee; +Till the people are all quiet, +And forget to broil and riot, +Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, +Safely glad to sup their porridge, +And vacation's over--then, +Hey, for London town again. + + +[Footnote 1: _Limbo_, any place of misery and restraint. + "For he no sooner was at large, + But Trulla straight brought on the charge, + And in the selfsame _Limbo_ put + The knight and squire where he was shut." + _Hudibras_, Part i, canto iii, 1,000. +Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PUPPET-SHOW + + +The life of man to represent, + And turn it all to ridicule, +Wit did a puppet-show invent, + Where the chief actor is a fool. + +The gods of old were logs of wood, + And worship was to puppets paid; +In antic dress the idol stood, + And priest and people bow'd the head. + +No wonder then, if art began + The simple votaries to frame, +To shape in timber foolish man, + And consecrate the block to fame. + +From hence poetic fancy learn'd + That trees might rise from human forms; +The body to a trunk be turn'd, + And branches issue from the arms. + +Thus Daedalus and Ovid too, + That man's a blockhead, have confest: +Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue; + Life is a farce, the world a jest. + +The same great truth South Sea has proved + On that famed theatre, the alley; +Where thousands, by directors moved + Are now sad monuments of folly. + +What Momus was of old to Jove, + The same a Harlequin is now; +The former was buffoon above, + The latter is a Punch below. + +This fleeting scene is but a stage, + Where various images appear; +In different parts of youth and age, + Alike the prince and peasant share. + +Some draw our eyes by being great, + False pomp conceals mere wood within; +And legislators ranged in state + Are oft but wisdom in machine. + +A stock may chance to wear a crown, + And timber as a lord take place; +A statue may put on a frown, + And cheat us with a thinking face. + +Others are blindly led away, + And made to act for ends unknown; +By the mere spring of wires they play, + And speak in language not their own. + +Too oft, alas! a scolding wife + Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; +And many drink the cup of life, + Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan. + +In short, whatever men pursue, + Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: +This mimic race brings all to view: + Alike they dress, they talk, they move. + +Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, + Mortals to please and to deride; +And, when death breaks thy vital band, + Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride. + +Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, + Thy image shall preserve thy fame; +Ages to come thy worth shall own, + Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name. + +Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, + Before he looks in nature's glass; +Puns cannot form a witty scene, + Nor pedantry for humour pass. + +To make men act as senseless wood, + And chatter in a mystic strain, +Is a mere force on flesh and blood, + And shows some error in the brain. + +He that would thus refine on thee, + And turn thy stage into a school, +The jest of Punch will ever be, + And stand confest the greater fool. + + +[Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.] + +[Footnote 2: Sheridan.] + + + + +THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY + +IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728 + + +SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part +In you, who ought to know my heart, +Are well acquainted with my zeal +For all the female commonweal-- +How could it come into your mind +To pitch on me, of all mankind, +Against the sex to write a satire, +And brand me for a woman-hater? +On me, who think them all so fair, +They rival Venus to a hair; +Their virtues never ceased to sing, +Since first I learn'd to tune a string? +Methinks I hear the ladies cry, +Will he his character belie? +Must never our misfortunes end? +And have we lost our only friend? +Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears, +No more let fall those precious tears. +Sooner shall, etc. + +[Here several verses are omitted.] + +The hound be hunted by the hare, +Than I turn rebel to the fair. + 'Twas you engaged me first to write, +Then gave the subject out of spite: +The journal of a modern dame, +Is, by my promise, what you claim. +My word is past, I must submit; +And yet perhaps you may be bit. +I but transcribe; for not a line +Of all the satire shall be mine. +Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes +The common slanders of the times, +Of modern times, the guilt is yours, +And me my innocence secures. +Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, +The annals of a female day. + By nature turn'd to play the rake well, +(As we shall show you in the sequel,) +The modern dame is waked by noon, +(Some authors say not quite so soon,) +Because, though sore against her will, +She sat all night up at quadrille. +She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, +And asks if it be time to rise; +Of headache and the spleen complains; +And then, to cool her heated brains, +Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, +Takes a large dram of citron water. +Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray, +Don't I look frightfully to-day? +But was it not confounded hard? +Well, if I ever touch a card! +Four matadores, and lose codille! +Depend upon't, I never will. +But run to Tom, and bid him fix +The ladies here to-night by six." +"Madam, the goldsmith waits below; +He says, his business is to know +If you'll redeem the silver cup +He keeps in pawn?"--"Why, show him up." +"Your dressing-plate he'll be content +To take, for interest _cent. per cent._ +And, madam, there's my Lady Spade +Has sent this letter by her maid." +"Well, I remember what she won; +And has she sent so soon to dun? +Here, carry down these ten pistoles +My husband left to pay for coals: +I thank my stars they all are light, +And I may have revenge to-night." +Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, +She enters on her usual theme; +Her last night's ill success repeats, +Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: +"She slipt spadillo in her breast, +Then thought to turn it to a jest: +There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, +And to each other give the sign." +Through every game pursues her tale, +Like hunters o'er their evening ale. + Now to another scene give place: +Enter the folks with silks and lace: +Fresh matter for a world of chat, +Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: +"Observe this pattern--there's a stuff; +I can have customers enough. +Dear madam, you are grown so hard-- +This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: +Madam, if there be truth in man, +I never sold so cheap a fan." + This business of importance o'er, +And madam almost dress'd by four; +The footman, in his usual phrase, +Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." +She answers, in her usual style, +"The cook must keep it back a while; +I never can have time to dress, +No woman breathing takes up less; +I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; +I wish the dinner at Old Nick." +At table now she acts her part, +Has all the dinner cant by heart: +"I thought we were to dine alone, +My dear; for sure, if I had known +This company would come to-day-- +But really 'tis my spouse's way! +He's so unkind, he never sends +To tell when he invites his friends: +I wish ye may but have enough!" +And while with all this paltry stuff +She sits tormenting every guest, +Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, +In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, +Which modern ladies call polite; +You see the booby husband sit +In admiration at her wit! + But let me now a while survey +Our madam o'er her evening tea; +Surrounded with her noisy clans +Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, +When, frighted at the clamorous crew, +Away the God of Silence flew, +And fair Discretion left the place, +And modesty with blushing face; +Now enters overweening Pride, +And Scandal, ever gaping wide, +Hypocrisy with frown severe, +Scurrility with gibing air; +Rude laughter seeming like to burst, +And Malice always judging worst; +And Vanity with pocket glass, +And Impudence with front of brass; +And studied Affectation came, +Each limb and feature out of frame; +While Ignorance, with brain of lead, +Flew hovering o'er each female head. + Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, +A hundred tongues, as poets use, +When, to give every dame her due, +A hundred thousand were too few? +Or how should I, alas! relate +The sum of all their senseless prate, +Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, +Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? +Now comes the general scandal charge; +What some invent, the rest enlarge; +And, "Madam, if it be a lie, +You have the tale as cheap as I; +I must conceal my author's name: +But now 'tis known to common fame." + Say, foolish females, bold and blind, +Say, by what fatal turn of mind, +Are you on vices most severe, +Wherein yourselves have greatest share? +Thus every fool herself deludes; +The prude condemns the absent prudes: +Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, +Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; +Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes +To censure Phyllis for perfumes; +While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, +That Florimel wears iron stays; +Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, +Admires how girls can talk with fellows; +And, full of indignation, frets, +That women should be such coquettes: +Iris, for scandal most notorious, +Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" +And Rufa, with her combs of lead, +Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: +Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, +Talks half a day in praise of silence; +And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, +Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. + Now voices over voices rise, +While each to be the loudest vies: +They contradict, affirm, dispute, +No single tongue one moment mute; +All mad to speak, and none to hearken, +They set the very lap-dog barking; +Their chattering makes a louder din +Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; +Not schoolboys at a barring out +Raised ever such incessant rout; +The jumbling particles of matter +In chaos made not such a clatter; +Far less the rabble roar and rail, +When drunk with sour election ale. + Nor do they trust their tongues alone, +But speak a language of their own; +Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, +Far better than a printed book; +Convey a libel in a frown, +And wink a reputation down; +Or by the tossing of the fan, +Describe the lady and the man. + But see, the female club disbands, +Each twenty visits on her hands. +Now all alone poor madam sits +In vapours and hysteric fits; +"And was not Tom this morning sent? +I'd lay my life he never went; +Past six, and not a living soul! +I might by this have won a vole." +A dreadful interval of spleen! +How shall we pass the time between? +"Here, Betty, let me take my drops; +And feel my pulse, I know it stops; +This head of mine, lord, how it swims! +And such a pain in all my limbs!" +"Dear madam, try to take a nap"-- +But now they hear a footman's rap: +"Go, run, and light the ladies up: +It must be one before we sup." + The table, cards, and counters, set, +And all the gamester ladies met, +Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, +Our madam can sit up all night; +"Whoever comes, I'm not within." +Quadrille's the word, and so begin. + How can the Muse her aid impart, +Unskill'd in all the terms of art? +Or in harmonious numbers put +The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? +The superstitious whims relate, +That fill a female gamester's pate? +What agony of soul she feels +To see a knave's inverted heels! +She draws up card by card, to find +Good fortune peeping from behind; +With panting heart, and earnest eyes, +In hope to see spadillo rise; +In vain, alas! her hope is fed; +She draws an ace, and sees it red; +In ready counters never pays, +But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; +Ever with some new fancy struck, +Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. +"This morning, when the parson came, +I said I should not win a game. +This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? +I think I never had good luck in't. +I'm so uneasy in my stays: +Your fan, a moment, if you please. +Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; +I always lose when you look on." +"Lord! madam, you have lost codille: +I never saw you play so ill." +"Nay, madam, give me leave to say, +'Twas you that threw the game away: +When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, +You took it with a matadore; +I saw you touch your wedding ring +Before my lady call'd a king; +You spoke a word began with H, +And I know whom you meant to teach, +Because you held the king of hearts; +Fie, madam, leave these little arts." +"That's not so bad as one that rubs +Her chair to call the king of clubs; +And makes her partner understand +A matadore is in her hand." +"Madam, you have no cause to flounce, +I swear I saw you thrice renounce." +"And truly, madam, I know when +Instead of five you scored me ten. +Spadillo here has got a mark; +A child may know it in the dark: +I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails: +I wish some folks would pare their nails." + While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, +It passes but for common form: +But, conscious that they all speak true, +And give each other but their due, +It never interrupts the game, +Or makes them sensible of shame. + The time too precious now to waste, +The supper gobbled up in haste; +Again afresh to cards they run, +As if they had but just begun. +But I shall not again repeat, +How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. +At last they hear the watchman knock, +"A frosty morn--past four o'clock." +The chairmen are not to be found, +"Come, let us play the other round." + Now all in haste they huddle on +Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone; +But, first, the winner must invite +The company to-morrow night. + Unlucky madam, left in tears, +(Who now again quadrille forswears,) +With empty purse, and aching head, +Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed. + + + + +THE LOGICIANS REFUTED + + +Logicians have but ill defined +As rational, the human kind; +Reason, they say, belongs to man, +But let them prove it if they can. +Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, +By ratiocinations specious, +Have strove to prove, with great precision, +With definition and division, +_Homo est ratione praeditum;_ +But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, +And must, in spite of them, maintain, +That man and all his ways are vain; +And that this boasted lord of nature +Is both a weak and erring creature; +That instinct is a surer guide +Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; +And that brute beasts are far before 'em. +_Deus est anima brutorum._ +Whoever knew an honest brute +At law his neighbour prosecute, +Bring action for assault or battery, +Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? +O'er plains they ramble unconfined, +No politics disturb their mind; +They eat their meals, and take their sport +Nor know who's in or out at court. +They never to the levee go +To treat, as dearest friend, a foe: +They never importune his grace, +Nor ever cringe to men in place: +Nor undertake a dirty job, +Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1] +Fraught with invective, they ne'er go +To folks at Paternoster Row. +No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, +No pickpockets, or poetasters, +Are known to honest quadrupeds; +No single brute his fellow leads. +Brutes never meet in bloody fray, +Nor cut each other's throats for pay. +Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape +Comes nearest us in human shape; +Like man, he imitates each fashion, +And malice is his lurking passion: +But, both in malice and grimaces, +A courtier any ape surpasses. +Behold him, humbly cringing, wait +Upon the minister of state; +View him soon after to inferiors +Aping the conduct of superiors; +He promises with equal air, +And to perform takes equal care. +He in his turn finds imitators, +At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, +Their masters' manner still contract, +And footmen, lords and dukes can act. +Thus, at the court, both great and small +Behave alike, for all ape all. + + +[Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of +party-writers.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN + +WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; +AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE +THE HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I + +Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor +should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; +secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a +most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, +without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be +constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either +for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... +thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might +prevent dangers to come."--_W. E. B._ + + +Ere bribes convince you whom to choose, +The precepts of Lord Coke peruse. +Observe an elephant, says he, +And let him like your member be: +First take a man that's free from _Gaul_, +For elephants have none at all; +In flocks or parties he must keep; +For elephants live just like sheep. +Stubborn in honour he must be; +For elephants ne'er bend the knee. +Last, let his memory be sound, +In which your elephant's profound; +That old examples from the wise +May prompt him in his noes and ayes. + Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ, +In all the form of lawyer's wit: +And then, with Latin and all that, +Shows the comparison is pat. +Yet in some points my lord is wrong, +One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: +Now, men of parliament, God knows, +Are more like elephants of shows; +Whose docile memory and sense +Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; +To get their master half-a-crown, +They spread the flag, or lay it down: +Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, +And guarded nations from attacks, +Now practise every pliant gesture, +Opening their trunk for every tester. +Siam, for elephants so famed, +Is not with England to be named: +Their elephants by men are sold; +Ours sell themselves, and take the gold. + + + + +PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM + +BY MR. LINDSAY[1] + +_Dublin, Sept._ 7, 1728. + + +"A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, +In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; +While smiling Nature, in her best attire, +Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. +Can he, who knows that real good should please, +Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"-- +This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, +Upon his board the client pours the ore: +He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, +Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws. + + +[Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent +pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the +Justices of the Common Pleas.--_H._] + + + + +THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT + + +Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, +And honest Paulus judges right. +Then, why these quarrels to the sun, +Without whose aid you're all undone? +Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat? +Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; +The influence of whose golden beams +Soon licks up all unsavoury steams? +The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: +It has; but then it greased his fist. +True lawyers, for the wisest ends, +Have always been Apollo's friends. +Not for his superficial powers +Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; +Not for inspiring poets' brains +With penniless and starveling strains; +Not for his boasted healing art; +Not for his skill to shoot the dart; +Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; +Nor for his prophecies in riddles: +But for a more substantial cause-- +Apollo's patron of the laws; +Whom Paulus ever must adore, +As parent of the golden ore, +By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, +Begot upon his grandam Earth; +By Phoebus first produced to light; +By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: +Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, +By clients to her priests and trustees. +Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand +With even balance in her hand, +Must we suppose she has in view, +How to give every man his due; +Her scales you see her only hold, +To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold. + Now, should I own your case was grievous, +Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? +'Tis very true, and none denies, +At least, that such complaints are wise: +'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, +To cry, like statesmen, _Quanta patimur!_ +But, since the truth must needs be stretched +To prove that lawyers are so wretched, +This paradox I'll undertake, +For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; +By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, +May serve as arguments _ad hominem_: +Yet I disdain to offer those +Made use of by detracting foes. + I own the curses of mankind +Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: +The clamours of ten thousand tongues +Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; +I own, his conscience always free, +(Provided he has got his fee,) +Secure of constant peace within, +He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. + Yet well they merit to be pitied, +By clients always overwitted. +And though the gospel seems to say, +What heavy burdens lawyers lay +Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, +Nor lend a finger to their labour, +Always for saving their own bacon; +No doubt, the text is here mistaken: +The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: +To prove it, I appeal to fact; +And thus by demonstration show +What burdens lawyers undergo. + With early clients at his door, +Though he was drunk the night before, +And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, +The wretch must be at court by nine; +Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, +As ridden by a midnight hag; +Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, +In English vile, and viler French, +And Latin, vilest of the three; +And all for poor ten moidores fee! +Of paper how is he profuse, +With periods long, in terms abstruse! +What pains he takes to be prolix! +A thousand lines to stand for six! +Of common sense without a word in! +And is not this a grievous burden? + The lawyer is a common drudge, +To fight our cause before the judge: +And, what is yet a greater curse, +Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: +While he at ease, secure and light, +Walks boldly home at dead of night; +When term is ended, leaves the town, +Trots to his country mansion down; +And, disencumber'd of his load, +No danger dreads upon the road; +Despises rapparees,[2] and rides +Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. + Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, +To state this question _pro_ and _con_. +My satire may offend, 'tis true; +However, it concerns not you. +I own, there may, in every clan, +Perhaps, be found one honest man; +Yet link them close, in this they jump, +To be but rascals in the lump. +Imagine Lindsay at the bar, +He's much the same his brethren are; +Well taught by practice to imbibe +The fundamentals of his tribe: +And in his client's just defence, +Must deviate oft from common sense; +And make his ignorance discern'd, +To get the name of counsel-learn'd, +(As _lucus_ comes _a non lucendo_,) +And wisely do as other men do: +But shift him to a better scene, +Among his crew of rogues in grain; +Surrounded with companions fit, +To taste his humour, sense, and wit; +You'd swear he never took a fee, +Nor knew in law his A, B, C. + 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, +To keep good sense in crowds of fools. +And we admire the man, who saves +His honesty in crowds of knaves; +Nor yields up virtue at discretion, +To villains of his own profession. +Lindsay, you know what pains you take +In both, yet hardly save your stake; +And will you venture both anew, +To sit among that venal crew, +That pack of mimic legislators, +Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters? +For as the rabble daub and rifle +The fool who scrambles for a trifle; +Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, +Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; +You must expect the like disgrace, +Scrambling with rogues to get a place; +Must lose the honour you have gain'd, +Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: +Disclaim for ever all pretence +To common honesty and sense; +And join in friendship with a strict tie, +To M--l, C--y, and Dick Tighe.[3] + + +[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave +the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, +150.--_W. E .B._] + +[Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, +and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times +mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and +how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, +etc.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A DIALOGUE + +BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN +SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, +BOOK II, SATIRE I + +"Sunt quibus in Satira," etc. + +WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729 + + +DR. SWIFT + +Since there are persons who complain +There's too much satire in my vein; +That I am often found exceeding +The rules of raillery and breeding; +With too much freedom treat my betters, +Not sparing even men of letters: +You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, +What's your advice? Shall I give o'er? +Nor ever fools or knaves expose, +Either in verse or humorous prose: +And to avoid all future ill, +In my scrutoire lock up my quill? + +LAWYER + + Since you are pleased to condescend +To ask the judgment of a friend, +Your case consider'd, I must think +You should withdraw from pen and ink, +Forbear your poetry and jokes, +And live like other Christian folks; +Or if the Muses must inspire +Your fancy with their pleasing fire, +Take subjects safer for your wit +Than those on which you lately writ. +Commend the times, your thoughts correct, +And follow the prevailing sect; +Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story, +Shows all the malice of a Tory; +While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page, +Discovers freedom without rage. +To Woolston[4] recommend our youth, +For learning, probity, and truth; +That noble genius, who unbinds +The chains which fetter freeborn minds; +Redeems us from the slavish fears +Which lasted near two thousand years; +He can alone the priesthood humble, +Make gilded spires and altars tumble. + +DR. SWIFT + + Must I commend against my conscience, +Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense; +To such a subject tune my lyre, +And sing like one of Milton's choir, +Where devils to a vale retreat, +And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate; +Lament upon their hapless fall, +That Force free Virtue should enthrall? +Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power +Make me pollute the Muses' bower? + +LAWYER + + As from the tripod of Apollo, +Hear from my desk the words that follow: +"Some, by philosophers misled, +Must honour you alive and dead; +And such as know what Greece has writ, +Must taste your irony and wit; +While most that are, or would be great, +Must dread your pen, your person hate; +And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie, +And there without a mitre die." + + +[Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."] + +[Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the +Reformation."] + +[Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him, +see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles +caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in +1733.--_W.E.B._] + +[Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.--_F_.] + + + + +ON BURNING A DULL POEM + +1729 + + +An ass's hoof alone can hold +That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. +Methought, when I this poem read, +No vessel but an ass's head +Such frigid fustian could contain; +I mean, the head without the brain. +The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, +Went down like stupifying draughts; +I found my head begin to swim, +A numbness crept through every limb. +In haste, with imprecations dire, +I threw the volume in the fire; +When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, +It burnt to ashes in a trice. + How could I more enhance its fame? +Though born in snow, it died in flame. + + + + +AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD +OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN[1] TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE. 1730 + + +Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, + And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, +(A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year, + For the good of our church, a true English dean. +A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, +The worst you can say, he committed a rape. + +In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, + And there he grew fond of another man's wife; +Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her; + But she valued her honour much more than her life. +She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape +To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape. + +The dean he pursued, to recover his game; + And now to attack her again he prepares: +But the company stood in defence of the dame, + They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs. +His deanship was now in a damnable scrape, +And this was no time for committing a rape. + +To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, + And orders the landlord to bring him a whore; +No scruple came on him his gown to expose, + 'Twas what all his life he had practised before. +He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, +And got a good clap, but committed no rape. + +The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, + Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight; +For why, they had both been brought up to the trade + Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night. +His landlord was ready his deanship to ape +In every debauch but committing a rape. + +This Protestant zealot, this English divine, + In church and in state was of principles sound; +Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line, + And grieved that a Tory should live above ground. +Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape, +For no other crime but committing a rape? + +By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, + Each priest had a concubine _jure ecclesiae_; +Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a _commendam_? + And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: +Then why should the dean, when whores are so cheap, +Be put to the peril and toil of a rape? + +If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet, + (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,) +To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, + Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser. +But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape, +For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape. + +Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, + Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten? +To hang him, all England would lend him their garters, + Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3] +Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, +For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape. + +The dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing; + He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; +He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling; + But here was to pay the devil and all. +His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap, +And hang'd he must be for committing a rape. + +If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: + Why are they so wilful to struggle with men? +If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, + No devil nor dean could ravish them then. +Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape +Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape. + +Our church and our state dear England maintains, + For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: +She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, + And better would give us, if better she had. +But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, +When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape! + + +[Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered +himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the +Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."--_London Evening +Post_, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean +of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose +trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on +behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's +Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her +for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape +was committed against her in the city of Dublin."--_Daily Post-Boy_, June +23, 1730.--_Nichols_.] + +[Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years +ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.--See "The penitent death of +a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at +Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several +passages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements, +preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland. + +"_Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius +Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam assequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed +magisterium sanctitatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia fortasse +quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille +laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi_. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin, +Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."] + +[Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty +of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was +fined L300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of +Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the +Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ON STEPHEN DUCK +THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET + +A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730 + +The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, +The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." +From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; +For which her majesty allows him grains: +Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw +His poems, think them all not worth a straw! + Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble, +Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double. + +[Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small +collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal +Gardens of Richmond. + "How shall we fill a library with wit, + When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?" +POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Ep. 1.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730 + +Five hours (and who can do it less in?) +By haughty Celia spent in dressing; +The goddess from her chamber issues, +Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues. + Strephon, who found the room was void, +And Betty otherwise employ'd, +Stole in, and took a strict survey +Of all the litter as it lay: +Whereof, to make the matter clear, +An inventory follows here. + And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, +Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd; +Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, +And turn'd it round on ev'ry side: +On such a point, few words are best, +And Strephon bids us guess the rest; +But swears, how damnably the men lie +In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. + Now listen, while he next produces +The various combs for various uses; +Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, +No brush could force a way betwixt; +A paste of composition rare, +Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: +A fore-head cloth with oil upon't, +To smooth the wrinkles on her front: +Here alum-flour, to stop the steams +Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: +There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, +[1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; +With puppy-water, beauty's help, +Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp. +Here gallipots and vials placed, +Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; +Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, +And ointments good for scabby chops. +Hard by a filthy bason stands, +Foul'd with the scouring of her hands: +The bason takes whatever comes, +The scrapings from her teeth and gums, +A nasty compound of all hues, +For here she spits, and here she spues. + But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels +When he beheld and smelt the towels, +Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd, +With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd; +No object Strephon's eye escapes; +Here petticoats in frouzy heaps; +Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, +All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot. +The stockings why should I expose, +Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2] +Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking, +Which Celia slept at least a week in? +A pair of tweezers next he found, +To pluck her brows in arches round; +Or hairs that sink the forehead low, +Or on her chin like bristles grow. + The virtues we must not let pass +Of Celia's magnifying glass; +When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't, +It shew'd the visage of a giant: +A glass that can to sight disclose +The smallest worm in Celia's nose, +And faithfully direct her nail +To squeeze it out from head to tail; +For, catch it nicely by the head, +It must come out, alive or dead. + Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest? +And must you needs describe the chest? +That careless wench! no creature warn her +To move it out from yonder corner! +But leave it standing full in sight, +For you to exercise your spight? +In vain the workman shew'd his wit, +With rings and hinges counterfeit, +To make it seem in this disguise +A cabinet to vulgar eyes: +Which Strephon ventur'd to look in, +Resolved to go thro' thick and thin. +He lifts the lid: there needs no more, +He smelt it all the time before. + As, from within Pandora's box, +When Epimetheus op'd the locks, +A sudden universal crew +Of human evils upward flew; +He still was comforted to find +That hope at last remain'd behind: +So Strephon, lifting up the lid, +To view what in the chest was hid, +The vapours flew from up the vent; +But Strephon, cautious, never meant +The bottom of the pan to grope, +And foul his hands in search of hope. +O! ne'er may such a vile machine +Be once in Celia's chamber seen! +O! may she better learn to keep +Those "secrets of the hoary deep." [3] + As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat, +Which, tho' with art you salt and beat, +As laws of cookery require, +And toast them at the clearest fire; +If from upon the hopeful chops +The fat upon a cinder drops, +To stinking smoke it turns the flame, +Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came, +And up exhales a greasy stench, +For which you curse the careless wench: +So things which must not be exprest, +When drop'd into the reeking chest, +Send up an excremental smell +To taint the part from whence they fell: +The petticoats and gown perfume, +And waft a stink round ev'ry room. + Thus finishing his grand survey, +Disgusted Strephon slunk away; +Repeating in his amorous fits, +"Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--!" +But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping, +Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: +His foul imagination links +Each dame he sees with all her stinks; +And, if unsavoury odours fly, +Conceives a lady standing by. +All women his description fits, +And both ideas jump like wits; +By vicious fancy coupled fast, +And still appearing in contrast. + I pity wretched Strephon, blind +To all the charms of woman kind. +Should I the Queen of Love refuse, +Because she rose from stinking ooze? +To him that looks behind the scene, +Statira's but some pocky quean. + When Celia in her glory shews, +If Strephon would but stop his nose, +(Who now so impiously blasphemes +Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, +Her washes, slops, and every clout, +With which he makes so foul a rout;) +He soon would learn to think like me, +And bless his ravish'd sight to see +Such order from confusion sprung, +Such gaudy tulips raised from dung. + + +[Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."--1732.] + +[Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."--1732.] + +[Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: + "Before their eyes in sudden view appear + The secrets of the hoary deep."--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 + +If neither brass nor marble can withstand +The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; +If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, +And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; +When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine) +Is out at elbows, why should I repine? + + + + +CASSINUS AND PETER + +A TRAGICAL ELEGY + +1731 + + +Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, +Both special wits and lovers both, +Conferring, as they used to meet, +On love, and books, in rapture sweet; +(Muse, find me names to fit my metre, +Cassinus this, and t'other Peter.) +Friend Peter to Cassinus goes, +To chat a while, and warm his nose: +But such a sight was never seen, +The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen. +He seem'd as just crept out of bed; +One greasy stocking round his head, +The other he sat down to darn, +With threads of different colour'd yarn; +His breeches torn, exposing wide +A ragged shirt and tawny hide. +Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare, +But well embrown'd with dirt and hair +A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown, +(A rug, for nightgown he had none,) +His jordan stood in manner fitting +Between his legs, to spew or spit in; +His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, +And half unsmoked, lay by his side. + Him thus accoutred Peter found, +With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; +The leavings of his last night's pot +On embers placed, to drink it hot. + Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate: +What makes thee lie a-bed so late? +The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, +Their matins chant in every bush; +And I have heard thee oft salute +Aurora with thy early flute. +Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps! +How! not a word come from thy lips? + Then gave him some familiar thumps, +A college joke to cure the dumps. + The swain at last, with grief opprest, +Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest. + Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread, +Yet ask I must--is Celia dead? + How happy I, were that the worst! +But I was fated to be curst! + Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore? + O Peter, would it were no more! + Why, plague confound her sandy locks! +Say, has the small or greater pox +Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face? +Be easy, 'tis a common case. + O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, +Which time and accidents will tarnish: +But Celia has contrived to blast +Those beauties that might ever last. +Nor can imagination guess, +Nor eloquence divine express, +How that ungrateful charming maid +My purest passion has betray'd: +Conceive the most envenom'd dart +To pierce an injured lover's heart. + Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, +I know she loves the barber's boy. + Friend Peter, this I could excuse, +For every nymph has leave to choose; +Nor have I reason to complain, +She loves a more deserving swain. +But, oh! how ill hast thou divined +A crime, that shocks all human kind; +A deed unknown to female race, +At which the sun should hide his face: +Advice in vain you would apply-- +Then leave me to despair and die. +Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn +These elegies and sonnets burn; +And on the marble grave these rhymes, +A monument to after-times-- +"Here Cassy lies, by Celia slain, +And dying, never told his pain." + Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, +The loud Cerberian triple bark; +And there--behold Alecto stand, +A whip of scorpions in her hand: +Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry +Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry: +I come! I come! Medusa see, +Her serpents hiss direct at me. +Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: +"Avaunt--ye cannot say 'twas I."[1] + Dear Cassy, thou must purge and bleed; +I fear thou wilt be mad indeed. +But now, by friendship's sacred laws, +I here conjure thee, tell the cause; +And Celia's horrid fact relate: +Thy friend would gladly share thy fate. + To force it out, my heart must rend; +Yet when conjured by such a friend-- +Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd! +These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact. +Now bend thine ear, since out it must; +But, when thou seest me laid in dust, +The secret thou shalt ne'er impart, +Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; + (How would her virgin soul bemoan +A crime to all her sex unknown!) +Nor whisper to the tattling reeds +The blackest of all female deeds; +Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, +Where Echo sits, and listening mocks; +Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale +Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; +Nor to the chattering feather'd race +Discover Celia's foul disgrace. +But, if you fail, my spectre dread, +Attending nightly round your bed-- +And yet I dare confide in you; +So take my secret, and adieu: +Nor wonder how I lost my wits: +Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--! + + +[Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: + "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc. + "Avaunt, and quit my sight."] + + + + +A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. + +WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731 + + +Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, +For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; +Never did Covent-Garden boast +So bright a batter'd strolling toast! +No drunken rake to pick her up, +No cellar where on tick to sup; +Returning at the midnight hour, +Four stories climbing to her bower; +Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, +Takes off her artificial hair; +Now picking out a crystal eye, +She wipes it clean, and lays it by. +Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide +Stuck on with art on either side, +Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, +Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em. +Now dext'rously her plumpers draws, +That serve to fill her hollow jaws, +Untwists a wire, and from her gums +A set of teeth completely comes; +Pulls out the rags contrived to prop +Her flabby dugs, and down they drop. +Proceeding on, the lovely goddess +Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, +Which, by the operator's skill, +Press down the lumps, the hollows fill. +Up goes her hand, and off she slips +The bolsters that supply her hips; +With gentlest touch she next explores +Her chancres, issues, running sores; +Effects of many a sad disaster, +And then to each applies a plaster: +But must, before she goes to bed, +Rub off the daubs of white and red, +And smooth the furrows in her front +With greasy paper stuck upon't. +She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; +And then between two blankets creeps. +With pains of love tormented lies; +Or, if she chance to close her eyes, +Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams, +And feels the lash, and faintly screams; +Or, by a faithless bully drawn, +At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; +Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported +Alone, and by no planter courted; +Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks, +Surrounded with a hundred stinks, +Belated, seems on watch to lie, +And snap some cully passing by; +Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs +On watchmen, constables, and duns, +From whom she meets with frequent rubs; +But never from religious clubs; +Whose favour she is sure to find, +Because she pays them all in kind. + Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight! +Behold the ruins of the night! +A wicked rat her plaster stole, +Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole. +The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd; +And puss had on her plumpers p--st, +A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease: +And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas. + The nymph, though in this mangled plight +Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite. +But how shall I describe her arts +To re-collect the scatter'd parts? +Or show the anguish, toil, and pain, +Of gath'ring up herself again? +The bashful Muse will never bear +In such a scene to interfere. +Corinna, in the morning dizen'd, +Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd. + + +[Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the +Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and +pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See +the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily, +been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New +Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished. +For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present," +by Wheatley.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See +"A quiet life and a good name," _ante_, p. 152.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: See _ante_, p. 78, "Descripton of a City +Shower."--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +STREPHON AND CHLOE +1731 + + +Of Chloe all the town has rung, +By ev'ry size of poets sung: +So beautiful a nymph appears +But once in twenty thousand years; +By Nature form'd with nicest care, +And faultless to a single hair. +Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, +Confess'd her of no mortal race: +And then so nice, and so genteel; +Such cleanliness from head to heel; +No humours gross, or frouzy steams, +No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, +Before, behind, above, below, +Could from her taintless body flow: +Would so discreetly things dispose, +None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] +Her dearest comrades never caught her +Squat on her hams to make maid's water: +You'd swear that so divine a creature +Felt no necessities of nature. +In summer had she walk'd the town, +Her armpits would not stain her gown: +At country dances, not a nose +Could in the dog-days smell her toes. +Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs, +Like ivory dry, and soft as wax. +Her hands, the softest ever felt, +[2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. + Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid, +Nor let her loose to spoil your trade. +While she engrosses ev'ry swain, +You but o'er half the world can reign. +Think what a case all men are now in, +What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing! +What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts! +What hampers full of bleeding hearts! +What sword-knots! what poetic strains! +What billets-doux, and clouded canes! + But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong, +He blew a settlement along; +And bravely drove his rivals down, +With coach and six, and house in town. +The bashful nymph no more withstands, +Because her dear papa commands. +The charming couple now unites: +Proceed we to the marriage rites. + _Imprimis_, at the Temple porch +Stood Hymen with a flaming torch: +The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings +Her infant loves with purple wings: +And pigeons billing, sparrows treading, +Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding. +The Muses next in order follow, +Conducted by their squire, Apollo: +Then Mercury with silver tongue; +And Hebe, goddess ever young. +Behold, the bridegroom and his bride +Walk hand in hand, and side by side; +She, by the tender Graces drest, +But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest. +The nymph was cover'd with her _flammeum_[3], +And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4]. +And last, to make the matter sure, +Dame Juno brought a priest demure. +[5]Luna was absent, on pretence +Her time was not till nine months hence. +The rites perform'd, the parson paid, +In state return'd the grand parade; +With loud huzzas from all the boys, +That now the pair must crown their joys. + But still the hardest part remains: +Strephon had long perplex'd his brains, +How with so high a nymph he might +Demean himself the wedding-night: +For, as he view'd his person round, +Mere mortal flesh was all he found: +His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet, +Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet; +With other parts, that shall be nameless, +The ladies else might think me shameless. +The weather and his love were hot; +And, should he struggle, I know what-- +Why, let it go, if I must tell it-- +He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it; +While she, a goddess dyed in grain, +Was unsusceptible of stain, +And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin +Exhaled ambrosia from within. +Can such a deity endure +A mortal human touch impure? +How did the humbled swain detest +His prickly beard, and hairy breast! +His night-cap, border'd round with lace, +Could give no softness to his face. + Yet, if the goddess could be kind, +What endless raptures must he find! +And goddesses have now and then +Come down to visit mortal men; +To visit and to court them too: +A certain goddess, God knows who, +(As in a book he heard it read,) +Took Col'nel Peleus[6] to her bed. +But what if he should lose his life +By vent'ring on his heavenly wife! +(For Strephon could remember well, +That once he heard a school-boy tell, +How Semele,[7] of mortal race, +By thunder died in Jove's embrace.) +And what if daring Strephon dies +By lightning shot from Chloe's eyes! + While these reflections fill'd his head, +The bride was put in form to bed: +He follow'd, stript, and in he crept, +But awfully his distance kept. + Now, "ponder well, ye parents dear;" +Forbid your daughters guzzling beer; +And make them ev'ry afternoon +Forbear their tea, or drink it soon; +That, ere to bed they venture up, +They may discharge it ev'ry sup; +If not, they must in evil plight +Be often forc'd to rise at night. +Keep them to wholesome food confin'd, +Nor let them taste what causes wind: +'Tis this the sage of Samos means, +Forbidding his disciples beans.[8] +O! think what evils must ensue; +Miss Moll, the jade, will burn it blue; +And, when she once has got the art, +She cannot help it for her heart; +But out it flies, even when she meets +Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets. +_Carminative_ and _diuretic_[9] +Will damp all passion sympathetic; +And Love such nicety requires, +One blast will put out all his fires. +Since husbands get behind the scene, +The wife should study to be clean; +Nor give the smallest room to guess +The time when wants of nature press; +But after marriage practise more +Decorum than she did before; +To keep her spouse deluded still, +And make him fancy what she will. + In bed we left the married pair; +'Tis time to show how things went there. +Strephon, who had been often told +That fortune still assists the bold, +Resolved to make the first attack; +But Chloe drove him fiercely back. +How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe, +With constitution cold and snowy, +Permit a brutish man to touch her? +Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher. +Resistance on the wedding-night +Is what our maidens claim by right; +And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed, +Was maid in thought, in word, and deed. +Yet some assign a different reason; +That Strephon chose no proper season. + Say, fair ones, must I make a pause, +Or freely tell the secret cause? + Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak) +Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak. +This point must needs be settled first: +The bride must either void or burst. +Then see the dire effects of pease; +Think what can give the colic ease. +The nymph oppress'd before, behind, +As ships are toss'd by waves and wind, +Steals out her hand, by nature led, +And brings a vessel into bed; +Fair utensil, as smooth and white +As Chloe's skin, almost as bright. + Strephon, who heard the fuming rill +As from a mossy cliff distil, +Cried out, Ye Gods! what sound is this? +Can Chloe, heavenly Chloe,----? +But when he smelt a noisome steam +Which oft attends that lukewarm stream; +(Salerno both together joins,[10] +As sov'reign med'cines for the loins:) +And though contriv'd, we may suppose, +To slip his ears, yet struck his nose; +He found her while the scent increast, +As mortal as himself at least. +But soon, with like occasions prest +He boldly sent his hand in quest +(Inspired with courage from his bride) +To reach the pot on t'other side; +And, as he fill'd the reeking vase; +Let fly a rouser in her face. + The little Cupids hov'ring round, +(As pictures prove) with garlands crown'd, +Abash'd at what they saw and heard, +Flew off, nor ever more appear'd. + Adieu to ravishing delights, +High raptures, and romantic flights; +To goddesses so heav'nly sweet, +Expiring shepherds at their feet; +To silver meads and shady bowers, +Dress'd up with amaranthine flowers. + How great a change! how quickly made! +They learn to call a spade a spade. +They soon from all constraint are freed; +Can see each other do their need. +On box of cedar sits the wife, +And makes it warm for dearest life; +And, by the beastly way of thinking, +Find great society in stinking. +Now Strephon daily entertains +His Chloe in the homeliest strains; +And Chloe, more experienc'd grown, +With int'rest pays him back his own. +No maid at court is less asham'd, +Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd, +Than she to name her parts behind, +Or when a-bed to let out wind. + Fair Decency, celestial maid! +Descend from Heaven to Beauty's aid! +Though Beauty may beget desire, +'Tis thou must fan the Lover's fire; +For Beauty, like supreme dominion, +Is best supported by Opinion: +If Decency bring no supplies, +Opinion falls, and Beauty dies. + To see some radiant nymph appear +In all her glitt'ring birth-day gear, +You think some goddess from the sky +Descended, ready cut and dry: +But ere you sell yourself to laughter, +Consider well what may come after; +For fine ideas vanish fast, +While all the gross and filthy last. + O Strephon, ere that fatal day +When Chloe stole your heart away, +Had you but through a cranny spy'd +On house of ease your future bride, +In all the postures of her face, +Which nature gives in such a case; +Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings, +'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings, +Than from experience find too late +Your goddess grown a filthy mate. +Your fancy then had always dwelt +On what you saw and what you smelt; +Would still the same ideas give ye, +As when you spy'd her on the privy; +And, spite of Chloe's charms divine, +Your heart had been as whole as mine. + Authorities, both old and recent, +Direct that women must be decent; +And from the spouse each blemish hide, +More than from all the world beside. + Unjustly all our nymphs complain +Their empire holds so short a reign; +Is, after marriage, lost so soon, +It hardly lasts the honey-moon: +For, if they keep not what they caught, +It is entirely their own fault. +They take possession of the crown, +And then throw all their weapons down: +Though, by the politician's scheme, +Whoe'er arrives at power supreme, +Those arts, by which at first they gain it, +They still must practise to maintain it. + What various ways our females take +To pass for wits before a rake! +And in the fruitless search pursue +All other methods but the true! + Some try to learn polite behaviour +By reading books against their Saviour; +Some call it witty to reflect +On ev'ry natural defect; +Some shew they never want explaining +To comprehend a double meaning. +But sure a tell-tale out of school +Is of all wits the greatest fool; +Whose rank imagination fills +Her heart, and from her lips distils; +You'd think she utter'd from behind, +Or at her mouth was breaking wind. + Why is a handsome wife ador'd +By every coxcomb but her lord? +From yonder puppet-man inquire, +Who wisely hides his wood and wire; +Shows Sheba's queen completely drest, +And Solomon in royal vest: +But view them litter'd on the floor, +Or strung on pegs behind the door; +Punch is exactly of a piece +With Lorrain's duke, and prince of Greece. + A prudent builder should forecast +How long the stuff is like to last; +And carefully observe the ground, +To build on some foundation sound. +What house, when its materials crumble, +Must not inevitably tumble? +What edifice can long endure +Raised on a basis unsecure? +Rash mortals, ere you take a wife, +Contrive your pile to last for life: +Since beauty scarce endures a day, +And youth so swiftly glides away; +Why will you make yourself a bubble, +To build on sand with hay and stubble? + On sense and wit your passion found, +By decency cemented round; +Let prudence with good-nature strive, +To keep esteem and love alive. +Then come old age whene'er it will, +Your friendship shall continue still: +And thus a mutual gentle fire +Shall never but with life expire. + + +[Footnote 1: A delicate way of speaking of a lady retiring behind a bush +in a garden.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: + "Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull + Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full." +DENHAM, _Cooper's Hill._] + + +[Footnote 3: A veil with which the Roman brides covered themselves when +going to be married.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Marriage song, sung at weddings.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Diana.] + +[Footnote 6: Who married Thetis, the Nereid, by whom he became the father +of Achilles.--Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. xi, 221, _seq.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: See Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. iii.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 8: A precept of Pythagoras. Hence, in French _argot_, beans, as +causing wind, are called _musiciens.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: Provocative of perspiration and urine.] + +[Footnote 1: "Mingere cum bombis res est saluberrima lumbis." A precept +to be found in the "Regimen Sanitatis," or "Schola Salernitana," a work +in rhyming Latin verse composed at Salerno, the earliest school in +Christian Europe where medicine was professed, taught, and practised. The +original text, if anywhere, is in the edition published and commented +upon by Arnaldus de Villa Nova, about 1480. Subsequently above one +hundred and sixty editions of the "Schola Salernitana" were published, +with many additions. A reprint of the first edition, edited by Sir +Alexander Croke, with woodcuts from the editions of 1559, 1568, and +1573, was published at Oxford in 1830.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +APOLLO; OR, A PROBLEM SOLVED +1731 + + +Apollo, god of light and wit, +Could verse inspire, but seldom writ, +Refined all metals with his looks, +As well as chemists by their books; +As handsome as my lady's page; +Sweet five-and-twenty was his age. +His wig was made of sunny rays, +He crown'd his youthful head with bays; +Not all the court of Heaven could show +So nice and so complete a beau. +No heir upon his first appearance, +With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents, +E'er drove, before he sold his land, +So fine a coach along the Strand; +The spokes, we are by Ovid told, +Were silver, and the axle gold: +I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four, +For Jupiter allows no more. + Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts, +Enough to win ten thousand hearts, +No vulgar deity above +Was so unfortunate in love. + Three weighty causes were assign'd, +That moved the nymphs to be unkind. +Nine Muses always waiting round him, +He left them virgins as he found them. +His singing was another fault; +For he could reach to B in _alt_: +And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1] +Such singers are like Nicolini. +At last, the point was fully clear'd; +In short, Apollo had no beard. + + +[Footnote 1: "Bubus tantum feminis vox gravior, in alio omni genere +exilior quam maribus, in homine etiam castratis."--"Hist. Nat.," xi, 51. +"A condicione castrati seminis quae spadonia appellant Belgae," +_ib_. xv.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED +1731 + + +All folks who pretend to religion and grace, +Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: +But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined +The place of the damn'd--I'll tell you my mind. +Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, +Most certainly there is HELL to be found: +Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves, +Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; +Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; +Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; +Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; +Damn'd time-serving priests all over the nation; +And into the bargain I'll readily give you +Damn'd ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy. +Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, +For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: +And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. +How happy for us that it is not at home! + + + + +THE DAY OF JUDGMENT[1] + +With a whirl of thought oppress'd, +I sunk from reverie to rest. +An horrid vision seized my head; +I saw the graves give up their dead! +Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, +And thunder roars and lightning flies! +Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, +The world stands trembling at his throne! +While each pale sinner hung his head, +Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: +"Offending race of human kind, +By nature, reason, _learning_, blind; +You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; +And you, who never fell--_through pride_: +You who in different sects were shamm'd, +And come to see each other damn'd; +(So some folk told you, but they knew +No more of Jove's designs than you;) +--The world's mad business now is o'er, +And I resent these pranks no more. +--I to such blockheads set my wit! +I damn such fools!--Go, go, you're _bit_." + + +[Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to +Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says: "Je vous envoie +ci-jointe une piece par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous +deplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais ete imprimee, vous en devinerez bien la +raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, ecrit de sa +propre main."--_W. E. B._] + + + + + +JUDAS. 1731 + + +By the just vengeance of incensed skies, +Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. +The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe, +Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe; +Which though his conscience forced him to restore, +(And parsons tell us, no man can do more,) +Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst, +He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst. +Those former ages differ'd much from this; +Judas betray'd his master with a kiss: +But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times, +Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes; +Some who can perjure through a two inch-board, +Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord: +Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn +To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn. + As ancient Judas by transgression fell, +And burst asunder ere he went to hell; +So could we see a set of new Iscariots +Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots; +Each modern Judas perish like the first, +Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst; +Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face, +To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place, +His habitation let all men forsake, +And let his bishopric another take!" + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] +1731 + + +How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, +To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] +Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere, +Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear. +Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, +To lose an inch of favour for a friend? + Say, had the court no better place to choose +For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse? +How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, +To squire a royal girl of two years old: +In leading strings her infant steps to guide, +Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5] + But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame, +Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame. +Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied, +When o'er your patron's treasure you preside: +The world shall own, his choice was wise and just, +For sons of Phoebus never break their trust. + Not love of beauty less the heart inflames +Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames, +Their passions not more impotent and cold, +Than those of poets to the lust of gold. +With Paean's purest fire his favourites glow, +The dregs will serve to ripen ore below: +His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit +That wealth should be the appanage of wit, +The god of light could ne'er have been so blind +To deal it to the worst of human kind. + But let me now, for I can do it well, +Your conduct in this new employ foretell. + And first: to make my observation right, +I place a statesman full before my sight, +A bloated minister in all his gear, +With shameless visage and perfidious leer: +Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw, +And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw. +My fancy drags this monster to my view, +To shew the world his chief reverse in you. +Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood +Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud; +With these the court and senate-house he plies, +Made up of noise, and impudence, and lies. + Now let me show how Bob and you agree: +You serve a potent prince,[7] as well as he. +The ducal coffers trusted to your charge, +Your honest care may fill, perhaps enlarge: +His vassals easy, and the owner blest; +They pay a trifle, and enjoy the rest. +Not so a nation's revenues are paid; +The servant's faults are on the master laid. +The people with a sigh their taxes bring, +And, cursing Bob, forget to bless the king. + Next hearken, Gay, to what thy charge requires, +With servants, tenants, and the neighbouring squires, +Let all domestics feel your gentle sway; +Nor bribe, insult, nor flatter, nor betray. +Let due reward to merit be allow'd; +Nor with your kindred half the palace crowd; +Nor think yourself secure in doing wrong, +By telling noses [8] with a party strong. + Be rich; but of your wealth make no parade; +At least, before your master's debts are paid; +Nor in a palace, built with charge immense, +Presume to treat him at his own expense.[9] +Each farmer in the neighbourhood can count +To what your lawful perquisites amount. +The tenants poor, the hardness of the times, +Are ill excuses for a servant's crimes. +With interest, and a premium paid beside, +The master's pressing wants must be supplied; +With hasty zeal behold the steward come +By his own credit to advance the sum; +Who, while th'unrighteous Mammon is his friend, +May well conclude his power will never end. +A faithful treasurer! what could he do more? +He lends my lord what was my lord's before. + The law so strictly guards the monarch's health, +That no physician dares prescribe by stealth: +The council sit; approve the doctor's skill; +And give advice before he gives the pill. +But the state empiric acts a safer part; +And, while he poisons, wins the royal heart. + But how can I describe the ravenous breed? +Then let me now by negatives proceed. + Suppose your lord a trusty servant send +On weighty business to some neighbouring friend: +Presume not, Gay, unless you serve a drone, +To countermand his orders by your own. +Should some imperious neighbour sink the boats, +And drain the fish-ponds, while your master dotes; +Shall he upon the ducal rights intrench, +Because he bribed you with a brace of tench? + Nor from your lord his bad condition hide, +To feed his luxury, or soothe his pride. +Nor at an under rate his timber sell, +And with an oath assure him, all is well; +Or swear it rotten, and with humble airs [10] +Request it of him, to complete your stairs; +Nor, when a mortgage lies on half his lands, +Come with a purse of guineas in your hands. + Have Peter Waters [11] always in your mind; +That rogue, of genuine ministerial kind, +Can half the peerage by his arts bewitch, +Starve twenty lords to make one scoundrel rich: +And, when he gravely has undone a score, +Is humbly pray'd to ruin twenty more. + A dext'rous steward, when his tricks are found, +Hush-money sends to all the neighbours round; +His master, unsuspicious of his pranks, +Pays all the cost, and gives the villain thanks. +And, should a friend attempt to set him right, +His lordship would impute it all to spite; +Would love his favourite better than before, +And trust his honesty just so much more. +Thus families, like realms, with equal fate, +Are sunk by premier ministers of state. + Some, when an heir succeeds, go bodily on, +And, as they robb'd the father, rob the son. +A knave, who deep embroils his lord's affairs, +Will soon grow necessary to his heirs. +His policy consists in setting traps, +In finding ways and means, and stopping gaps; +He knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, +Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease. +In either case, an equal chance is run; +For, keep or turn him out, my lord's undone. +You want a hand to clear a filthy sink; +No cleanly workman can endure the stink. +A strong dilemma in a desperate case! +To act with infamy, or quit the place. + A bungler thus, who scarce the nail can hit, +With driving wrong will make the panel split: +Nor dares an abler workman undertake +To drive a second, lest the whole should break. + In every court the parallel will hold; +And kings, like private folks, are bought and sold. +The ruling rogue, who dreads to be cashler'd, +Contrives, as he is hated, to be fear'd; +Confounds accounts, perplexes all affairs: +For vengeance more embroils, than skill repairs. +So robbers, (and their ends are just the same,) +To 'scape inquiries, leave the house in flame. + I knew a brazen minister of state,[12] +Who bore for twice ten years the public hate. +In every mouth the question most in vogue +Was, when will they turn out this odious rogue? +A juncture happen'd in his highest pride: +While he went robbing on, his master died.[13] +We thought there now remain'd no room to doubt; +The work is done, the minister must out. +The court invited more than one or two: +Will you, Sir Spencer?[14] or will you, or you? +But not a soul his office durst accept; +The subtle knave had all the plunder swept: +And, such was then the temper of the times, +He owed his preservation to his crimes. +The candidates observed his dirty paws; +Nor found it difficult to guess the cause: +But, when they smelt such foul corruptions round him, +Away they fled, and left him as they found him. + Thus, when a greedy sloven once has thrown +His snot into the mess, 'tis all his own. + + +[Footnote 1: The Dean having been told by an intimate friend that the +Duke of Queensberry had employed Mr. Gay to inspect the accounts and +management of his grace's receivers and stewards (which, however, proved +to be a mistake), wrote this Epistle to his friend.--_H_. Through the +whole piece, under the pretext of instructing Gay in his duty as the +duke's auditor of accounts, he satirizes the conduct of Sir Robert +Walpole, then Prime Minister.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: See the "Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret," _post_.] + +[Footnote 3: The Countess of Suffolk.--_H._] + +[Footnote 4: Sir Robert Walpole.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 5: The post of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa was +offered to Gay, which he and his friends considered as a great indignity, +her royal highness being a mere infant.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.] + +[Footnote 7: A title given to every duke by the +heralds.--_Faulkner_.] + +[Footnote 8: Counting the numbers of a division. A horse dealer's +term.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: Alluding to the magnificence of Houghton, the seat of Sir +Robert Walpole, by which he greatly impaired his fortune. + "What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? + Some Demon whispered, 'Visto! have a Taste.'" +POPE, _Moral Essays_, Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: These lines are thought to allude to some story concerning +a vast quantity of mahogany declared rotten, and then applied by somebody +to wainscots, stairs, door-cases, etc.--_Dublin edition_.] + +[Footnote 11: He hath practised this trade for many years, and still +continues it with success; and after he hath ruined one lord, is +earnestly solicited to take another.--_Dublin edition_. +Properly Walter, a dexterous and unscrupulous attorney. + "Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, + And therefore hopes this nation may be sold." +POPE, _Moral Essays_, Epist. iii. +And see his character fully displayed in Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams' +poem, "Peter and my Lord Quidam," Works, with notes, edit. 1822. Peter +was the original of Peter Pounce in Fielding's "Joseph +Andrews."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 12: Sir Robert Walpole, who was called Sir Robert Brass.] + +[Footnote 13: King George I, who died on the 12th June, +1727.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 14: Sir Spencer Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons, +afterwards created Earl of Wilmington. George II, on his accession to the +throne, intended that Compton should be Prime Minister, but Walpole, +through the influence of the queen, retained his place, Compton having +confessed "his incapacity to undertake so arduous a task." As Lord +Wilmington, he is constantly ridiculed by Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams. +See his Works, with notes by Horace Walpole, edit. 1822.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +TO A LADY +WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER +IN THE HEROIC STYLE + + +After venting all my spite, +Tell me, what have I to write? +Every error I could find +Through the mazes of your mind, +Have my busy Muse employ'd, +Till the company was cloy'd. +Are you positive and fretful, +Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? +Those, and twenty follies more, +I have often told before. + Hearken what my lady says: +Have I nothing then to praise? +Ill it fits you to be witty, +Where a fault should move your pity. +If you think me too conceited, +Or to passion quickly heated; +If my wandering head be less +Set on reading than on dress; +If I always seem too dull t'ye; +I can solve the diffi--culty. + You would teach me to be wise: +Truth and honour how to prize; +How to shine in conversation, +And with credit fill my station; +How to relish notions high; +How to live, and how to die. + But it was decreed by Fate-- +Mr. Dean, you come too late. +Well I know, you can discern, +I am now too old to learn: +Follies, from my youth instill'd, +Have my soul entirely fill'd; +In my head and heart they centre, +Nor will let your lessons enter. + Bred a fondling and an heiress; +Drest like any lady mayoress: +Cocker'd by the servants round, +Was too good to touch the ground; +Thought the life of every lady +Should be one continued play-day-- +Balls, and masquerades, and shows, +Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux. + Thus you have my case at large, +And may now perform your charge. +Those materials I have furnish'd, +When by you refined and burnish'd, +Must, that all the world may know 'em, +Be reduced into a poem. + But, I beg, suspend a while +That same paltry, burlesque style; +Drop for once your constant rule, +Turning all to ridicule; +Teaching others how to ape you; +Court nor parliament can 'scape you; +Treat the public and your friends +Both alike, while neither mends. + Sing my praise in strain sublime: +Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme. +'Tis but just, you should produce, +With each fault, each fault's excuse; +Not to publish every trifle, +And my few perfections stifle. +With some gifts at least endow me, +Which my very foes allow me. +Am I spiteful, proud, unjust? +Did I ever break my trust? +Which of all our modern dames +Censures less, or less defames? +In good manners am I faulty? +Can you call me rude or haughty? +Did I e'er my mite withhold +From the impotent and old? +When did ever I omit +Due regard for men of wit? +When have I esteem express'd +For a coxcomb gaily dress'd? +Do I, like the female tribe, +Think it wit to fleer and gibe? +Who with less designing ends +Kindlier entertains her friends; +With good words and countenance sprightly, +Strives to treat them more politely? + Think not cards my chief diversion: +'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion: +Never knew I any good in 'em, +But to dose my head like laudanum. +We, by play, as men, by drinking, +Pass our nights to drive out thinking. +From my ailments give me leisure, +I shall read and think with pleasure; +Conversation learn to relish, +And with books my mind embellish. + Now, methinks, I hear you cry, +Mr. Dean, you must reply. + Madam, I allow 'tis true: +All these praises are your due. +You, like some acute philosopher, +Every fault have drawn a gloss over;[1] +Placing in the strongest light +All your virtues to my sight. + Though you lead a blameless life, +Are an humble prudent wife, +Answer all domestic ends: +What is this to us your friends? +Though your children by a nod +Stand in awe without a rod; +Though, by your obliging sway, +Servants love you, and obey; +Though you treat us with a smile; +Clear your looks, and smooth your style; +Load our plates from every dish; +This is not the thing we wish. +Colonel ***** may be your debtor; +We expect employment better. +You must learn, if you would gain us, +With good sense to entertain us. + Scholars, when good sense describing, +Call it tasting and imbibing; +Metaphoric meat and drink +Is to understand and think; +We may carve for others thus; +And let others carve for us; +To discourse, and to attend, +Is, to help yourself and friend. +Conversation is but carving; +Carve for all, yourself is starving: +Give no more to every guest, +Than he's able to digest; +Give him always of the prime; +And but little at a time. +Carve to all but just enough: +Let them neither starve nor stuff: +And, that you may have your due, +Let your neighbours carve for you. +This comparison will hold, +Could it well in rhyme be told, +How conversing, listening, thinking, +Justly may resemble drinking; +For a friend a glass you fill, +What is this but to instil? + To conclude this long essay; +Pardon if I disobey, +Nor against my natural vein, +Treat you in heroic strain. +I, as all the parish knows, +Hardly can be grave in prose: +Still to lash, and lashing smile, +Ill befits a lofty style. +From the planet of my birth +I encounter vice with mirth. +Wicked ministers of state +I can easier scorn than hate; +And I find it answers right: +Scorn torments them more than spight. +All the vices of a court +Do but serve to make me sport. +Were I in some foreign realm, +Which all vices overwhelm; +Should a monkey wear a crown, +Must I tremble at his frown? +Could I not, through all his ermine, +'Spy the strutting chattering vermin; +Safely write a smart lampoon, +To expose the brisk baboon? + When my Muse officious ventures +On the nation's representers: +Teaching by what golden rules +Into knaves they turn their fools; +How the helm is ruled by Walpole, +At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull; +Let the vessel split on shelves; +With the freight enrich themselves: +Safe within my little wherry, +All their madness makes me merry: +Like the waterman of Thames, +I row by, and call them names; +Like the ever-laughing sage,[2] +In a jest I spend my rage: +(Though it must be understood, +I would hang them if I could;) +If I can but fill my niche, +I attempt no higher pitch; +Leave to d'Anvers and his mate +Maxims wise to rule the state. +Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns, +Scourge the villains with a vengeance; +Let me, though the smell be noisome, +Strip their bums; let Caleb[3] hoise 'em; +Then apply Alecto's[4] whip +Till they wriggle, howl, and skip. + Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean: +What can all this passion mean? +Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet +On corruptions running riot. +End as it befits your station; +Come to use and application; +Nor with senates keep a fuss. +I submit; and answer thus: + If the machinations brewing, +To complete the public ruin, +Never once could have the power +To affect me half an hour; +Sooner would I write in buskins, +Mournful elegies on Blueskins.[5] +If I laugh at Whig and Tory; +I conclude _a fortiori_, +All your eloquence will scarce +Drive me from my favourite farce. +This I must insist on; for, as +It is well observed by Horace,[6] +Ridicule has greater power +To reform the world than sour. +Horses thus, let jockeys judge else, +Switches better guide than cudgels. +Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse, +Only dulness can produce; +While a little gentle jerking +Sets the spirits all a-working. + Thus, I find it by experiment, +Scolding moves you less than merriment. +I may storm and rage in vain; +It but stupifies your brain. +But with raillery to nettle, +Sets your thoughts upon their mettle; +Gives imagination scope; +Never lets your mind elope; +Drives out brangling and contention. +Brings in reason and invention. +For your sake as well as mine, +I the lofty style decline. +I should make a figure scurvy, +And your head turn topsy-turvy. + I who love to have a fling +Both at senate-house and king: +That they might some better way tread, +To avoid the public hatred; +Thought no method more commodious, +Than to show their vices odious; +Which I chose to make appear, +Not by anger, but by sneer. +As my method of reforming, +Is by laughing, not by storming, +(For my friends have always thought +Tenderness my greatest fault,) +Would you have me change my style? +On your faults no longer smile; +But, to patch up all our quarrels, +Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals, +Or from Solomon produce +Maxims teaching Wisdom's use? + If I treat you like a crown'd head, +You have cheap enough compounded; +Can you put in higher claims, +Than the owners of St. James? +You are not so great a grievance, +As the hirelings of St. Stephen's. +You are of a lower class +Than my friend Sir Robert Brass. +None of these have mercy found: +I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round. + Have you seen a rocket fly? +You would swear it pierced the sky: +It but reach'd the middle air, +Bursting into pieces there; +Thousand sparkles falling down +Light on many a coxcomb's crown. +See what mirth the sport creates! +Singes hair, but breaks no pates. +Thus, should I attempt to climb, +Treat you in a style sublime, +Such a rocket is my Muse: +Should I lofty numbers choose, +Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top, +I should burst, and bursting drop; +All my fire would fall in scraps, +Give your head some gentle raps; +Only make it smart a while; +Then could I forbear to smile, +When I found the tingling pain +Entering warm your frigid brain; +Make you able upon sight +To decide of wrong and right; +Talk with sense whate'er you please on; +Learn to relish truth and reason! + Thus we both shall gain our prize; +I to laugh, and you grow wise. + + +[Footnote 1: + "Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher, + And had read ev'ry Text and Gloss over." + _Hudibras_.] + +[Footnote 2: Democritus, the Greek philosopher, one of the founders of +the atomic theory.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Caleb d'Anvers was the name assumed by Nicholas Amhurst, the +ostensible editor of the celebrated journal, entitled "The Craftsman," +written by Bolingbroke and Pulteney. See "Prose Works," vii, p. +219.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: One of the three Furies--Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, the +avenging deities.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: The famous thief, who, while on his trial at the Old Bailey, +stabbed Jonathan Wild. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild," Book iv, +ch. i.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: + "Ridiculum acri + Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."--_Sat_. I, x, 14.] + + + +EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS[1] IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732 + + "Sic siti laetantur docti." + + +With honour thus by Carolina placed, +How are these venerable bustoes graced! +O queen, with more than regal title crown'd, +For love of arts and piety renown'd! +How do the friends of virtue joy to see +Her darling sons exalted thus by thee! +Nought to their fame can now be added more, +Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2] + +[Footnote 1: Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Woolaston.] + +[Footnote 2: Queen Caroline's regard for learned men was chiefly directed +to those who had signalized themselves by philosophical research. Horace +Walpole alludes to this her peculiar taste, in his fable called the +"Funeral of the Lioness," where the royal shade is made to say: + "... where Elysian waters glide, + With Clarke and Newton by my side, + Purrs o'er the metaphysic page, + Or ponders the prophetic rage + Of Merlin, who mysterious sings + Of men and lions, beasts and kings." +_Lord Orford's Works_, iv, 379.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +ANOTHER + +Louis the living learned fed, +And raised the scientific head; +Our frugal queen, to save her meat, +Exalts the heads that cannot eat. + + + + +A CONCLUSION + +DRAWN FROM THE ABOVE EPIGRAMS, AND SENT TO THE DRAPIER + +Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed, +Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head: +And since our good queen to the wise is so just, +To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust, +I wonder, good man, that you are not envaulted; +Prithee go, and be dead, and be doubly exalted. + + + + +DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER + +Her majesty never shall be my exalter; +And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter! + + +TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT + +WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1732.[1] +BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY + +To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; +Small is the present, but sincere the friend. +Think not so poor a book below thy care; +Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear? +Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face, +The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace; +Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat, +A _rasa tabula_ within denote: +Yet, if a venal and corrupted age, +And modern vices should provoke thy rage; +If, warn'd once more by their impending fate, +A sinking country and an injur'd state, +Thy great assistance should again demand, +And call forth reason to defend the land; +Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise, +Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes; +Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense +True force of eloquence, and nervous sense; +Inform the judgment, animate the heart, +And sacred rules of policy impart. +The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore, +Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more; +But lead us inward to those golden mines, +Where all thy soul in native lustre shines. +So when the eye surveys some lovely fair, +With bloom of beauty graced, with shape and air; +How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find +Her form excell'd by her celestial mind! + + +[Footnote 1: It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued +among his friends, of making him a present on his birth-day. Orrery's +"Remarks," p. 202.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S DESK, +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. +BY DR. DELANY + +Hither from Mexico I came, +To serve a proud Iernian dame: +Was long submitted to her will; +At length she lost me at quadrille. +Through various shapes I often pass'd, +Still hoping to have rest at last; +And still ambitious to obtain +Admittance to the patriot Dean; +And sometimes got within his door, +But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1] +Not strolling Idleness to aid, +But honest Industry decay'd. +At length an artist purchased me, +And wrought me to the shape you see. + This done, to Hermes I applied: +"O Hermes! gratify my pride; +Be it my fate to serve a sage, +The greatest genius of his age; +That matchless pen let me supply, +Whose living lines will never die!" + "I grant your suit," the God replied, +And here he left me to reside. + + +[Footnote 1: Alluding to sums lent by the Dean, without interest, to +assist poor tradesmen.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS + +A paper book is sent by Boyle, +Too neatly gilt for me to soil. +Delany sends a silver standish, +When I no more a pen can brandish. +Let both around my tomb be placed: +As trophies of a Muse deceased; +And let the friendly lines they writ, +In praise of long-departed wit, +Be graved on either side in columns, +More to my praise than all my volumes, +To burst with envy, spite, and rage, +The Vandals of the present age. + + + + +VERSES +SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL, +ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR. DELANY. +BY MRS. PILKINGTON +Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, +And boldly rob me of eternal fame? +To every art my gen'rous aid I lend, +To music, painting, poetry, a friend. +'Tis I celestial harmony inspire, +When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire.[1] +I to the faithful canvas have consign'd +Each bright idea of the painter's mind; +Behold from Raphael's sky-dipt pencils rise +Such heavenly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes. +O let me now aspire to higher praise! +Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays: +Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse, +Accept me as the servant of your Muse; +Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare, +And all mankind your matchless pen revere. + + +[Footnote 1: Quills of the harpsichord.] + + + +AN INVITATION, BY DR. DELANY, IN THE NAME OF DR. SWIFT + +Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call, +To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all; +Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care, +For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare. +I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies, +As friend Virgil has it, I've _aliud mercedis_; +For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale; +And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal; +And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood, +I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good: +Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health: +High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5] + + +[Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at +London, in 4to, by subscription.] + +[Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her +friends.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who +died in 1733, at the age of 27.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had +ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and +the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of +National Biography."--. _W. E. B_.] + + + + +THE BEASTS' CONFESSION TO THE PRIEST, +ON OBSERVING HOW MOST MEN MISTAKE THEIR OWN TALENTS. 1732 + +PREFACE + +I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and +greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of +mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their +own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter +of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly +seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a +manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many +pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on +those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is +the same case in every other qualification. By the multitude of those +who deal in rhymes, from half a sheet to twenty, which come out every +minute, there must be at least five hundred poets in the city and suburbs +of London: half as many coffeehouse orators, exclusive of the clergy, +forty thousand politicians, and four thousand five hundred profound +scholars; not to mention the wits, the railers, the smart fellows, and +critics; all as illiterate and impudent as a suburb whore. What are we +to think of the fine-dressed sparks, proud of their own personal +deformities, which appear the more hideous by the contrast of wearing +scarlet and gold, with what they call toupees[1] on their heads, and all +the frippery of a modern beau, to make a figure before women; some of +them with hump-backs, others hardly five feet high, and every feature +of their faces distorted: I have seen many of these insipid pretenders +entering into conversation with persons of learning, constantly making +the grossest blunders in every sentence, without conveying one single +idea fit for a rational creature to spend a thought on; perpetually +confounding all chronology, and geography, even of present times. I +compute, that London hath eleven native fools of the beau and puppy kind, +for one among us in Dublin; besides two-thirds of ours transplanted +thither, who are now naturalized: whereby that overgrown capital exceeds +ours in the articles of dunces by forty to one; and what is more to our +farther mortification, there is no one distinguished fool of Irish birth +or education, who makes any noise in that famous metropolis, unless the +London prints be very partial or defective; whereas London is seldom +without a dozen of their own educating, who engross the vogue for half a +winter together, and are never heard of more, but give place to a new +set. This has been the constant progress for at least thirty years past, +only allowing for the change of breed and fashion. + +The poem is grounded upon the universal folly in mankind of mistaking +their talents; by which the author does a great honour to his +own species, almost equalling them with certain brutes; wherein, indeed, +he is too partial, as he freely confesses: and yet he has gone as +low as he well could, by specifying four animals; the wolf, the ass, the +swine, and the ape; all equally mischievous, except the last, who outdoes +them in the article of cunning: so great is the pride of man! + +When beasts could speak, (the learned say +They still can do so every day,) +It seems, they had religion then, +As much as now we find in men. +It happen'd, when a plague broke out, +(Which therefore made them more devout,) +The king of brutes (to make it plain, +Of quadrupeds I only mean) +By proclamation gave command, +That every subject in the land +Should to the priest confess their sins; +And thus the pious Wolf begins: +Good father, I must own with shame, +That often I have been to blame: +I must confess, on Friday last, +Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: +But I defy the basest tongue +To prove I did my neighbour wrong; +Or ever went to seek my food, +By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. + The Ass approaching next, confess'd, +That in his heart he loved a jest: +A wag he was, he needs must own, +And could not let a dunce alone: +Sometimes his friend he would not spare, +And might perhaps be too severe: +But yet the worst that could be said, +He was a wit both born and bred; +And, if it be a sin and shame, +Nature alone must bear the blame: +One fault he has, is sorry for't, +His ears are half a foot too short; +Which could he to the standard bring, +He'd show his face before the king: +Then for his voice, there's none disputes +That he's the nightingale of brutes. + The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, +His shape and beauty made him proud: +In diet was perhaps too nice, +But gluttony was ne'er his vice: +In every turn of life content, +And meekly took what fortune sent: +Inquire through all the parish round, +A better neighbour ne'er was found; +His vigilance might some displease; +'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. + The mimic Ape began his chatter, +How evil tongues his life bespatter; +Much of the censuring world complain'd, +Who said, his gravity was feign'd: +Indeed, the strictness of his morals +Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: +He saw, and he was grieved to see't, +His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: +He found his virtues too severe +For our corrupted times to bear; +Yet such a lewd licentious age +Might well excuse a stoic's rage. + The Goat advanced with decent pace, +And first excused his youthful face; +Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd +('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. +'Tis true, he was not much inclined +To fondness for the female kind: +Not, as his enemies object, +From chance, or natural defect; +Not by his frigid constitution; +But through a pious resolution: +For he had made a holy vow +Of Chastity, as monks do now: +Which he resolved to keep for ever hence +And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2] + Apply the tale, and you shall find, +How just it suits with human kind. +Some faults we own; but can you guess? +--Why, virtue's carried to excess, +Wherewith our vanity endows us, +Though neither foe nor friend allows us. + The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) +He never squeezed a needy client; +And this he makes his constant rule, +For which his brethren call him fool; +His conscience always was so nice, +He freely gave the poor advice; +By which he lost, he may affirm, +A hundred fees last Easter term; +While others of the learned robe, +Would break the patience of a Job. +No pleader at the bar could match +His diligence and quick dispatch; +Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, +Above a term or two at most. + The cringing knave, who seeks a place +Without success, thus tells his case: +Why should he longer mince the matter? +He fail'd, because he could not flatter; +He had not learn'd to turn his coat, +Nor for a party give his vote: +His crime he quickly understood; +Too zealous for the nation's good: +He found the ministers resent it, +Yet could not for his heart repent it. + The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, +Though it would raise him to the lawn: +He pass'd his hours among his books; +You find it in his meagre looks: +He might, if he were worldly wise, +Preferment get, and spare his eyes; +But owns he had a stubborn spirit. +That made him trust alone to merit; +Would rise by merit to promotion; +Alas! a mere chimeric notion. + The Doctor, if you will believe him, +Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) +Call'd up at midnight, ran to save +A blind old beggar from the grave: +But see how Satan spreads his snares; +He quite forgot to say his prayers. +He cannot help it, for his heart, +Sometimes to act the parson's part: +Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, +That moves his patients to repentance; +And, when his medicines do no good, +Supports their minds with heavenly food: +At which, however well intended, +He hears the clergy are offended; +And grown so bold behind his back, +To call him hypocrite and quack. +In his own church he keeps a seat; +Says grace before and after meat; +And calls, without affecting airs, +His household twice a-day to prayers. +He shuns apothecaries' shops, +And hates to cram the sick with slops: +He scorns to make his art a trade; +Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. +Old nurse-keepers would never hire, +To recommend him to the squire; +Which others, whom he will not name, +Have often practised to their shame. + The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, +His fault is to be too sincere; +And having no sinister ends, +Is apt to disoblige his friends. +The nation's good, his master's glory, +Without regard to Whig or Tory, +Were all the schemes he had in view, +Yet he was seconded by few: +Though some had spread a thousand lies, +'Twas he defeated the excise.[3] +'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, +That standing troops were his aversion: +His practice was, in every station: +To serve the king, and please the nation. +Though hard to find in every case +The fittest man to fill a place: +His promises he ne'er forgot, +But took memorials on the spot; +His enemies, for want of charity, +Said, he affected popularity: +'Tis true, the people understood, +That all he did was for their good; +Their kind affections he has tried; +No love is lost on either side. +He came to court with fortune clear, +Which now he runs out every year; +Must, at the rate that he goes on, +Inevitably be undone: +O! if his majesty would please +To give him but a writ of ease, +Would grant him license to retire, +As it has long been his desire, +By fair accounts it would be found, +He's poorer by ten thousand pound. +He owns, and hopes it is no sin, +He ne'er was partial to his kin; +He thought it base for men in stations, +To crowd the court with their relations: +His country was his dearest mother, +And every virtuous man his brother; +Through modesty or awkward shame, +(For which he owns himself to blame,) +He found the wisest man he could, +Without respect to friends or blood; +Nor ever acts on private views, +When he has liberty to choose. + The Sharper swore he hated play, +Except to pass an hour away: +And well he might; for, to his cost, +By want of skill, he always lost; +He heard there was a club of cheats, +Who had contrived a thousand feats; +Could change the stock, or cog a die, +And thus deceive the sharpest eye: +Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, +His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. + I own the moral not exact, +Besides, the tale is false, in fact; +And so absurd, that could I raise up, +From fields Elysian, fabling AEsop, +I would accuse him to his face, +For libelling the four-foot race. +Creatures of every kind but ours +Well comprehend their natural powers, +While we, whom reason ought to sway, +Mistake our talents every day. +The Ass was never known so stupid, +To act the part of Tray or Cupid; +Nor leaps upon his master's lap, +There to be stroked, and fed with pap, +As AEsop would the world persuade; +He better understands his trade: +Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, +But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. +Our author's meaning, I presume, is +A creature _bipes et implumis;_ +Wherein the moralist design'd +A compliment on human kind; +For here he owns, that now and then +Beasts may degenerate into men.[4] + + +[Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in +fashion. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same +name.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in +March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent +was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second +reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months, +and thus it was dropped.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the +Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PARSON'S CASE + +That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic, +Can wish to die in strains heroic, +No real fortitude implies: +Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise. +Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, +Thy busy, drudging scene of life, +Thy insolent, illiterate vicar, +Thy want of all-consoling liquor, +Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent, +Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, +Thy week made up of fasting-days, +Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, +And to complete thy other curses, +The quarterly demands of nurses, +Are ills you wisely wish to leave, +And fly for refuge to the grave; +And, O, what virtue you express, +In wishing such afflictions less! + But, now, should Fortune shift the scene, +And make thy curateship a dean: +Or some rich benefice provide, +To pamper luxury and pride; +With labour small, and income great; +With chariot less for use than state; +With swelling scarf, and glossy gown, +And license to reside in town: +To shine where all the gay resort, +At concerts, coffee-house, or court: +And weekly persecute his grace +With visits, or to beg a place: +With underlings thy flock to teach, +With no desire to pray or preach; +With haughty spouse in vesture fine, +With plenteous meals and generous wine; +Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, +Thy years as numerous as thy days? + + + + +THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES +1733 + +Poor ladies! though their business be to play, +'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: +Why should they want the privilege of men, +Nor take some small diversions now and then? +Had women been the makers of our laws, +(And why they were not, I can see no cause,) +The men should slave at cards from morn to night +And female pleasures be to read and write. + + + + +A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733 + +Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, + Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: +I a slave in thy dominions; + Nature must give way to art. + +Mild Arcadians, ever blooming + Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, +See my weary days consuming + All beneath yon flowery rocks. + +Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping + Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; +Him the boar, in silence creeping, + Gored with unrelenting tooth. + +Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; + Fair Discretion, string the lyre; +Sooth my ever-waking slumbers: + Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. + +Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, + Arm'd in adamantine chains, +Lead me to the crystal mirrors, + Watering soft Elysian plains. + +Mournful cypress, verdant willow, + Gilding my Aurelia's brows, +Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, + Hear me pay my dying vows. + +Melancholy smooth Meander, + Swiftly purling in a round, +On thy margin lovers wander, + With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. + +Thus when Philomela drooping + Softly seeks her silent mate, +See the bird of Juno stooping; + Melody resigns to fate. + + + + +THE STORM + +MINERVA'S PETITION + +Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise +Descending lately from the skies, +To Neptune went, and begg'd in form +He'd give his orders for a storm; +A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1] +And she would kindly thank him for't: +A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her, +Had lately honour'd with a mitre. + The god, who favour'd her request, +Assured her he would do his best: +But Venus had been there before, +Pleaded the bishop loved a whore, +And had enlarged her empire wide; +He own'd no deity beside. +At sea or land, if e'er you found him +Without a mistress, hang or drown him. +Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench, +Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench; +If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it, +She'll not have left one single prelate: +For, to say truth, she did intend him, +Elect of Cyprus _in commendam._ +And, since her birth the ocean gave her, +She could not doubt her uncle's favour. + Then Proteus urged the same request, +But half in earnest, half in jest; +Said he--"Great sovereign of the main, +To drown him all attempts are vain. +Hort can assume more forms than I, +A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy; +Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim; +All motions are alike to him: +Turn him adrift, and you shall find +He knows to sail with every wind; +Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride +As well against as with the tide. +But, Pallas, you've applied too late; +For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate, +That Ireland must be soon destroy'd, +And who but Hort can be employ'd? +You need not then have been so pert, +In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert. +I found you did it, by your grinning; +Your business is to mind your spinning. +But how you came to interpose +In making bishops, no one knows; +Or who regarded your report; +For never were you seen at court. +And if you must have your petition, +There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition; +Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just, +If one must drown, the other must; +But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas, +We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4] +Now, if 'twill gratify your spight, +To put him in a plaguy fright, +Although 'tis hardly worth the cost, +You soon shall see him soundly tost. +You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn +(And every moment take a dram) +His ghastly visage with an air +Of reprobation and despair; +Or else some hiding-hole he seeks, +For fear the rest should say he squeaks; +Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before, +Resolve to perish with his whore; +Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, +And, but for shame, would say his prayers. +Or, would you see his spirits sink? +Relaxing downwards in a stink? +If such a sight as this can please ye, +Good madam Pallas, pray be easy. +To Neptune speak, and he'll consent; +But he'll come back the knave he went." +The goddess, who conceived a hope +That Hort was destined to a rope, +Believed it best to condescend +To spare a foe, to save a friend; +But, fearing Berkeley might be scared, +She left him virtue for a guard. + + +[Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a +Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, +and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as +chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in +1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He +died in 1751.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of +Cashell.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, +Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.] + +[Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the +propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, _ut supra.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats +in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.--_F_.] + + + + +ODE ON SCIENCE + +O, heavenly born! in deepest dells +If fairest science ever dwells + Beneath the mossy cave; +Indulge the verdure of the woods, +With azure beauty gild the floods, + And flowery carpets lave. + +For, Melancholy ever reigns +Delighted in the sylvan scenes + With scientific light; +While Dian, huntress of the vales, +Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales, + Though wrapt from mortal sight. + +Yet, goddess, yet the way explore +With magic rites and heathen lore + Obstructed and depress'd; +Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, +Untaught, not uninspired, to shine, + By Reason's power redress'd. + +When Solon and Lycurgus taught +To moralize the human thought + Of mad opinion's maze, +To erring zeal they gave new laws, +Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause + That blends congenial rays. + +Bid bright Astraea gild the morn, +Or bid a hundred suns be born, + To hecatomb the year; +Without thy aid, in vain the poles, +In vain the zodiac system rolls, + In vain the lunar sphere. + +Come, fairest princess of the throng, +Bring sweet philosophy along, + In metaphysic dreams; +While raptured bards no more behold +A vernal age of purer gold, + In Heliconian streams. + +Drive Thraldom with malignant hand, +To curse some other destined land, + By Folly led astray: +Ierne bear on azure wing; +Energic let her soar, and sing + Thy universal sway. + +So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre +To more majestic sound aspire, + Behold the madding throng, +In wonder and oblivion drown'd, +To sculpture turn'd by magic sound + And petrifying song. + + +[Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical +power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building +of the city.--Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1] +FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND + +Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; +Gently fill the swelling sails. +Neptune, with thy trident long, +Trident three-fork'd, trident strong: +And ye Nereids fair and gay, +Fairer than the rose in May, +Nereids living in deep caves, +Gently wash'd with gentle waves; +Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep +Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep; +All around, in pompous state, +On this richer Argo wait: +Argo, bring my golden fleece, +Argo, bring him to his Greece. +Will Cadenus longer stay? +Come, Cadenus, come away; +Come with all the haste of love, +Come unto thy turtle-dove. +The ripen'd cherry on the tree +Hangs, and only hangs for thee, +Luscious peaches, mellow pears, +Ceres, with her yellow ears, +And the grape, both red and white, +Grape inspiring just delight; +All are ripe, and courting sue, +To be pluck'd and press'd by you. +Pinks have lost their blooming red, +Mourning hang their drooping head, +Every flower languid seems, +Wants the colour of thy beams, +Beams of wondrous force and power, +Beams reviving every flower. +Come, Cadenus, bless once more, +Bless again thy native shore, +Bless again this drooping isle, +Make its weeping beauties smile, +Beauties that thine absence mourn, +Beauties wishing thy return: +Come, Cadenus, come with haste, +Come before the winter's blast; +Swifter than the lightning fly, +Or I, like Vanessa, die. + + +[Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and +the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of +poetry.--_W. E. B._] + + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT + +WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1] + +Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans +l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, +qui ne nous deplait pas." + +This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those +suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published +by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it +commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, +1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by +Swift.--_W. E. B._ + + +AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew +From nature, I believe 'em true: +They argue no corrupted mind +In him; the fault is in mankind. + This maxim more than all the rest +Is thought too base for human breast: +"In all distresses of our friends, +We first consult our private ends; +While nature, kindly bent to ease us, +Points out some circumstance to please us." + If this perhaps your patience move, +Let reason and experience prove. +We all behold with envious eyes +Our _equal_ raised above our _size._ +Who would not at a crowded show +Stand high himself, keep others low? +I love my friend as well as you: +[2]But why should he obstruct my view? +Then let me have the higher post: +[3]Suppose it but an inch at most. +If in battle you should find +One whom you love of all mankind, +Had some heroic action done, +A champion kill'd, or trophy won; +Rather than thus be overtopt, +Would you not wish his laurels cropt? +Dear honest Ned is in the gout, +Lies rackt with pain, and you without: +How patiently you hear him groan! +How glad the case is not your own! + What poet would not grieve to see +His breth'ren write as well as he? +But rather than they should excel, +He'd wish his rivals all in hell. + Her end when Emulation misses, +She turns to Envy, stings and hisses: +The strongest friendship yields to pride, +Unless the odds be on our side. +Vain human kind! fantastic race! +Thy various follies who can trace? +Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, +Their empire in our hearts divide. +Give others riches, power, and station, +'Tis all on me an usurpation. +I have no title to aspire; +Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. +In Pope I cannot read a line, +But with a sigh I wish it mine; +When he can in one couplet fix +More sense than I can do in six; +It gives me such a jealous fit, +I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" +[4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay +In my own hum'rous biting way. +Arbuthnot is no more my friend, +Who dares to irony pretend, +Which I was born to introduce, +Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use. +St. John, as well as Pultney, knows +That I had some repute for prose; +And, till they drove me out of date +Could maul a minister of state. +If they have mortify'd my pride, +And made me throw my pen aside; +If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, +Have I not reason to detest 'em? + To all my foes, dear Fortune, send +Thy gifts; but never to my friend: +I tamely can endure the first; +But this with envy makes me burst. + Thus much may serve by way of proem: +Proceed we therefore to our poem. + The time is not remote, when I +Must by the course of nature die; +When, I foresee, my special friends +Will try to find their private ends: +Tho' it is hardly understood +Which way my death can do them good, +Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: +"See, how the Dean begins to break! +Poor gentleman, he droops apace! +You plainly find it in his face. +That old vertigo in his head +Will never leave him till he's dead. +Besides, his memory decays: +He recollects not what he says; +He cannot call his friends to mind: +Forgets the place where last he din'd; +Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er; +He told them fifty times before. +How does he fancy we can sit +To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit? +But he takes up with younger folks, +Who for his wine will bear his jokes. +Faith! he must make his stories shorter, +Or change his comrades once a quarter: +In half the time he talks them round, +There must another set be found. + "For poetry he's past his prime: +He takes an hour to find a rhyme; +His fire is out, his wit decay'd, +His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. +I'd have him throw away his pen;-- +But there's no talking to some men!" + And then their tenderness appears, +By adding largely to my years; +"He's older than he would be reckon'd, +And well remembers Charles the Second. +He hardly drinks a pint of wine; +And that, I doubt, is no good sign. +His stomach too begins to fail: +Last year we thought him strong and hale; +But now he's quite another thing: +I wish he may hold out till spring!" +Then hug themselves, and reason thus: +"It is not yet so bad with us!" + In such a case, they talk in tropes, +And by their fears express their hopes: +Some great misfortune to portend, +No enemy can match a friend. +With all the kindness they profess, +The merit of a lucky guess +(When daily how d'ye's come of course, +And servants answer, "_Worse and worse!_") +Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, +That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." +Then he, who prophecy'd the best, +Approves his foresight to the rest: +"You know I always fear'd the worst, +And often told you so at first." +He'd rather chuse that I should die, +Than his prediction prove a lie. +Not one foretells I shall recover; +But all agree to give me over. + Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain +Just in the parts where I complain; +How many a message would he send! +What hearty prayers that I should mend! +Inquire what regimen I kept; +What gave me ease, and how I slept? +And more lament when I was dead, +Than all the sniv'llers round my bed. + My good companions, never fear; +For though you may mistake a year, +Though your prognostics run too fast, +They must be verify'd at last. + Behold the fatal day arrive! +"How is the Dean?"--"He's just alive." +Now the departing prayer is read; +"He hardly breathes."--"The Dean is dead." + Before the Passing-bell begun, +The news thro' half the town has run. +"O! may we all for death prepare! +What has he left? and who's his heir?"-- +"I know no more than what the news is; +'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."-- +"To public use! a perfect whim! +What had the public done for him? +Mere envy, avarice, and pride: +He gave it all--but first he died. +And had the Dean, in all the nation, +No worthy friend, no poor relation? +So ready to do strangers good, +Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" + Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; +With elegies the town is cloy'd: +Some paragraph in ev'ry paper +To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5] + The doctors, tender of their fame, +Wisely on me lay all the blame: +"We must confess, his case was nice; +But he would never take advice. +Had he been ruled, for aught appears, +He might have lived these twenty years; +For, when we open'd him, we found, +That all his vital parts were sound." + From Dublin soon to London spread, +'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead." +Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, +Runs laughing up to tell the queen. +The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, +Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. +He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: +I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot. +I promised him, I own; but when? +I only was a princess then; +But now, as consort of a king, +You know, 'tis quite a different thing." +Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, +Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: +"Why, is he dead without his shoes," +Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: +O, were the wretch but living still, +And in his place my good friend Will![11] +Or had a mitre on his head, +Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!" +Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: +Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! +And then, to make them pass the glibber, +Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14] +He'll treat me as he does my betters, +Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15] +Revive the libels born to die; +Which Pope must bear, as well as I. + Here shift the scene, to represent +How those I love my death lament. +Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay +A week, and Arbuthnot a day. + St. John himself will scarce forbear +To bite his pen, and drop a tear. +The rest will give a shrug, and cry, +"I'm sorry--but we all must die!" + Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, +All fortitude of mind supplies: +For how can stony bowels melt +In those who never pity felt! +When _we_ are lash'd, _they_ kiss the rod, +Resigning to the will of God. + The fools, my juniors by a year, +Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; +Who wisely thought my age a screen, +When death approach'd, to stand between: +The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; +They mourn for me without dissembling. + My female friends, whose tender hearts +Have better learn'd to act their parts, +Receive the news in doleful dumps: +"The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) +Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! +(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16] +Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: +(I wish I knew what king to call.) +Madam, your husband will attend +The funeral of so good a friend. +No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: +And he's engaged to-morrow night: +My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, +If he shou'd fail her at quadrille. +He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart,) +But dearest friends, they say, must part. +His time was come: he ran his race; +We hope he's in a better place." + Why do we grieve that friends should die? +No loss more easy to supply. +One year is past; a different scene! +No further mention of the Dean; +Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, +Than if he never did exist. +Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! +Departed:--and his works must follow; +Must undergo the common fate; +His kind of wit is out of date. + Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, +Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." +Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; +He died a year ago."--"The same." +He searches all the shop in vain. +"Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18] +I sent them with a load of books, +Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. +To fancy they could live a year! +I find you're but a stranger here. +The Dean was famous in his time, +And had a kind of knack at rhyme. +His way of writing now is past; +The town has got a better taste; +I keep no antiquated stuff, +But spick and span I have enough. +Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; +Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. +This ode you never yet have seen, +By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen. +Then here's a letter finely penned +Against the Craftsman and his friend: +It clearly shows that all reflection +On ministers is disaffection. +Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20] +And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21] +The hawkers have not got them yet: +Your honour please to buy a set? + "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; +'Tis read by every politician: +The country members, when in town, +To all their boroughs send them down; +You never met a thing so smart; +The courtiers have them all by heart: +Those maids of honour (who can read), +Are taught to use them for their creed.[23] +The rev'rend author's good intention +Has been rewarded with a pension. +He does an honour to his gown, +By bravely running priestcraft down: +He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, +That Moses was a grand impostor; +That all his miracles were cheats, +Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: +The church had never such a writer; +A shame he has not got a mitre!" + Suppose me dead; and then suppose +A club assembled at the Rose; +Where, from discourse of this and that, +I grow the subject of their chat. +And while they toss my name about, +With favour some, and some without, +One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, +My character impartial draws: + The Dean, if we believe report, +Was never ill receiv'd at court. +As for his works in verse and prose +I own myself no judge of those; +Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: +But this I know, all people bought 'em. +As with a moral view design'd +To cure the vices of mankind: +And, if he often miss'd his aim, +The world must own it, to their shame, +The praise is his, and theirs the blame. +"Sir, I have heard another story: +He was a most confounded Tory, +And grew, or he is much belied, +Extremely dull, before he died." + Can we the Drapier then forget? +Is not our nation in his debt? +'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!-- + "He should have left them for his betters, +We had a hundred abler men, +Nor need depend upon his pen.-- +Say what you will about his reading, +You never can defend his breeding; +Who in his satires running riot, +Could never leave the world in quiet; +Attacking, when he took the whim, +Court, city, camp--all one to him.-- + "But why should he, except he slobber't, +Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, +Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power +To save the nation every hour? +What scenes of evil he unravels +In satires, libels, lying travels! +Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, +But eats into it, like a moth!" +His vein, ironically grave, +Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave. +To steal a hint was never known, +But what he writ was all his own.[24] + "He never thought an honour done him, +Because a duke was proud to own him, +Would rather slip aside and chuse +To talk with wits in dirty shoes; +Despised the fools with stars and garters, +So often seen caressing Chartres.[25] +He never courted men in station, +_Nor persons held in admiration;_ +Of no man's greatness was afraid, +Because he sought for no man's aid. +Though trusted long in great affairs +He gave himself no haughty airs: +Without regarding private ends, +Spent all his credit for his friends; +And only chose the wise and good; +No flatterers; no allies in blood: +But succour'd virtue in distress, +And seldom fail'd of good success; +As numbers in their hearts must own, +Who, but for him, had been unknown. + "With princes kept a due decorum, +But never stood in awe before 'em. +He follow'd David's lesson just; +_In princes never put thy trust:_ +And would you make him truly sour, +Provoke him with a slave in power. +The Irish senate if you named, +With what impatience he declaim'd! +Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, +For her he stood prepared to die; +For her he boldly stood alone; +For her he oft exposed his own. +Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led, +Had set a price upon his head; +But not a traitor could be found, +To sell him for six hundred pound. + "Had he but spared his tongue and pen +He might have rose like other men: +But power was never in his thought, +And wealth he valued not a groat: +Ingratitude he often found, +And pitied those who meant the wound: +But kept the tenor of his mind, +To merit well of human kind: +Nor made a sacrifice of those +Who still were true, to please his foes. +He labour'd many a fruitless hour, +To reconcile his friends in power; +Saw mischief by a faction brewing, +While they pursued each other's ruin. +But finding vain was all his care, +He left the court in mere despair.[27] + "And, oh! how short are human schemes! +Here ended all our golden dreams. +What St. John's skill in state affairs, +What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, +To save their sinking country lent, +Was all destroy'd by one event. +Too soon that precious life was ended, +On which alone our weal depended.[28] +When up a dangerous faction starts,[29] +With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; +_By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,_ +To ruin, slaughter, and confound; +To turn religion to a fable, +And make the government a Babel; +Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, +Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; +To sacrifice old England's glory, +And make her infamous in story: +When such a tempest shook the land, +How could unguarded Virtue stand! +With horror, grief, despair, the Dean +Beheld the dire destructive scene: +His friends in exile, or the tower, +Himself[30] within the frown of power, +Pursued by base envenom'd pens, +Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31] +A servile race in folly nursed, +Who truckle most, when treated worst. +"By innocence and resolution, +He bore continual persecution; +While numbers to preferment rose, +Whose merits were, to be his foes; +When _ev'n his own familiar friends_, +Intent upon their private ends, +Like renegadoes now he feels, +_Against him lifting up their heels._ + "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat +An infamous destructive cheat;[32] +Taught fools their int'rest how to know, +And gave them arms to ward the blow. +Envy has own'd it was his doing, +To save that hapless land from ruin; +While they who at the steerage stood, +And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. + "To save them from their evil fate, +In him was held a crime of state, +A wicked monster on the bench,[33] +Whose fury blood could never quench; +As vile and profligate a villain, +As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34] +Who long all justice had discarded, +_Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;_ +Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, +And make him of his zeal repent: +But Heaven his innocence defends, +The grateful people stand his friends; +Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, +Nor topics brought to please the crown, +Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, +Prevail to bring him in convict. + "In exile,[35] with a steady heart, +He spent his life's declining part; +Where folly, pride, and faction sway, +Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. +Alas, poor Dean! his only scope +Was to be held a misanthrope. +This into gen'ral odium drew him, +Which if he liked, much good may't do him. +His zeal was not to lash our crimes, +But discontent against the times: +For had we made him timely offers +To raise his post, or fill his coffers, +Perhaps he might have truckled down, +Like other brethren of his gown. +For party he would scarce have bled: +I say no more--because he's dead. +What writings has he left behind? +I hear, they're of a different kind; +A few in verse; but most in prose-- +Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;-- +All scribbled in the worst of times, +To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, +To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, +As never fav'ring the Pretender; +Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, +Against the court to show his spite; +Perhaps his travels, part the third; +A lie at every second word-- +Offensive to a loyal ear: +But not one sermon, you may swear." +His friendships there, to few confined +Were always of the middling kind;[36] +No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, +Who fain would pass for lords indeed: +Where titles give no right or power,[37] +And peerage is a wither'd flower; +He would have held it a disgrace, +If such a wretch had known his face. +On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, +He vented oft his wrath in vain; +[Biennial[38]] squires to market brought; +Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought; +The [nation stripped,] go joyful back, +To *** the church, their tenants rack, +Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39] +And keep the peace to pick up fees; +In every job to have a share, +A gaol or barrack to repair; +And turn the tax for public roads, +Commodious to their own abodes.[40] + "Perhaps I may allow the Dean, +Had too much satire in his vein; +And seem'd determined not to starve it, +Because no age could more deserve it. +Yet malice never was his aim; +He lash'd the vice, but spared the name; +No individual could resent, +Where thousands equally were meant; +His satire points at no defect, +But what all mortals may correct; +For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe +Who call it humour when they gibe: +He spared a hump, or crooked nose, +Whose owners set not up for beaux. +True genuine dulness moved his pity, +Unless it offer'd to be witty. +Those who their ignorance confest, +He ne'er offended with a jest; +But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote +A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. + "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, +Must be or ridiculed or lash'd. +If you resent it, who's to blame? +He neither knew you nor your name. +Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, +Because its owner is a duke? + "He knew an hundred pleasant stories, +With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: +Was cheerful to his dying day; +And friends would let him have his way. + "He gave the little wealth he had +To build a house for fools and mad; +And show'd by one satiric touch, +No nation wanted it so much. +That kingdom he hath left his debtor, +I wish it soon may have a better." +And, since you dread no farther lashes +Methinks you may forgive his ashes. + + + +[Footnote 1: This poem was first written about 1731 but was not then +intended to be published; and having been shown by Swift to all his +"common acquaintance indifferently," some "friend," probably +Pilkington, remembered enough of it to concoct the poem called "The Life +and Character of Dr. Swift, written by himself," which was published in +London in 1733, and reprinted in Dublin. In a letter to Pope, dated 1 +May, that year, the Dean complained seriously about the imposture, +saying, "it shall not provoke me to print the true one, which indeed is +not proper to be seen till I can be seen no more." See Swift to Pope, +in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 307. The poem was +subsequently published by Faulkner with the Dean's permission. It is now +printed from a copy of the original edition, with corrections in Swift's +hand, which I found in the Forster collection.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: _Var_. "But would not have him stop my view."] + +[Footnote 3: _Var_. "I ask but for an inch at most."] + +[Footnote 4: _Var_. "Why must I be outdone by Gay."] + +[Footnote 5: The author supposes that the scribblers of the prevailing +party, which he always opposed, will libel him after his death; but that +others will remember the service he had done to Ireland, under the name +of M. B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project of Wood's +halfpence, in five letters to the people of Ireland, at that time read +universally, and convincing every reader.] + +[Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.] + +[Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the +bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen, +then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her +commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his +friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very +graciously. He taxed her with a present worth L10, which she promised +before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals +were not ready. + +A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out +this note.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but +she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent +Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing +took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as +would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of +it; he did the former, it cost L35, but he said he would have nothing +except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as +usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in +England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her +intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her +Majesty's displeasure.] + +[Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a +footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland. +He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every +change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy +for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He +is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was +writ in.--_Dublin Edition,_ and see _ante_, p. 191.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the +Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, +with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with +him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great +friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would +see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert, +on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited +him again.] + +[Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate +friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined +with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the +Craftsman, which is still continued.] + +[Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to +Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius +in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously +working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said +lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.] + +[Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or +country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He +published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three +pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile +a manner.] + +[Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the +shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was +made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore, +whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of +Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."] + +[Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, +letters, and last wills and testaments of the nobility and ministers of +state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath +been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the +letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their +journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published, +without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.] + +[Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the +tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 17: See _post_, p. 267.] + +[Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.] + +[Footnote 19: See _ante_ "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet," +p. 192.] + +[Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but +write in his defence.] + +[Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to +get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, +formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set +times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his +associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling +each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported +crazy.] + +[Footnote 22: See _ante_, p. 188.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 23: See _ante_, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt +Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated," +was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Bethell in +Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix, +p. 149.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley: + "To him no author was unknown, + Yet what he wrote was all his own."] + +[Footnote 25: See _ante_, pp. 192 and 252.] + +[Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an +address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation, +promising L300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet +called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year +1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was +prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward +of L300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet, +called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive +project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the +Dean discovered.] + +[Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year +after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord +Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford, +for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher +every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that +endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired +to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned +to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new +people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.] + +[Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the +queen died.] + +[Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to +power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached +and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all +their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was +never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments +in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men. +Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved, +only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and +are likely to remain so.] + +[Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin +at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in +England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was +forced to be attended by his servants armed.] + +[Footnote 31: Ireland.] + +[Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for +coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of L108,000, which, in +the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The +Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before +prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the +people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury +down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to +bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer +of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or +swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part, +except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was +celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most +streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several +country towns. This note was written in 1734.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His +judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from +Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years +ago.] + +[Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile; +to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, +who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the Duchess of +Somerset.] + +[Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single +lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of +the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.] + +[Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single +act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the +least resentment or remonstrance.] + +[Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once +in two years, and after having given five times more than they can +afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and +oppressions of which some few are mentioned.] + +[Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there, +usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers +who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.] + +[Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building +and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to +that unhappy kingdom.] + + + + +ON POETRY +A RHAPSODY. 1733 + + +All human race would fain be wits, +And millions miss for one that hits. +Young's universal passion, pride,[1] +Was never known to spread so wide. +Say, Britain, could you ever boast +Three poets in an age at most? +Our chilling climate hardly bears +A sprig of bays in fifty years; +While every fool his claim alleges, +As if it grew in common hedges. +What reason can there be assign'd +For this perverseness in the mind? +Brutes find out where their talents lie: +A bear will not attempt to fly; +A founder'd horse will oft debate, +Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; +A dog by instinct turns aside, +Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. +But man we find the only creature +Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; +Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, +With obstinacy fixes there; +And, where his genius least inclines, +Absurdly bends his whole designs. + Not empire to the rising sun +By valour, conduct, fortune won; +Not highest wisdom in debates, +For framing laws to govern states; +Not skill in sciences profound +So large to grasp the circle round, +Such heavenly influence require, +As how to strike the Muse's lyre. + Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; +Not bastard of a pedler Scot; +Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, +The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews; +Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges +Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; +Are so disqualified by fate +To rise in church, or law, or state, +As he whom Phoebus in his ire +Has blasted with poetic fire. +What hope of custom in the fair, +While not a soul demands your ware? +Where you have nothing to produce +For private life, or public use? +Court, city, country, want you not; +You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. +For poets, law makes no provision; +The wealthy have you in derision: +Of state affairs you cannot smatter; +Are awkward when you try to flatter; +Your portion, taking Britain round, +Was just one annual hundred pound; +Now not so much as in remainder, +Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; +For ever fix'd by right divine +(A monarch's right) on Grub Street line. + Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! +How unproportion'd to thy pains! +And here a simile comes pat in: +Though chickens take a month to fatten, +The guests in less than half an hour +Will more than half a score devour. +So, after toiling twenty days +To earn a stock of pence and praise, +Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, +Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; +Gone to be never heard of more, +Gone where the chickens went before. +How shall a new attempter learn +Of different spirits to discern, +And how distinguish which is which, +The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? +Then hear an old experienced sinner, +Instructing thus a young beginner. + Consult yourself; and if you find +A powerful impulse urge your mind, +Impartial judge within your breast +What subject you can manage best; +Whether your genius most inclines +To satire, praise, or humorous lines, +To elegies in mournful tone, +Or prologue sent from hand unknown. +Then, rising with Aurora's light, +The Muse invoked, sit down to write; +Blot out, correct, insert, refine, +Enlarge, diminish, interline; +Be mindful, when invention fails, +To scratch your head, and bite your nails. + Your poem finish'd, next your care +Is needful to transcribe it fair. +In modern wit all printed trash is +Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. + To statesmen would you give a wipe, +You print it in _Italic_ type. +When letters are in vulgar shapes, +'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: +But, when in capitals express'd, +The dullest reader smokes the jest: +Or else perhaps he may invent +A better than the poet meant; +As learned commentators view +In Homer more than Homer knew. + Your poem in its modish dress, +Correctly fitted for the press, +Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4] +But let no friend alive look into't. +If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, +You need not fear your labour lost: +And how agreeably surprised +Are you to see it advertised! +The hawker shows you one in print, +As fresh as farthings from the mint: +The product of your toil and sweating; +A bastard of your own begetting. + Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, +Lie snug, and hear what critics say; +And, if you find the general vogue +Pronounces you a stupid rogue, +Damns all your thoughts as low and little, +Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; +Be silent as a politician, +For talking may beget suspicion; +Or praise the judgment of the town, +And help yourself to run it down. +Give up your fond paternal pride, +Nor argue on the weaker side: +For, poems read without a name +We justly praise, or justly blame; +And critics have no partial views, +Except they know whom they abuse: +And since you ne'er provoke their spite, +Depend upon't their judgment's right. +But if you blab, you are undone: +Consider what a risk you run: +You lose your credit all at once; +The town will mark you for a dunce; +The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, +Will pass for yours with foes and friends; +And you must bear the whole disgrace, +Till some fresh blockhead takes your place. + Your secret kept, your poem sunk, +And sent in quires to line a trunk, +If still you be disposed to rhyme, +Go try your hand a second time. +Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; +Take courage and attempt a third. +But first with care employ your thoughts +Where critics mark'd your former faults; +The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, +The similes that nothing fit; +The cant which every fool repeats, +Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, +Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, +And introduced the Lord knows why: +Or where we find your fury set +Against the harmless alphabet; +On A's and B's your malice vent, +While readers wonder whom you meant: +A public or a private robber, +A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; +A prelate, who no God believes; +A parliament, or den of thieves; +A pickpurse at the bar or bench, +A duchess, or a suburb wench: +Or oft, when epithets you link, +In gaping lines to fill a chink; +Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, +In streets where kennels are too wide; +Or like a heel-piece, to support +A cripple with one foot too short; +Or like a bridge, that joins a marish +To moorlands of a different parish. +So have I seen ill-coupled hounds +Drag different ways in miry grounds. +So geographers, in Afric maps, +With savage pictures fill their gaps, +And o'er unhabitable downs +Place elephants for want of towns. + But, though you miss your third essay, +You need not throw your pen away. +Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, +To spring more profitable game. +From party merit seek support; +The vilest verse thrives best at court. +And may you ever have the luck +To rhyme almost as ill as Duck;[6] +And, though you never learn'd to scan verse +Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. +A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence +Will never fail to bring in pence: +Nor be concern'd about the sale, +He pays his workmen on the nail.[7] +Display the blessings of the nation, +And praise the whole administration. +Extol the bench of bishops round, +Who at them rail, bid ---- confound; +To bishop-haters answer thus: +(The only logic used by us) +What though they don't believe in ---- +Deny them Protestants--thou lyest. + A prince, the moment he is crown'd, +Inherits every virtue round, +As emblems of the sovereign power, +Like other baubles in the Tower; +Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, +And so continues till he dies: +His humble senate this professes, +In all their speeches, votes, addresses. +But once you fix him in a tomb, +His virtues fade, his vices bloom; +And each perfection, wrong imputed, +Is fully at his death confuted. +The loads of poems in his praise, +Ascending, make one funeral blaze: +His panegyrics then are ceased, +He grows a tyrant, dunce, or beast. +As soon as you can hear his knell, +This god on earth turns devil in hell: +And lo! his ministers of state, +Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; +Where in the scenes of endless woe, +They ply their former arts below; +And as they sail in Charon's boat, +Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; +To Cerberus they give a sop, +His triple barking mouth to stop; +Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8] +Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes; +Or hire their party pamphleteers +To set Elysium by the ears. + Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, +Employ your muse on kings alive; +With prudence gathering up a cluster +Of all the virtues you can muster, +Which, form'd into a garland sweet, +Lay humbly at your monarch's feet: +Who, as the odours reach his throne, +Will smile, and think them all his own; +For law and gospel both determine +All virtues lodge in royal ermine: +I mean the oracles of both, +Who shall depose it upon oath. +Your garland, in the following reign, +Change but the names, will do again. + But, if you think this trade too base, +(Which seldom is the dunce's case) +Put on the critic's brow, and sit +At Will's, the puny judge of wit. +A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, +With caution used, may serve a while. +Proceed no further in your part, +Before you learn the terms of art; +For you can never be too far gone +In all our modern critics' jargon: +Then talk with more authentic face +Of unities, in time and place: +Get scraps of Horace from your friends, +And have them at your fingers' ends; +Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, +And at all hazards boldly quote; +Judicious Rymer[10] oft review, +Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12] +Read all the prefaces of Dryden, +For these our critics much confide in; +Though merely writ at first for filling, +To raise the volume's price a shilling. + A forward critic often dupes us +With sham quotations _peri hupsous_: +And if we have not read Longinus, +Will magisterially outshine us. +Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, +Procure the book for love or money, +Translated from Boileau's translation,[13] +And quote quotation on quotation. + At Will's you hear a poem read, +Where Battus[14] from the table head, +Reclining on his elbow-chair, +Gives judgment with decisive air; +To whom the tribe of circling wits +As to an oracle submits. +He gives directions to the town, +To cry it up, or run it down; +Like courtiers, when they send a note, +Instructing members how to vote. +He sets the stamp of bad and good, +Though not a word be understood. +Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure +To get the name of connoisseur: +And, when your merits once are known, +Procure disciples of your own. +For poets (you can never want 'em) +Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15] +Computing by their pecks of coals, +Amount to just nine thousand souls: +These o'er their proper districts govern, +Of wit and humour judges sovereign. +In every street a city bard +Rules, like an alderman, his ward; +His undisputed rights extend +Through all the lane, from end to end; +The neighbours round admire his shrewdness +For songs of loyalty and lewdness; +Outdone by none in rhyming well, +Although he never learn'd to spell. + Two bordering wits contend for glory; +And one is Whig, and one is Tory: +And this, for epics claims the bays, +And that, for elegiac lays: +Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, +By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; +And some as justly fame extols +For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. +Bavius[16] in Wapping gains renown, +And Maevius[16] reigns o'er Kentish town: +Tigellius[17] placed in Phooebus' car +From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: +Harmonious Cibber entertains +The court with annual birth-day strains; +Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;[18] +Where Pope will never show his face; +Where Young must torture his invention +To flatter knaves or lose his pension.[19] + But these are not a thousandth part +Of jobbers in the poet's art, +Attending each his proper station, +And all in due subordination, +Through every alley to be found, +In garrets high, or under ground; +And when they join their pericranies, +Out skips a book of miscellanies. +Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature +Lives in a state of war by nature.[20] +The greater for the smaller watch, +But meddle seldom with their match. +A whale of moderate size will draw +A shoal of herrings down his maw; +A fox with geese his belly crams; +A wolf destroys a thousand lambs; +But search among the rhyming race, +The brave are worried by the base. +If on Parnassus' top you sit, +You rarely bite, are always bit: +Each poet of inferior size +On you shall rail and criticise, +And strive to tear you limb from limb; +While others do as much for him. + The vermin only teaze and pinch +Their foes superior by an inch. +So, naturalists observe, a flea +Has smaller fleas that on him prey; +And these have smaller still to bite 'em, +And so proceed _ad infinitum_. +Thus every poet, in his kind, +Is bit by him that comes behind: +Who, though too little to be seen, +Can teaze, and gall, and give the spleen; +Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores, +Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; +Extol the Greek and Roman masters, +And curse our modern poetasters; +Complain, as many an ancient bard did, +How genius is no more rewarded; +How wrong a taste prevails among us; +How much our ancestors outsung us: +Can personate an awkward scorn +For those who are not poets born; +And all their brother dunces lash, +Who crowd the press with hourly trash. + O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, +Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! +Their filial piety forgot, +Deny their country, like a Scot; +Though by their idiom and grimace, +They soon betray their native place: +Yet thou hast greater cause to be +Ashamed of them, than they of thee, +Degenerate from their ancient brood +Since first the court allow'd them food. + Remains a difficulty still, +To purchase fame by writing ill. +From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard's[22] time, +How few have reach'd the low sublime! +For when our high-born Howard died, +Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied: +And lest a chasm should intervene, +When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign, +The leaden crown devolved to thee, +Great poet[24] of the "Hollow Tree." +But ah! how unsecure thy throne! +A thousand bards thy right disown: +They plot to turn, in factious zeal, +Duncenia to a common weal; +And with rebellious arms pretend +An equal privilege to descend. + In bulk there are not more degrees +From elephants to mites in cheese, +Than what a curious eye may trace +In creatures of the rhyming race. +From bad to worse, and worse they fall; +But who can reach the worst of all? +For though, in nature, depth and height +Are equally held infinite: +In poetry, the height we know; +'Tis only infinite below. +For instance: when you rashly think, +No rhymer can like Welsted sink, +His merits balanced, you shall find +The Laureate leaves him far behind. +Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard, +Soars downward deeper by a yard. +Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops; +The rest pursue as thick as hops: +With heads to point the gulf they enter, +Link'd perpendicular to the centre; +And as their heels elated rise, +Their heads attempt the nether skies. + O, what indignity and shame, +To prostitute the Muses' name! +By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd +The plagues and scourges of mankind; +Bred up in ignorance and sloth, +And every vice that nurses both. + Perhaps you say, Augustus shines, +Immortal made in Virgil's lines, +And Horace brought the tuneful quire, +To sing his virtues on the lyre; +Without reproach for flattery, true, +Because their praises were his due. +For in those ages kings, we find, +Were animals of human kind. +But now, go search all _Europe_ round +Among the _savage monsters_ ---- +With vice polluting every _throne_, +(I mean all thrones except our own;) +In vain you make the strictest view +To find a ---- in all the crew, +With whom a footman out of place +Would not conceive a high disgrace, +A burning shame, a crying sin, +To take his morning's cup of gin. + Thus all are destined to obey +Some beast of burthen or of prey. + 'Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man, +Through all the brutal species ran, +Each proper quality to find +Adapted to a human mind; +A mingled mass of good and bad, +The best and worst that could be had; +Then from a clay of mixture base +He shaped a ---- to rule the race, +Endow'd with gifts from every brute +That best the * * nature suit. +Thus think on ----s: the name denotes +Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats. +To represent in figure just, +Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust; +Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers, +What herds of ----s would turn to grazers! + Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, +Whose virtues bear the strictest test; +Whom never faction could bespatter, +Nor minister nor poet flatter; +What justice in rewarding merit! +What magnanimity of spirit! +What lineaments divine we trace +Through all his figure, mien, and face! +Though peace with olive binds his hands, +Confess'd the conquering hero stands. +Hydaspes,[28] Indus, and the Ganges, +Dread from his hand impending changes. +From him the Tartar and Chinese, +Short by the knees,[29] entreat for peace. +The consort of his throne and bed, +A perfect goddess born and bred, +Appointed sovereign judge to sit +On learning, eloquence, and wit. +Our eldest hope, divine Iuelus,[30] +(Late, very late, O may he rule us!) +What early manhood has he shown, +Before his downy beard was grown, +Then think, what wonders will be done +By going on as he begun, +An heir for Britain to secure +As long as sun and moon endure. + The remnant of the royal blood +Comes pouring on me like a flood. +Bright goddesses, in number five; +Duke William, sweetest prince alive. +Now sing the minister of state, +Who shines alone without a mate. +Observe with what majestic port +This Atlas stands to prop the court: +Intent the public debts to pay, +Like prudent Fabius,[31] by delay. +Thou great vicegerent of the king, +Thy praises every Muse shall sing! +In all affairs thou sole director; +Of wit and learning chief protector, +Though small the time thou hast to spare, +The church is thy peculiar care. +Of pious prelates what a stock +You choose to rule the sable flock! +You raise the honour of the peerage, +Proud to attend you at the steerage. +You dignify the noble race, +Content yourself with humbler place. +Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, +To titles give the sole pretence. +St. George beheld thee with delight, +Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, +When on thy breast and sides Herculean, +He fix'd the star and string cerulean. + Say, poet, in what other nation +Shone ever such a constellation! +Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, +And tune your harps, and strew your bays: +Your panegyrics here provide; +You cannot err on flattery's side. +Above the stars exalt your style, +You still are low ten thousand mile. +On Lewis all his bards bestow'd +Of incense many a thousand load; +But Europe mortified his pride, +And swore the fawning rascals lied. +Yet what the world refused to Lewis, +Applied to George, exactly true is. +Exactly true! invidious poet! +'Tis fifty thousand times below it. + Translate me now some lines, if you can, +From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. +They could all power in Heaven divide, +And do no wrong on either side; +They teach you how to split a hair, +Give George and Jove an equal share.[32] +Yet why should we be laced so strait? +I'll give my monarch butter-weight. +And reason good; for many a year +Jove never intermeddled here: +Nor, though his priests be duly paid, +Did ever we desire his aid: +We now can better do without him, +Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. +_Caetera desiderantur_. + + +[Footnote 1: See Young's "Satires," and "Life" by +Johnson.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The prison or house of correction to which harlots were +often consigned. See Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress," and "A beautiful +young Nymph," _ante_, p. 201.--_W. R. B._] + +[Footnote 3: Colley Cibber, born in 1671, died in 1757; famous as a +comedian and dramatist, and immortalized by Pope as the hero of the +"Dunciad"; appointed Laureate in December, 1730, in succession to Eusden, +who died in September that year. See Cibber's "Apology for his Life"; +Disraeli's "Quarrels of Authors," edit. 1859.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Barnaby Bernard Lintot, publisher and bookseller, noted for +adorning his shop with titles in red letters. In the Prologue to the +"Satires" Pope says: "What though my name stood rubric on the walls"; and +in the "Dunciad," book i, "Lintot's rubric post." He made a handsome +fortune, and died High Sheriff of Sussex in 1736, aged +sixty-one.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: The coffee-house most frequented by the wits and poets of +that time.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See _ante_, p. 192, "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher +Poet."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: Allusion to the large sums paid by Walpole to scribblers in +support of his party.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 8: + "Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur + Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus Vmbris: + Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto; + Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes." + VIRG., _Aen._, vi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 9: See the "South Sea Project," _ante_, p. 120.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 10: Thomas Rymer, archaeologist and critic. The allusion is to +his "Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age," on which see Johnson's +"Life of Dryden" and Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 173. Rymer is best known by +his work entitled "Foedera," consisting of leagues, treaties, etc., made +between England and other kingdoms.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 11: John Dennis, born 1657, died 1734. He is best remembered as +"The Critic." See Swift's "Thoughts on various subjects," "Prose Works," +i, 284; Disraeli, "Calamities of Authors: Influence of a bad Temper in +Criticism"; Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, +_passim._--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 12: Highly esteemed as a French critic by Dryden and +Pope.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 13: By Leonard Welsted, who, in 1712, published the work of +"Longinus on the Sublime," stated to be "translated from the Greek." He +is better known through his quarrel with Pope. See the "Prologue to the +Satires."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 14: Dryden, whose armed chair at Will's was in the winter +placed by the fire, and in the summer in the balcony. Malone's "Life of +Dryden," p. 485. Why Battus? Battus was a herdsman who, because he +Betrayed Mercury's theft of some cattle, was changed by the god into a +Stone Index. Ovid, "Metam.," ii, 685.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 15: The ancient name of London, also called Troynovant. See +Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 249; and Cunningham's "Handbook of +London," introduction.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 16: The two bad Roman poets, hateful and inimical to Virgil and +Horace: Virg., "Ecl." iii, 90; Horat., "Epod." x. The names have been +well applied in our time by Gifford in his satire entitled "The Baviad +and Maeviad."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 17: A musician, also a censurer of Horace. See "Satirae," lib. +1. iii, 4.--_--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 18: In consequence of "Polly," the supplement to the "Beggar's +Opera," but which obtained him the friendship of the Duke and Duchess of +Queensberry.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 19: The grant of two hundred a year, which he obtained from the +Crown, and retained till his death in 1765.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 20: See "Leviathan," Part I, chap, xiii.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 21: Richard Flecknoe, poet and dramatist, died 1678, of whom it +has been written that "whatever may become of his own pieces, his name +will continue, whilst Dryden's satire, called 'Mac Flecknoe,' shall +remain in vogue." Dryden's Poetical Works, edit. Warton, ii, +169.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 22: Hon. Edward Howard, author of some indifferent plays and +poems. See "Dict. Nat. Biog."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 23: Richard Blackmore, physician and very voluminous writer in +prose and verse. In 1697 he was appointed physician to William III, when +he was knighted. See Pope, "Imitations of Horace," book ii, epist. 1, +387.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by +his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow +Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's +malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works, +edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of +miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299, +304, _ut supra.--W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate +assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto, +Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 27: + "Fertur Prometheus, addere principi + Limo coactus particulam undique + Desectam, et insani leonis + Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro." + HORAT., _Carm._ I, xvi.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 28: + "---- super et Garamantas et Indos, + Proferet imperium; ---- + ---- jam nunc et Caspia regna + Responsis horrent divom." + Virg., _Aen._, vi.] + +[Footnote 29: + "---- genibus minor."] + +[Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of +Wales, father of George III.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 31: + "Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem." + Virg., _Aen._, vi, 847.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."] + + + + +VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN +ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND. +BY DR. J. SICAN[1] + + +(Horace speaking.) + +You've read, sir, in poetic strain, +How Varus and the Mantuan swain +Have on my birth-day been invited, +(But I was forced in verse to write it,) +Upon a plain repast to dine, +And taste my old Campanian wine; +But I, who all punctilios hate, +Though long familiar with the great, +Nor glory in my reputation, +Am come without an invitation; +And, though I'm used to right Falernian, +I'll deign for once to taste Iernian; +But fearing that you might dispute +(Had I put on my common suit) +My breeding and my politesse, +I visit in my birth-day dress: +My coat of purest Turkey red, +With gold embroidery richly spread; +To which I've sure as good pretensions, +As Irish lords who starve on pensions. +What though proud ministers of state +Did at your antichamber wait; +What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns, +Have at your levee paid attendance, +And Peterborough and great Ormond, +With many chiefs who now are dormant, +Have laid aside the general's staff, +And public cares, with you to laugh; +Yet I some friends as good can name, +Nor less the darling sons of fame; +For sure my Pollio and Maecenas +Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as +Either your Bolingbroke or Harley, +Though they made Lewis beg a parley; +And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero, +I'll match him with my Drusus Nero. +You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope; +But Virgil is as good, I hope. +I own indeed I can't get any +To equal Helsham and Delany; +Since Athens brought forth Socrates, +A Grecian isle, Hippocrates; +Since Tully lived before my time, +And Galen bless'd another clime. + You'll plead, perhaps, at my request, +To be admitted as a guest, +"Your hearing's bad!"--But why such fears? +I speak to eyes, and not to ears; +And for that reason wisely took +The form you see me in, a book. +Attack'd by slow devouring moths, +By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths; +By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, +By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose; +I found my boasted wit and fire +In their rude hands almost expire: +Yet still they but in vain assail'd; +For, had their violence prevail'd, +And in a blast destroy'd my frame, +They would have partly miss'd their aim; +Since all my spirit in thy page +Defies the Vandals of this age. +'Tis yours to save these small remains +From future pedant's muddy brains, +And fix my long uncertain fate, +You best know how--"which way?"--TRANSLATE. + + +[Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in +Italy.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, _ante_, +p. 48.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and +Horace.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace, +done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with +the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by +the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote: + "O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain, + And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain." +_Dict. Nat. Biog.--W. E. B._] + + + + +EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER +INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733 + +"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, +How vice and folly have debased mankind; +Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; +Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: +While bold and free the glowing colours strike; +Blame not the picture, if the picture's like." + + + + +ON PSYCHE[1] + +At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, +Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: +So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; +Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? +Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, +Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. +She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; +But ever with prudence takes care of the main. +To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; +For her taste is almost as refined as her wit. +To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, +It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. +Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, +She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears. + + +[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of +the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and +Stella.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE DEAN AND DUKE +1734 + + +James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; +James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: +But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke, +For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke. +Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks, +Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2] +His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain +With bands of fiddlers to extend his train. +Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel, +The duke and dean seem near upon a level. +O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, +From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free. +A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown: +Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown. +Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king: +O! would his majesty but add a string! + + +[Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and +built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in +his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the +building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers' +edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second +Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house +he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance +hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his _Canonical_ +pillars.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure +of his speculative investments.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.--_N_.] + + + + +WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734 + + +Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; +Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, +Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, +Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures. + + +THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED + +DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. +ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. +DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. +ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. + Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, + You may have company enough. +DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, + Than if it rang out for my knell. +ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. +DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, + Than at the rumbling of a cart. +ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f--t. +DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! + No more I hear a woman's clack. +ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, + Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; + But louder than a bell, or thunder: + That does, I own, increase my wonder. + + + + +THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING + +On rainy days alone I dine +Upon a chick and pint of wine. +On rainy days I dine alone, +And pick my chicken to the bone; +But this my servants much enrages, +No scraps remain to save board-wages. +In weather fine I nothing spend, +But often spunge upon a friend; +Yet, where he's not so rich as I, +I pay my club, and so good b'ye. + + + + +EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER + +"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM" + + +Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, + Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. +Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: + Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. +Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; + Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem. + + + + +VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN + +APPLES + +Come buy my fine wares, +Plums, apples, and pears. +A hundred a penny, +In conscience too many: +Come, will you have any? +My children are seven, +I wish them in Heaven; +My husband a sot, +With his pipe and his pot, +Not a farthing will gain them, +And I must maintain them. + + + +ASPARAGUS + + Ripe 'sparagrass + Fit for lad or lass, +To make their water pass: + O, 'tis pretty picking + With a tender chicken! + + + +ONIONS + + + Come, follow me by the smell, + Here are delicate onions to sell; + I promise to use you well. + They make the blood warmer, + You'll feed like a farmer; +For this is every cook's opinion, +No savoury dish without an onion; +But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, +Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: + Or else you may spare + Your mistress a share, +The secret will never be known: + She cannot discover + The breath of her lover, +But think it as sweet as her own. + + + +OYSTERS + + Charming oysters I cry: + My masters, come buy, + So plump and so fresh, + So sweet is their flesh, + No Colchester oyster + Is sweeter and moister: + Your stomach they settle, + And rouse up your mettle: + They'll make you a dad + Of a lass or a lad; + And madam your wife + They'll please to the life; + Be she barren, be she old, + Be she slut, or be she scold, +Eat my oysters, and lie near her, +She'll be fruitful, never fear her. + + + +HERRINGS + + Be not sparing, + Leave off swearing. + Buy my herring +Fresh from Malahide,[1] +Better never was tried. +Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, +Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. +Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, +Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. + +[Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for +oysters.--_F_.] + + + +ORANGES + +Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, +And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; +Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup, +They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. + + + + +ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL + +INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1] + +Happiest of the spaniel race, +Painter, with thy colours grace: +Draw his forehead large and high, +Draw his blue and humid eye; +Draw his neck so smooth and round, +Little neck with ribbons bound! +And the muscly swelling breast, +Where the Loves and Graces rest; +And the spreading even back, +Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; +And the tail that gently twines, +Like the tendrils of the vines; +And the silky twisted hair, +Shadowing thick the velvet ear; +Velvet ears, which, hanging low, +O'er the veiny temples flow. + With a proper light and shade, +Let the winding hoop be laid; +And within that arching bower, +(Secret circle, mystic power,) +In a downy slumber place +Happiest of the spaniel race; +While the soft respiring dame, +Glowing with the softest flame, +On the ravish'd favourite pours +Balmy dews, ambrosial showers. + With thy utmost skill express +Nature in her richest dress, +Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, +Orchards by those rivers blowing; +Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, +And the gay enamell'd mead; +Where the linnets sit and sing, +Little sportlings of the spring; +Where the breathing field and grove +Soothe the heart and kindle love. +Here for me, and for the Muse, +Colours of resemblance choose, +Make of lineaments divine, +Daply female spaniels shine, +Pretty fondlings of the fair, +Gentle damsels' gentle care; +But to one alone impart +All the flattery of thy art. +Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, +Which complete the desperate face; +Let the spotted wanton dame +Feel a new resistless flame! +Let the happiest of his race +Win the fair to his embrace. +But in shade the rest conceal, +Nor to sight their joys reveal, +Lest the pencil and the Muse +Loose desires and thoughts infuse. + + +[Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret, +daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop +Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one +Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of +Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS + +SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726 + + +I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN + +We fly from luxury and wealth, +To hardships, in pursuit of health; +From generous wines, and costly fare, +And dozing in an easy-chair; +Pursue the goddess Health in vain, +To find her in a country scene, +And every where her footsteps trace, +And see her marks in every face; +And still her favourites we meet, +Crowding the roads with naked feet. +But, oh! so faintly we pursue, +We ne'er can have her full in view. + + +II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND + +The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, + Dims and obscures our sight; +So, when our passions Love has stirr'd, + It darkens Reason's light. + + +III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES +IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, WARWICKSHIRE + +Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, +Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four. + + +IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + +The church and clergy here, no doubt, + Are very near a-kin; +Both weather-beaten are without, + And empty both within. + + +V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + +My landlord is civil, +But dear as the d--l: +Your pockets grow empty +With nothing to tempt ye; +The wine is so sour, +'Twill give you a scour, +The beer and the ale +Are mingled with stale. +The veal is such carrion, +A dog would be weary on. +All this I have felt, +For I live on a smelt. + + +VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER + + The walls of this town + Are full of renown, +And strangers delight to walk round 'em: + But as for the dwellers, + Both buyers and sellers, +For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em. + + +VII. ANOTHER +WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE + +Thanks to my stars, I once can see +A window here from scribbling free! +Here no conceited coxcombs pass, +To scratch their paltry drabs on glass; +Nor party fool is calling names, +Or dealing crowns to George and James. + + +VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS + +The sage, who said he should be proud + Of windows in his breast,[1] +Because he ne'er a thought allow'd + That might not be confest; +His window scrawl'd by every rake, + His breast again would cover, +And fairly bid the devil take + The diamond and the lover. + +[Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii, +497.--_W. E. B._] + + +IX. ANOTHER + +By Satan taught, all conjurors know +Your mistress in a glass to show, +And you can do as much: +In this the devil and you agree; +None e'er made verses worse than he, + And thine, I swear, are such. + + +X. ANOTHER + +That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; + Those rhymers abundantly show it: +They swear that they all by love are inspired, + And the devil's a damnable poet. + + +XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1] + +O Neptune! Neptune! must I still +Be here detain'd against my will? +Is this your justice, when I'm come +Above two hundred miles from home; +O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains, +Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains, +Only your godship to implore, +To let me kiss your other shore? +A boon so small! but I may weep, +While you're like Baal, fast asleep. + +[Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's +enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's +Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works," +vol. xi.--_W. E. B_.] + + + + +TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726 + +Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! +Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; +To oblige your crony Swift, +Bring our dame a new year's gift; +She has got but half a face; +Janus, since thou hast a brace, +To my lady once be kind; +Give her half thy face behind. + God of Time, if you be wise, +Look not with your future eyes; +What imports thy forward sight? +Well, if you could lose it quite. +Can you take delight in viewing +This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin, +When thy retrospection vast +Sees the glorious ages past? +Happy nation, were we blind, +Or had only eyes behind! + Drown your morals, madam cries, +I'll have none but forward eyes; +Prudes decay'd about may tack, +Strain their necks with looking back. +Give me time when coming on; +Who regards him when he's gone? +By the Dean though gravely told, +New-years help to make me old; +Yet I find a new-year's lace +Burnishes an old-year's face. +Give me velvet and quadrille, +I'll have youth and beauty still. + +[Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis +Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores +Instituunt."--HOR., _Sat_., ii, vi, 20.] + +[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_H_.] + + + + +A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD + +WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE + +Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, +From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece; +We comb the wool, refine the stuff, +For modern Jasons, that's enough. +Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1] +Old Jason would have less to brag on. + +[Footnote 1: England.--_H_.] + + +TO A FRIEND +WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS + +The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night +And fortune help the murderer in his flight; +The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, +Yet safe from injured innocence escape; +And calumny, by working under ground, +Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. + What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose +To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? +By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road, +Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd? +Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, +And buy distinction at the dearest rate. + +[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 160, the poem entitled "On +Censure."--_W. E. B._.] + + + + +CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1] + +Lesbia for ever on me rails, +To talk of me she never fails. +Now, hang me, but for all her art, +I find that I have gain'd her heart. +My proof is this: I plainly see, +The case is just the same with me; +I curse her every hour sincerely, +Yet, hang me but I love her dearly. + + +[Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam +De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. +Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam +Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo." + _Catulli Carmina, xcii.--W. E. B._] + + + + +ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY + +I marched three miles through scorching sand, +With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; +I rode four more to Great St. Mary, +Using four legs, when two were weary: +To three fair virgins I did tie men, +In the close bands of pleasing Hymen; +I dipp'd two babes in holy water, +And purified their mother after. +Within an hour and eke a half, +I preach'd three congregations deaf; +Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded, +I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded. +My emblem, the laborious sun, +Saw all these mighty labours done +Before one race of his was run. +All this perform'd by Robert Hewit: +What mortal else could e'er go through it! + + + + +TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE + +Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, +Never may the Muse forget ye, +How thy face charms every shepherd, +Spotted over like a leopard! +And thy freckled neck, display'd, +Envy breeds in every maid; +Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, +Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; +Or a tawny speckled pippin, +Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping. + And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, +Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd. + Sets of phrases, cut and dry, +Evermore thy tongue supply; +And thy memory is loaded +With old scraps from plays exploded; +Stock'd with repartees and jokes, +Suited to all Christian folks: +Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, +Blunder'd out a thousand times; +Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, +Which can ne'er be worse for wearing. +Picking wit among collegians, +In the playhouse upper regions; +Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, +Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery. +But thy merit is thy failing, +And thy raillery is railing. + Thus with talents well endued +To be scurrilous and rude; +When you pertly raise your snout, +Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; +This among Hibernian asses +For sheer wit and humour passes. +Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, +Swears you have a world of wit. + + + +EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1] + +Who can believe with common sense, +A bacon slice gives God offence; +Or, how a herring has a charm +Almighty vengeance to disarm? +Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, +Does he regard on what we dine? + + +[Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, +called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved +him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which +are translated above: + "Peut-on croire avec bon sens + Qu'un lardon le mil en colere, + Ou, que manger un hareng, + C'est un secret pour lui plaire? + En sa gloire envelope, + Songe-t-il bien de nos soupes?"--_H_.] + + + +EPIGRAM[1] + +As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, +He took to the street, and fled for his life: +Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, +And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; +Then ventured to give him some sober advice-- +But Tom is a person of honour so nice, +Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, +That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. +Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; +Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. + +[Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by +Stella.--_Forster_.] + + + +EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1] + +When Margery chastises Ned, +She calls it combing of his head; +A kinder wife was never born: +She combs his head, and finds him horn. + +[Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's +volume.--_Forster._] + + + +JOAN CUDGELS NED + +Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; +Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. +Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, +She dares not say her life's her own. +Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, +And every day she combs his head. + + + +VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS + +Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise +With lofty branches to the skies, +Have large proportion'd roots that grow +With equal longitude below: +Two bards that now in fashion reign, +Most aptly this device explain: +If this to clouds and stars will venture, +That creeps as far to reach the centre; +Or, more to show the thing I mean, +Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen +A skill'd mechanic, that has stood +High on a length of prostrate wood, +Who hired a subterraneous friend +To take his iron by the end; +But which excell'd was never found, +The man above or under ground. + The moral is so plain to hit, +That, had I been the god of wit, +Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, +Should Young and Philips drudge together. + + + +EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2] + +Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. +Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; +For Dick without Doll thought living a folly. + +Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: +But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; +A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear. + +Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; +Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; +The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most. + +Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried: +To live without both full three days he tried; +But liked neither loss, and so quietly died. + +Dick left a pattern few will copy after: +Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; +For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter. +Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; +The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; +And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate. + +Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, +Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, +And here rest----_sic transit gloria mundi_! + + +[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.--_F._] + +[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married +to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived +her but two days.--_F_. + The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in +his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy +Stopford's Chair." See _ante_, p.85.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest +daughter.--_F._] + + + + +VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT + +My latest tribute here I send, +With this let your collection end. +Thus I consign you down to fame +A character to praise or blame: +And if the whole may pass for true, +Contented rest, you have your due. +Give future time the satisfaction, +To leave one handle for detraction. + + + + +DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY + +Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, +That you, who know music no more than an ass, +That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, +Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? +To act such an opera once in a year, +So offensive to every true Protestant ear, +With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, +Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, +No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, +Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: +How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, +To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets! + +[The rest is wanting.] + + + + +AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION + +The furniture that best doth please +St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: +The knife and fork with which I eat; +And next the pot that boils the meat; +The next to be preferr'd, I think, +Is the glass in which I drink; +The shelves on which my books I keep +And the bed on which I sleep; +An antique elbow-chair between, +Big enough to hold the Dean; +And the stove that gives delight +In the cold bleak wintry night: +To these we add a thing below, +More for use reserved than show: +These are what the Dean do please; +All superfluous are but these. + + + + +EPITAPH +INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + +H. S. E. + +[*text centered] +CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, +Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE, +Et BRUCE, e nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques, +Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis +Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus; +Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus. +Siquidem a GULIELMO III ad ordines foederati Belgii +Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius +Rebus, non Britanniae tantum, sed totius fere Europae +(Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit, +Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata, +Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre, +In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit. +Fuit a sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae +E proregibus Hiberniae secundus, +Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens, +Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus +Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus +Forestae de Dean. +Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem +Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset, +Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias +Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo. +Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera, +Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius +Quod veritatem evangelicam serio amplexus; +Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus, +Adversus omnes aequus et benevolus, +In Christo jam placide obdormit +Cum eodem olim regnaturus una. +Natus VIII April. MDCXLIX. denatus +XXIV Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII. + + + + +EPITAPH + +ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1] + +[*text centered] +Hic infra situm est corpus +FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. +ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690. +DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam +atque etiam petierunt, +UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum +In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent: +Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos, +diu ac saepe orando nil profecere; +Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt, +Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes, +Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres +delitescunt +"Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos, +Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos." +A.D. 1731. + +[Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne, +July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and +chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own +expense.--_N_.] + +[Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph +were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellula tanti +ductoris cineres delitescunt."--_N._] + + + + +VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND + + +As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals +against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from +his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to +himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier +Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the +Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High +Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The +task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of +Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was +equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux +esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of +a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. +These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here +thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.--_Scott._ + + + +AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET + + +A lady, wise as well as fair, +Whose conscience always was her care, +Thoughtful upon a point of moment, +Would have the text as well as comment: +So hearing of a grave divine, +She sent to bid him come to dine. +But, you must know he was not quite +So grave as to be unpolite: +Thought human learning would not lessen +The dignity of his profession: +And if you'd heard the man discourse, +Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. +He long had bid the court farewell, +Retreating silent to his cell; +Suspected for the love he bore +To one who sway'd some time before; +Which made it more surprising how +He should be sent for thither now. + The message told, he gapes, and stares, +And scarce believes his eyes or ears: +Could not conceive what it should mean, +And fain would hear it told again. +But then the squire so trim and nice, +'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; +So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; +And would not fail to wait upon her. +His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, +Away he trudges into town; +Passes the lower castle yard, +And now advancing to the guard, +He trembles at the thoughts of state; +For, conscious of his sheepish gait, +His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; +He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. + What was the message I received? +Why certainly the captain raved? +To dine with her! and come at three! +Impossible! it can't be me. +Or maybe I mistook the word; +My lady--it must be my lord. + My lord 's abroad; my lady too: +What must the unhappy doctor do? +"Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"--"No." +"Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." +Am I awake, or do I dream? +I'm sure he call'd me by my name; +Named me as plain as he could speak; +And yet there must be some mistake. +Why, what a jest should I have been, +Had now my lady been within! +What could I've said? I'm mighty glad +She went abroad--she'd thought me mad. +The hour of dining now is past: +Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: +And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff, +I think I'm very fairly off. +My lady now returning home, +Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" +He had not heard of him--"Pray see, +'Tis now a quarter after three." +The captain walks about, and searches +Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; +Examines all the servants round, +In vain--no doctor's to be found. +My lady could not choose but wonder; +"Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; +But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; +I'll try his manners once again; +If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, +My son shall never see a college." + The captain was a man of reading, +And much good sense, as well as breeding; +Who, loath to blame, or to incense, +Said little in his own defence. +Next day another message brought; +The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, +Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, +Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, +Panting--and faltering--humm'd and ha'd, +"Her ladyship was gone abroad: +The captain too--he did not know +Whether he ought to stay or go;" +Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, +My lady, pitying his confusion, +Call'd her good nature to relieve him; +Told him, she thought she might believe him; +And would not only grant his suit, +But visit him, and eat some fruit, +Provided, at a proper time, +He told the real truth in rhyme; +'Twas to no purpose to oppose, +She'd hear of no excuse in prose. +The Doctor stood not to debate, +Glad to compound at any rate; +So, bowing, seemingly complied; +Though, if he durst, he had denied. +But first, resolved to show his taste, +Was too refined to give a feast; +He'd treat with nothing that was rare, +But winding walks and purer air; +Would entertain without expense, +Or pride or vain magnificence: +For well he knew, to such a guest +The plainest meals must be the best. +To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare +Simplicity alone is rare; +While high, and nice, and curious meats +Are really but vulgar treats. +Instead of spoils of Persian looms, +The costly boast of regal rooms, +Thought it more courtly and discreet +To scatter roses at her feet; +Roses of richest dye, that shone +With native lustre, like her own; +Beauty that needs no aid of art +Through every sense to reach the heart. +The gracious dame, though well she knew +All this was much beneath her due, +Liked everything--at least thought fit +To praise it _par maniere d'acquit_. +Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear +The scorching sun, or chilling air; +Disturb'd alike at both extremes, +Whether he shows or hides his beams: +Though seeming pleased at all she sees, +Starts at the ruffling of the trees, +And scarce can speak for want of breath, +In half a walk fatigued to death. +The Doctor takes his hint from hence, +T' apologize his late offence: +"Madam, the mighty power of use +Now strangely pleads in my excuse; +If you unused have scarcely strength +To gain this walk's untoward length; +If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, +Through long disuse of solitude; +If, long confined to fires and screens, +You dread the waving of these greens; +If you, who long have breathed the fumes +Of city fogs and crowded rooms, +Do now solicitously shun +The cooler air and dazzling sun; +If his majestic eye you flee, +Learn hence t' excuse and pity me. +Consider what it is to bear +The powder'd courtier's witty sneer; +To see th' important man of dress +Scoffing my college awkwardness; +To be the strutting cornet's sport, +To run the gauntlet of the court, +Winning my way by slow approaches, +Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches, +From the first fierce cockaded sentry, +Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry; +To pass so many crowded stages, +And stand the staring of your pages: +And after all, to crown my spleen, +Be told--'You are not to be seen:' +Or, if you are, be forced to bear +The awe of your majestic air. +And can I then be faulty found, +In dreading this vexatious round? +Can it be strange, if I eschew +A scene so glorious and so new? +Or is he criminal that flies +The living lustre of your eyes?" + + +[Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.--_Scott._] + + + + +THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE + +INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1] +1724 + +Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.--VIRG., _Aen._, v, 344. + +Once on a time, a righteous sage, +Grieved with the vices of the age, +Applied to Jove with fervent prayer-- +"O Jove, if Virtue be so fair +As it was deem'd in former days, +By Plato and by Socrates, +Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, +Only for want of outward shape; +Make then its real excellence, +For once the theme of human sense; +So shall the eye, by form confined, +Direct and fix the wandering mind, +And long-deluded mortals see, +With rapture, what they used to flee!" + Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, +And bids him bless and mend the earth. +Behold him blooming fresh and fair, +Now made--ye gods--a son and heir; +An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, +An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2] +But prodigies are wrought to prove +Nothing impossible to Jove. + Virtue was for this sex design'd, +In mild reproof to womankind; +In manly form to let them see +The loveliness of modesty, +The thousand decencies that shone +With lessen'd lustre in their own; +Which few had learn'd enough to prize, +And some thought modish to despise. + To make his merit more discern'd, +He goes to school--he reads--is learn'd; +Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, +He shines distinguish'd in a college; +Resolved nor honour, nor estate, +Himself alone should make him great. +Here soon for every art renown'd, +His influence is diffused around; +The inferior youth to learning led, +Less to be famed than to be fed, +Behold the glory he has won, +And blush to see themselves outdone; +And now, inflamed with rival rage, +In scientific strife engage, +Engage; and, in the glorious strife +The arts new kindle into life. + Here would our hero ever dwell, +Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: +Contented to be truly great, +In Virtue's best beloved retreat; +Contented he--but Fate ordains, +He now shall shine in nobler scenes, +Raised high, like some celestial fire, +To shine the more, still rising higher; +Completely form'd in every part, +To win the soul, and glad the heart. +The powerful voice, the graceful mien, +Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; +The outward form and inward vie, +His soul bright beaming from his eye, +Ennobling every act and air, +With just, and generous, and sincere. + Accomplish'd thus, his next resort +Is to the council and the court, +Where Virtue is in least repute, +And interest the one pursuit; +Where right and wrong are bought and sold, +Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; +Here Manly Virtue, even here, +Pleased in the person of a peer, +A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, +Who talk'd of justice and of truth, +Of innocence the surest guard, +Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; +That he alone deserved esteem, +Who was the man he wish'd to seem; +Call'd it unmanly and unwise, +To lurk behind a mean disguise; +(Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, +'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) +Call'd want of shame a want of sense, +And found, in blushes, eloquence. + Thus acting what he taught so well, +He drew dumb merit from her cell, +Led with amazing art along +The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; +And, while he made her value known, +Yet more display'd and raised his own. + Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, +He rises to the highest stations; +For where high honour is the prize, +True Virtue has a right to rise: +Let courtly slaves low bend the knee +To Wealth and Vice in high degree: +Exalted Worth disdains to owe +Its grandeur to its greatest foe. + Now raised on high, see Virtue shows +The godlike ends for which he rose; +For him, let proud Ambition know +The height of glory here below, +Grandeur, by goodness made complete! +To bless, is truly to be great! +He taught how men to honour rise, +Like gilded vapours to the skies, +Which, howsoever they display +Their glory from the god of day, +Their noblest use is to abate +His dangerous excess of heat, +To shield the infant fruits and flowers, +And bless the earth with genial showers. + Now change the scene; a nobler care +Demands him in a higher sphere:[3] +Distress of nations calls him hence, +Permitted so by Providence; +For models, made to mend our kind, +To no one clime should be confined; +And Manly Virtue, like the sun, +His course of glorious toils should run: +Alike diffusing in his flight +Congenial joy, and life, and light. +Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, +And Discord in his presence dies; +Oppression hides with guilty dread, +And Merit rears her drooping head; +The arts revive, the valleys sing, +And winter softens into spring: +The wondering world, where'er he moves, +With new delight looks up, and loves; +One sex consenting to admire, +Nor less the other to desire; +While he, though seated on a throne, +Confines his love to one alone; +The rest condemn'd with rival voice +Repining, do applaud his choice. + Fame now reports, the Western isle +Is made his mansion for a while, +Whose anxious natives, night and day, +(Happy beneath his righteous sway,) +Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer, +To bless him, and to keep him there; +And claim it as a debt from Fate, +Too lately found, to lose him late. + + +[Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works," +vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of +Lord Chesterfield."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord +Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of +age.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, +with Denmark, and with the Czar.--_H._] + + + + +ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729 + +As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, +Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, +Above the door, at country fair, +Betokens entertainment there; +So bays on poets' brows have been +Set, for a sign of wit within. +And as ill neighbours in the night +Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; +The laurel so, by poets worn, +Is by the teeth of Envy torn; +Envy, a canker-worm, which tears +Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. + And now, t'exemplify this moral: +Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, +(Which, measured on his head, was found +Not long enough to reach half round, +But, like a girl's cockade, was tied, +A trophy, on his temple-side,) +Paddy repined to see him wear +This badge of honour in his hair; +And, thinking this cockade of wit +Would his own temples better fit, +Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, +Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, +Pelts him by turns with verse and prose +Hums like a hornet at his nose. +At length presumes to vent his satire on +The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron. +The eagle in the tale, ye know, +Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, +Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest +Securely in the thunderer's breast: +In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, +The spiteful insect stung the god. + + +[Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, +Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems +To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even +from Delany. Hence this poem.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET +BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1] + + Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, + Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat. +MART., _Epig._, lib. ix, 22. + +Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, +Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; +When next your generous soul shall condescend +T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; +Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, +On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; +Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, +How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: +Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, +Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; +When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, +Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine: +Nor with less praise the conversation guide, +Than in the public councils you decide: +Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, +Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; +You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) +With soft concessions shortening the dispute; +Then close with kind inquiries of my state, +"How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? +Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, +There are not many better in the nation! +This, with your other things, must yield you clear +Some six--at least five hundred pounds a-year." + Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom +To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; +You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, +And, if you please, my lady shall decide. + "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, +And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; +But you'll forgive me, if I own the event +Is short, is very short, of your intent: +At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, +My income less, and my expenses more." + "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector! +A dignitary! with a city lecture! +What glebes--what dues--what tithes--what fines--what rent! +Why, doctor!--will you never be content?" +"Would my good Lord but cast up the account, +And see to what my revenues amount;[2] +My titles ample; but my gain so small, +That one good vicarage is worth them all: +And very wretched, sure, is he that's double +In nothing but his titles and his trouble. +And to this crying grievance, if you please, +My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; +Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, +Where every step endangers every bone; +And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, +Two churches--twelve Hibernian miles asunder: +With complicated cures, I labour hard in, +Beside whole summers absent from--my garden! +But that the world would think I play'd the fool, +I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3] +What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, +Fixt in the centre of th' Iernian lake! +There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, +Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4] +There's not a better steerer in the realm; +I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."-- + "Doctor--a glorious scheme to ease your grief! +When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief. +You cannot fail of being happy there, +The lake will be the Lethe of your care: +The scheme is for your honour and your ease: +And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please. +Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, +Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; +Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, +And you've enough to gratify them all: +You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: +And what would a philosopher have more? +You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks--" + "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books-- +Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, +Are there no wants I should regard beside? +Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, +Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? +Who can be happy--who should wish to live, +And want the godlike happiness to give? +That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: +I had it once--and I'm debarr'd it now. +Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, +Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!" + "'Tis true--but, doctor, let us wave all that-- +Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?" + "Excuse me, good my lord--I won't be sounded, +Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. +My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, +Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. +Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, +(Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)-- +My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe-- +I'd wish besides--to build and to bestow." + + +[Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through +the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of +Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship +of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of +which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the +Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge +was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory +divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation +in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following +verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who +thought he was too amply provided for.--_Scott._ See the "Vindication," +"Prose Works," vii, p. 244.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication +of Lord Carteret," amounted only to L300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, +p. 245.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, +Esq.--_Scott._] + +[Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of +Erin.--_F._] + +[Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man +should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the +incumbent.--_H._] + + + + +AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE + +FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. +BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY + + +As Jove will not attend on less, +When things of more importance press: +You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, +That you, a low Hibernian bard, +Should cool your heels a while, and wait +Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; +And would my lord vouchsafe to grant +This one poor humble boon I want, +Free leave to play his secretary, +As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] +I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, +Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." +And, after several readings over, +It shines most in the marble cover. + How could so fine a taste dispense +With mean degrees of wit and sense? +Nor will my lord so far beguile +The wise and learned of our isle; +To make it pass upon the nation, +By dint of his sole approbation. +The task is arduous, patrons find, +To warp the sense of all mankind: +Who think your Muse must first aspire, +Ere he advance the doctor higher. + You've cause to say he meant you well: +That you are thankful, who can tell? +For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) +Of his intent: you mean your merit. + Ah! _quanto rectius, tu adepte, +Qui nil moliris tarn inepte_?[2] +Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, +"When thou thy humble lay dost offer +To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, +Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: +Content with what his bounty gave, +No larger income dost thou crave." + But you must have cascades, and all +Ierne's lake, for your canal, +Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on +All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] +It's pity that he can't bestow you +Twelve commoners in caps to row you. +Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] +Held monarchs labouring at the oar; +And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, +Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. + How different is this from Smedley! +(His name is up, he may in bed lie) +"Who only asks some pretty cure, +In wholesome soil and ether pure: +The garden stored with artless flowers, +In either angle shady bowers: +No gay parterre with costly green +Must in the ambient hedge be seen; +But Nature freely takes her course, +Nor fears from him ungrateful force: +No shears to check her sprouting vigour, +Or shape the yews to antic figure." + But you, forsooth, your all must squander +On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; +And when you've been at vast expenses +In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, +Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; +Nor farther buildings, farther planting: +No wonder, when you raise and level, +Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. +Here a convenient box you found, +Which you demolish'd to the ground: +Then built, then took up with your arbour, +And set the house to Rupert Barber. +You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy +Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. +You change a circle to a square, +Then to a circle as you were: +Who can imagine whence the fund is, +That you _quadrata_ change _rotundis_? + To Fame a temple you erect, +A Flora does the dome protect; +Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow +You place the Muses and Apollo; +There shining 'midst his train, to grace +Your whimsical poetic place. + These stories were of old design'd +As fables: but you have refined +The poets mythologic dreams, +To real Muses, gods, and streams. +Who would not swear, when you contrive thus, +That you're Don Quixote redivivus? +Beneath, a dry canal there lies, +Which only Winter's rain supplies. +O! couldst thou, by some magic spell, +Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6] +Here may it reassume its stream, +And take a greater Patrick's name! + If your expenses rise so high; +What income can your wants supply? +Yet still you fancy you inherit +A fund of such superior merit, +That you can't fail of more provision, +All by my lady's kind decision. +For, the more livings you can fish up, +You think you'll sooner be a bishop: +That could not be my lord's intent, +Nor can it answer the event. +Most think what has been heap'd on you +To other sort of folk was due: +Rewards too great for your flim-flams, +Epistles, riddles, epigrams. + Though now your depth must not be sounded, +The time was, when you'd have compounded +For less than Charley Grattan's school! +Five hundred pound a-year's no fool! +Take this advice then from your friend, +To your ambition put an end, +Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe, +Before you build and you bestow. +Be modest, nor address your betters +With begging, vain, familiar letters. + A passage may be found,[7] I've heard, +In some old Greek or Latian bard, +Which says, "Would crows in silence eat +Their offals, or their better meat, +Their generous feeders not provoking +By loud and inharmonious croaking, +They might, unhurt by Envy's claws, +Live on, and stuff to boot their maws." + + +[Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth," Part I, Act ii, +Scene 4.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: Adapted from Hor., "Epist. ad Pisones," 140.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: See the "Petition to the Duke of Grafton," _post_, +p. 345.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: Alluding to Dr. Delany's ambitious choice of fixing in the +island of the Lake of Erin, where Sir Ralph Gore had a villa.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 5: When residing at Chester, he obliged eight of his tributary +princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. Hume's "History of England," +vol. i, p. 106.--_W. E. B_.] + +[Footnote 6: Which had suddenly dried up. See _post_, vol. ii, "Verses on +the sudden drying up of St. Patrick's Well, near Trinity College, +Dublin."--_W.E.B._] + +[Footnote 7: Hor., "Epist.," lib. I, xvii, 50. + "Sed tacitus pasci si corvus posset, haberet + Plus dapis, et rixae multo minus invidiaeque." +I append the original, for the sake of Swift's very free +rendering.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +A LIBEL +ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET +1729 + + +Deluded mortals, whom the great +Choose for companions _tete-a-tete_; +Who at their dinners, _en famille_, +Get leave to sit whene'er you will; +Then boasting tell us where you dined, +And how his lordship was so kind; +How many pleasant things he spoke; +And how you laugh'd at every joke: +Swear he's a most facetious man; +That you and he are cup and can; +You travel with a heavy load, +And quite mistake preferment's road. + Suppose my lord and you alone; +Hint the least interest of your own, +His visage drops, he knits his brow, +He cannot talk of business now: +Or, mention but a vacant post, +He'll turn it off with "Name your toast:" +Nor could the nicest artist paint +A countenance with more constraint. + For, as their appetites to quench, +Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench; +So men of wit are but a kind +Of panders to a vicious mind +Who proper objects must provide +To gratify their lust of pride, +When, wearied with intrigues of state, +They find an idle hour to prate. +Then, shall you dare to ask a place, +You forfeit all your patron's grace, +And disappoint the sole design, +For which he summon'd you to dine. + Thus Congreve spent in writing plays, +And one poor office, half his days: +While Montague,[1] who claim'd the station +To be Maecenas of the nation, +For poets open table kept, +But ne'er consider'd where they slept: +Himself as rich as fifty Jews, +Was easy, though they wanted shoes; +And crazy Congreve scarce could spare +A shilling to discharge his chair: +Till prudence taught him to appeal +From Paean's fire to party zeal; +Not owing to his happy vein +The fortunes of his later scene, +Took proper principles to thrive: +And so might every dunce alive.[2] + Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ, +And flourish'd by imputed wit, +From perils of a hundred jails, +Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales. + Thus Gay, the hare with many friends, +Twice seven long years the court attends: +Who, under tales conveying truth, +To virtue form'd a princely youth:[3] +Who paid his courtship with the crowd, +As far as modest pride allow'd; +Rejects a servile usher's place, +And leaves St. James's in disgrace.[4] + Thus Addison, by lords carest, +Was left in foreign lands distrest; +Forgot at home, became for hire +A travelling tutor to a squire: +But wisely left the Muses' hill, +To business shaped the poet's quill, +Let all his barren laurels fade, +Took up himself the courtier's trade, +And, grown a minister of state, +Saw poets at his levee wait.[5] + Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind +Detesting all the statesman kind, +Contemning courts, at courts unseen, +Refused the visits of a queen. +A soul with every virtue fraught, +By sages, priests, or poets taught; +Whose filial piety excels +Whatever Grecian story tells;[6] +A genius for all stations fit, +Whose meanest talent is his wit: +His heart too great, though fortune little, +To lick a rascal statesman's spittle: +Appealing to the nation's taste, +Above the reach of want is placed: +By Homer dead was taught to thrive, +Which Homer never could alive; +And sits aloft on Pindus' head, +Despising slaves that cringe for bread. + True politicians only pay +For solid work, but not for play: +Nor ever choose to work with tools +Forged up in colleges and schools, +Consider how much more is due +To all their journeymen than you: +At table you can Horace quote; +They at a pinch can bribe a vote: +You show your skill in Grecian story; +But they can manage Whig and Tory; +You, as a critic, are so curious +To find a verse in Virgil spurious; +But they can smoke the deep designs, +When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines. + Besides, your patron may upbraid ye, +That you have got a place already; +An office for your talents fit, +To flatter, carve, and show your wit; +To snuff the lights and stir the fire, +And get a dinner for your hire. +What claim have you to place or pension? +He overpays in condescension. + But, reverend doctor, you we know +Could never condescend so low; +The viceroy, whom you now attend, +Would, if he durst, be more your friend; +Nor will in you those gifts despise, +By which himself was taught to rise: +When he has virtue to retire, +He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, +And place you in a better station, +Although it might have pleased the nation. + This may be true--submitting still +To Walpole's more than royal will; +And what condition can be worse? +He comes to drain a beggar's purse; +He comes to tie our chains on faster, +And show us England is our master: +Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing, +To make them work their own undoing. +What has he else to bait his traps, +Or bring his vermin in, but scraps? +The offals of a church distrest; +A hungry vicarage at best; +Or some remote inferior post, +With forty pounds a-year at most? + But here again you interpose-- +Your favourite lord is none of those +Who owe their virtues to their stations, +And characters to dedications: +For, keep him in, or turn him out, +His learning none will call in doubt; +His learning, though a poet said it +Before a play, would lose no credit; +Nor Pope would dare deny him wit, +Although to praise it Philips writ. +I own he hates an action base, +His virtues battling with his place: +Nor wants a nice discerning spirit +Betwixt a true and spurious merit; +Can sometimes drop a voter's claim, +And give up party to his fame. +I do the most that friendship can; +I hate the viceroy, love the man. + But you, who, till your fortune's made, +Must be a sweetener by your trade, +Should swear he never meant us ill; +We suffer sore against his will; +That, if we could but see his heart, +He would have chose a milder part: +We rather should lament his case, +Who must obey, or lose his place. + Since this reflection slipt your pen, +Insert it when you write again; +And, to illustrate it, produce +This simile for his excuse: + "So, to destroy a guilty land +An [7]angel sent by Heaven's command, +While he obeys Almighty will, +Perhaps may feel compassion still; +And wish the task had been assign'd +To spirits of less gentle kind." + But I, in politics grown old, +Whose thoughts are of a different mould, +Who from my soul sincerely hate +Both kings and ministers of state; +Who look on courts with stricter eyes +To see the seeds of vice arise; +Can lend you an allusion fitter, +Though flattering knaves may call it bitter; +Which, if you durst but give it place, +Would show you many a statesman's face: +Fresh from the tripod of Apollo, +I had it in the words that follow: +Take notice to avoid offence, +I here except his excellence: + "So, to effect his monarch's ends, +From hell a viceroy devil ascends; +His budget with corruptions cramm'd, +The contributions of the damn'd; +Which with unsparing hand he strews +Through courts and senates as he goes; +And then at Beelzebub's black hall, +Complains his budget was too small." + Your simile may better shine +In verse, but there is truth in mine. +For no imaginable things +Can differ more than gods and kings: +And statesmen, by ten thousand odds, +Are angels just as kings are gods. + + +[Footnote 1: Earl of Halifax; see Johnson's "Life of +Montague."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 2: The whole of this paragraph is unjust both to Halifax and +Congreve; for immediately after the production of Congreve's first play, +"The Old Bachelor," Halifax gave him a place in the Pipe Office, and +another in the Customs, of L600 a year. Ultimately he had at least four +sinecure appointments which together afforded him some L1,200 a year. See +Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 3: William, Duke of Cumberland, son to George II, "The +Butcher."] + +[Footnote 4: See _ante_, p. 215, note.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc. +ADDISON'S _Campaign_.] + + + + +TO DR. DELANY +ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM. 1729 + + --Tanti tibi non sit opaci +Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.--_Juv._ iii, 54. + +As some raw youth in country bred, +To arms by thirst of honour led, +When at a skirmish first he hears +The bullets whistling round his ears, +Will duck his head aside, will start, +And feel a trembling at his heart, +Till 'scaping oft without a wound +Lessens the terror of the sound; +Fly bullets now as thick as hops, +He runs into a cannon's chops. +An author thus, who pants for fame, +Begins the world with fear and shame; +When first in print you see him dread +Each pop-gun levell'd at his head: +The lead yon critic's quill contains, +Is destined to beat out his brains: +As if he heard loud thunders roll, +Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul! +Concluding that another shot +Will strike him dead upon the spot. +But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping, +He cannot see one creature dropping; +That, missing fire, or missing aim, +His life is safe, I mean his fame; +The danger past, takes heart of grace, +And looks a critic in the face. + Though splendour gives the fairest mark +To poison'd arrows in the dark, +Yet, in yourself when smooth and round, +They glance aside without a wound. + 'Tis said, the gods tried all their art, +How pain they might from pleasure part: +But little could their strength avail; +Both still are fasten'd by the tail; +Thus fame and censure with a tether +By fate are always link'd together. + Why will you aim to be preferr'd +In wit before the common herd; +And yet grow mortified and vex'd, +To pay the penalty annex'd? + 'Tis eminence makes envy rise; +As fairest fruits attract the flies. +Should stupid libels grieve your mind, +You soon a remedy may find; +Lie down obscure like other folks +Below the lash of snarlers' jokes. +Their faction is five hundred odds, +For every coxcomb lends them rods, +And sneers as learnedly as they, +Like females o'er their morning tea. + You say the Muse will not contain +And write you must, or break a vein. +Then, if you find the terms too hard, +No longer my advice regard: +But raise your fancy on the wing; +The Irish senate's praises sing; +How jealous of the nation's freedom, +And for corruptions how they weed 'em; +How each the public good pursues, +How far their hearts from private views; +Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys, +Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1] +Thus grown a member of the club, +No longer dread the rage of Grub. + How oft am I for rhyme to seek! +To dress a thought I toil a week: +And then how thankful to the town, +If all my pains will earn a crown! +While every critic can devour +My work and me in half an hour. +Would men of genius cease to write, +The rogues must die for want and spite; +Must die for want of food and raiment, +If scandal did not find them payment. +How cheerfully the hawkers cry +A satire, and the gentry buy! +While my hard-labour'd poem pines +Unsold upon the printer's lines. + A genius in the reverend gown +Must ever keep its owner down; +'Tis an unnatural conjunction, +And spoils the credit of the function. +Round all your brethren cast your eyes, +Point out the surest men to rise; +That club of candidates in black, +The least deserving of the pack, +Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud, +With grace and learning unendow'd, +Can turn their hands to every job, +The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2] +Will sooner coin a thousand lies, +Than suffer men of parts to rise; +They crowd about preferment's gate, +And press you down with all their weight; +For as of old mathematicians +Were by the vulgar thought magicians; +So academic dull ale-drinkers +Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers. + Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, +Disdains to serve ignoble ends. +Observe what loads of stupid rhymes +Oppress us in corrupted times; +What pamphlets in a court's defence +Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense? +For though the Muse delights in fiction, +She ne'er inspires against conviction. +Then keep your virtue still unmixt, +And let not faction come betwixt: +By party-steps no grandeur climb at, +Though it would make you England's primate; +First learn the science to be dull, +You then may soon your conscience lull; +If not, however seated high, +Your genius in your face will fly. + When Jove was from his teeming head +Of Wit's fair goddess[3] brought to bed, +There follow'd at his lying-in +For after-birth a sooterkin; +Which, as the nurse pursued to kill, +Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill, +There in the soil began to root, +And litter'd at Parnassus' foot. +From hence the critic vermin sprung, +With harpy claws and poisonous tongue: +Who fatten on poetic scraps, +Too cunning to be caught in traps. +Dame Nature, as the learned show, +Provides each animal its foe: +Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox +Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks +Thus Envy pleads a natural claim +To persecute the Muse's fame; +On poets in all times abusive, +From Homer down to Pope inclusive. + Yet what avails it to complain? +You try to take revenge in vain. +A rat your utmost rage defies, +That safe behind the wainscot lies. +Say, did you ever know by sight +In cheese an individual mite! +Show me the same numeric flea, +That bit your neck but yesterday: +You then may boldly go in quest +To find the Grub Street poet's nest; +What spunging-house, in dread of jail, +Receives them, while they wait for bail; +What alley are they nestled in, +To flourish o'er a cup of gin; +Find the last garret where they lay, +Or cellar where they starve to-day. +Suppose you have them all trepann'd, +With each a libel in his hand, +What punishment would you inflict? +Or call them rogues, or get them kickt? +These they have often tried before; +You but oblige them so much more: +Themselves would be the first to tell, +To make their trash the better sell. + You have been libell'd--Let us know, +What fool officious told you so? +Will you regard the hawker's cries, +Who in his titles always lies? +Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, +It might be something in your praise; +And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, +Would vex one more a thousand times. +Till critics blame, and judges praise, +The poet cannot claim his bays. +On me when dunces are satiric, +I take it for a panegyric. +Hated by fools, and fools to hate, +Be that my motto, and my fate. + + +[Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while +the new Parliament-house was building.--_Swift_.] + +[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.] + +[Footnote 3: Pallas.] + + + + +DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 + +To form a just and finish'd piece, +Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, +Whose godships are in chief request, +And fit your present subject best; +And, should it be your hero's case, +To have both male and female race, +Your business must be to provide +A score of goddesses beside. + Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, +For which they bring a modern pattern; +Because they might have heard of one,[1] +Who often long'd to eat his son; +But this I think will not go down, +For here the father kept his crown. + Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, +Who met his mother in a grove; +To this we freely shall consent, +Well knowing what the poets meant; +And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, +It may be literally true.[2] + Next, as the laws of verse require, +He must be greater than his sire; +For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, +Was able Saturn to depose; +And sure no Christian poet breathing +Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; +Or, if to blasphemy it tends. +That's but a trifle among friends. + Your hero now another Mars is, +Makes mighty armies turn their a--s: +Behold his glittering falchion mow +Whole squadrons at a single blow; +While Victory, with wings outspread, +Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; +His milk-white steed upon its haunches, +Or pawing into dead men's paunches; +As Overton has drawn his sire, +Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire. +Then from his arm hoarse thunder rolls, +As loud as fifty mustard bowls; +For thunder still his arm supplies, +And lightning always in his eyes. +They both are cheap enough in conscience, +And serve to echo rattling nonsense. +The rumbling words march fierce along, +Made trebly dreadful in your song. + Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, +To sing of wars, choose peaceful times. +What though, for fifteen years and more, +Janus has lock'd his temple-door; +Though not a coffeehouse we read in +Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; +Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, +Though fond of warlike lies as most men; +Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: +For, must thy hero not be dreadful? +Dismissing Mars, it next must follow +Your conqueror is become Apollo: +That he's Apollo is as plain as +That Robin Walpole is Maecenas; +But that he struts, and that he squints, +You'd know him by Apollo's prints. +Old Phoebus is but half as bright, +For yours can shine both day and night. +The first, perhaps, may once an age +Inspire you with poetic rage; +Your Phoebus Royal, every day, +Not only can inspire, but pay. + Then make this new Apollo sit +Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. +"How from his altitude he stoops +To raise up Virtue when she droops; +On Learning how his bounty flows, +And with what justice he bestows; +Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam! +Be witness if I tell a flam, +What prodigies in arts we drain, +From both your streams, in George's reign. +As from the flowery bed of Nile"-- +But here's enough to show your style. +Broad innuendoes, such as this, +If well applied, can hardly miss: +For, when you bring your song in print, +He'll get it read, and take the hint; +(It must be read before 'tis warbled, +The paper gilt and cover marbled.) +And will be so much more your debtor, +Because he never knew a letter. +And, as he hears his wit and sense +(To which he never made pretence) +Set out in hyperbolic strains, +A guinea shall reward your pains; +For patrons never pay so well, +As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. +Next call him Neptune: with his trident +He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; +And, if provoked, he soundly firks his +Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes. +He would have seized the Spanish plate, +Had not the fleet gone out too late; +And in their very ports besiege them, +But that he would not disoblige them; +And make the rascals pay him dearly +For those affronts they give him yearly. + 'Tis not denied, that, when we write, +Our ink is black, our paper white: +And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, +We blacken what was white before: +I think this practice only fit +For dealers in satiric wit. +But you some white-lead ink must get +And write on paper black as jet; +Your interest lies to learn the knack +Of whitening what before was black. + Thus your encomium, to be strong, +Must be applied directly wrong. +A tyrant for his mercy praise, +And crown a royal dunce with bays: +A squinting monkey load with charms, +And paint a coward fierce in arms. +Is he to avarice inclined? +Extol him for his generous mind: +And, when we starve for want of corn, +Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3] +For all experience this evinces +The only art of pleasing princes: +For princes' love you should descant +On virtues which they know they want. +One compliment I had forgot, +But songsters must omit it not; +I freely grant the thought is old: +Why, then, your hero must be told, +In him such virtues lie inherent, +To qualify him God's vicegerent; +That with no title to inherit, +He must have been a king by merit. +Yet, be the fancy old or new, +Tis partly false, and partly true: +And, take it right, it means no more +Than George and William claim'd before. + Should some obscure inferior fellow, +Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4] +When all your list of Gods is out, +Presume to show his mortal snout, +And as a Deity intrude, +Because he had the world subdued; +O, let him not debase your thoughts, +Or name him but to tell his faults.-- + Of Gods I only quote the best, +But you may hook in all the rest. + Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed +To praise your empress and her breed; +First of the first, to vouch your lies, +Bring all the females of the skies; +The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, +Must venture down to entertain us: +With bended knees when they adore her, +What dowdies they appear before her! +Nor shall we think you talk at random, +For Venus might be her great-grandam: +Six thousand years has lived the Goddess, +Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; +Besides, your songsters oft have shown +That she has Graces of her own: +Three Graces by Lucina brought her, +Just three, and every Grace a daughter; +Here many a king his heart and crown +Shall at their snowy feet lay down: +In royal robes, they come by dozens +To court their English German cousins: +Beside a pair of princely babies, +That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. + Now see her seated in her throne +With genuine lustre, all her own: +Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, +Her splendour is but borrow'd light; +And only with her brother linkt +Can shine, without him is extinct. +But Carolina shines the clearer +With neither spouse nor brother near her: +And darts her beams o'er both our isles, +Though George is gone a thousand miles. +Thus Berecynthia takes her place, +Attended by her heavenly race; +And sees a son in every God, +Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod. + Now sing his little highness Freddy +Who struts like any king already: +With so much beauty, show me any maid +That could resist this charming Ganymede! +Where majesty with sweetness vies, +And, like his father, early wise. +Then cut him out a world of work, +To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: +Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, +And golden times, and halcyon days; +And swear his line shall rule the nation +For ever--till the conflagration. + But, now it comes into my mind, +We left a little duke behind; +A Cupid in his face and size, +And only wants, to want his eyes. +Make some provision for the younker, +Find him a kingdom out to conquer; +Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, +Make Gulliver his commodore; +Into whose pocket valiant Willy put, +Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. + A skilful critic justly blames +Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names +The sense can ne'er be too jejune, +But smooth your words to fit the tune. +Hanover may do well enough, +But George and Brunswick are too rough; +Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, +And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. +In vain are all attempts from Germany +To find out proper words for harmony: +And yet I must except the Rhine, +Because it clinks to Caroline. +Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes! +Be sung ten hundred thousand times; +Too happy were the poets' crew, +If their own happiness they knew: +Three syllables did never meet +So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: +Nine other tuneful words like that +Would prove even Homer's numbers flat. +Behold three beauteous vowels stand, +With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; +In concord here for ever fix'd, +No jarring consonant betwixt. + May Caroline continue long, +For ever fair and young!--in song. +What though the royal carcass must, +Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust? +Those elements her name compose, +Like atoms, are exempt from blows. + Though Caroline may fill your gaps, +Yet still you must consult your maps; +Find rivers with harmonious names, +Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, +Britannia long will wear like steel, +But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; +And Patience can endure no more +To hear the Belgic lion roar. +Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, +But proud Iberia soundly maul: +Restore the ships by Philip taken, +And make him crouch to save his bacon. +Nassau, who got the name of Glorious, +Because he never was victorious, +A hanger-on has always been; +For old acquaintance bring him in. + To Walpole you might lend a line, +But much I fear he's in decline; +And if you chance to come too late, +When he goes out, you share his fate, +And bear the new successor's frown; +Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. +Reject with scorn that stupid notion, +To praise your hero for devotion; +Nor entertain a thought so odd, +That princes should believe in God; +But follow the securest rule, +And turn it all to ridicule: +'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, +And gives the maids of honour sport; +For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5] +They now can venture in the dark: +That sound divine the truth has spoke all, +And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local. +This will not give them half the trouble +Of bargains sold, or meanings double. + Supposing now your song is done, +To Mynheer Handel next you run, +Who artfully will pare and prune +Your words to some Italian tune: +Then print it in the largest letter, +With capitals, the more the better. +Present it boldly on your knee, +And take a guinea for your fee. + + +[Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, +while the latter was Prince of Wales.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to +have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and +one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or +Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander +the Great.--_W. E. B._] + +[Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, +distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St. +James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not +considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, +"Moral Essays," Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK +A FABLE BY DR. DELANY +1730 + +--quis iniquae +Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?--_-Juv._ i, 30. + +In ancient times, as bards indite, +(If clerks have conn'd the records right.) +A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway +His subjects with delight obey: +His tail was beauteous to behold, +Replete with goodly eyes and gold; +Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, +Whose train at once is rich and wise; +And princely ruled he many regions, +And statesmen wise, and valiant legions. + A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, +With every grace and talent blest, +Was sent to sway, with all his skill, +The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2] +No science was to him unknown, +For all the arts were all his own: +In all the living learned read, +Though more delighted with the dead: +For birds, if ancient tales say true, +Had then their Popes and Homers too; +Could read and write in prose and verse, +And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3] +He knew their voices, and their wings, +Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; +Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, +And who attain'd the true sublime. +Their merits he could well descry, +He had so exquisite an eye; +And when that fail'd to show them clear, +He had as exquisite an ear; +It chanced as on a day he stray'd +Beneath an academic shade, +He liked, amidst a thousand throats, +The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, +And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, +And took him home, and made him tame; +Found him on trial true and able, +So cheer'd and fed him at his table. + Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, +And cries out, "Better fed than taught"--Then +jests on game and tame, and reads, +And jests, and so my tale proceeds. + Long had he studied in the wood, +Conversing with the wise and good: +His soul with harmony inspired, +With love of truth and virtue fired: +His brethren's good and Maker's praise +Were all the study of his lays; +Were all his study in retreat, +And now employ'd him with the great. +His friendship was the sure resort +Of all the wretched at the court; +But chiefly merit in distress +His greatest blessing was to bless.-- + This fix'd him in his patron's breast, +But fired with envy all the rest: +I mean that noisy, craving crew, +Who round the court incessant flew, +And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, +To fill the maws of sons and cousins: +"Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood +To every thought of common good, +Confining every hope and care, +To their own low, contracted sphere." +These ran him down with ceaseless cry, +But found it hard to tell you why, +Till his own worth and wit supplied +Sufficient matter to deride: +"'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, +To hide her rage in ridicule: +The vulgar eye she best beguiles, +When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: +Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised! +Tormented most when seeming pleased!" +Their spite had more than half expired, +Had he not wrote what all admired; +What morsels had their malice wanted, +But that he built, and plann'd, and planted! +How had his sense and learning grieved them, +But that his charity relieved them! + "At highest worth dull malice reaches, +As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: +Envy defames, as harpies vile +Devour the food they first defile." + Now ask the fruit of all his favour-- +"He was not hitherto a saver."-- +What then could make their rage run mad? +"Why, what he hoped, not what he had." + "What tyrant e'er invented ropes, +Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes? +Th' inheritance of hope and fame +Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; +Or, if it were, is not so small, +But there is room enough for all." + If he but chance to breathe a song, +(He seldom sang, and never long,) +The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, +Where it was high, pronounced it loud: +Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, +Easy and Friendly was Familiar. + Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, +With solemn air to Virtue's praise, +Alike abusive and erroneous, +They call'd it hoarse and inharmonious. +Yet so it was to souls like theirs, +Tuneless as Abel to the bears! + A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw +Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6] +(Though some, who would be thought to know, +Are positive it was a crow:) +Jack Daw was seconded by Tit, +Tom Tit[7] could write, and so he writ; +A tribe of tuneless praters follow, +The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; +And twenty more their throats let loose, +Down to the witless, waddling Goose. + Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, +Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: +The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, +The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: +The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, +Swore all his singing was but croaking. +Some thought they meant to show their wit, +Might think so still--"but that they writ"-- +Could it be spite or envy?--"No-- +Who did no ill could have no foe."-- +So wise Simplicity esteem'd; +Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; +This question rightly understood, +"What more provokes than doing good? +A soul ennobled and refined +Reproaches every baser mind: +As strains exalted and melodious +Make every meaner music odious."-- +At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, +For voice and wisdom long revered, +Esteem'd of all the wise and good, +The Guardian Genius of the wood: +He long in discontent retired, +Yet not obscured, but more admired: +His brethren's servile souls disdaining, +He lived indignant and complaining: +They now afresh provoke his choler, +(It seems the Lark had been his scholar, +A favourite scholar always near him, +And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) +Enraged he canvasses the matter, +Exposes all their senseless chatter, +Shows him and them in such a light, +As more inflames, yet quells their spite. +They hear his voice, and frighted fly, +For rage had raised it very high: +Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, +They hide their heads, and hush their throats. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_F_] + +[Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in +Dublin.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.--_F_.] + +[Footnote 5: Dr. T----r.--_F._] + +[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.--_F._] + +[Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.--_F._] + +[Footnote 8: Dean Swift.--_F._] + + +ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK. +1730 + + +In ancient times, the wise were able +In proper terms to write a fable: +Their tales would always justly suit +The characters of every brute. +The ass was dull, the lion brave, +The stag was swift, the fox a knave; +The daw a thief, the ape a droll, +The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: +A pigeon would, if shown by AEsop, +Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up. +Far otherwise a great divine +Has learnt his fables to refine; +He jumbles men and birds together, +As if they all were of a feather: +You see him first the Peacock bring, +Against all rules, to be a king; +That in his tail he wore his eyes, +By which he grew both rich and wise. +Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, +A Peacock chose for flight and voice; +Did ever mortal see a peacock +Attempt a flight above a haycock? +And for his singing, doctor, you know +Himself complain'd of it to Juno. +He squalls in such a hellish noise, +He frightens all the village boys. +This Peacock kept a standing force, +In regiments of foot and horse: +Had statesmen too of every kind, +Who waited on his eyes behind; +And this was thought the highest post; +For, rule the rump, you rule the roast. +The doctor names but one at present, +And he of all birds was a Pheasant. +This Pheasant was a man of wit, +Could read all books were ever writ; +And, when among companions privy, +Could quote you Cicero and Livy. +Birds, as he says, and I allow, +Were scholars then, as we are now; +Could read all volumes up to folios, +And feed on fricassees and olios: +This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will, +Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; +And, as he wander'd in his park, +He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; +Was taken with his person outward, +So prettily he pick'd a cow-t--d: +Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, +And in his palace fed and taught him. +The moral of the tale is pleasant, +Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: +A lark he is, and such a lark +As never came from Noah's ark: +And though he had no other notion, +But building, planning, and devotion; +Though 'tis a maxim you must know, +"Who does no ill can have no foe;" +Yet how can I express in words +The strange stupidity of birds? +This Lark was hated in the wood, +Because he did his brethren good. +At last the Nightingale comes in, +To hold the doctor by the chin: +We all can find out what he means, +The worst of disaffected deans: +Whose wit at best was next to none, +And now that little next is gone; +Against the court is always blabbing, +And calls the senate-house a cabin; +So dull, that but for spleen and spite, +We ne'er should know that he could write +Who thinks the nation always err'd, +Because himself is not preferr'd; +His heart is through his libel seen, +Nor could his malice spare the queen; +Who, had she known his vile behaviour, +Would ne'er have shown him so much favour. +A noble lord[1] has told his pranks, +And well deserves the nation's thanks. +O! would the senate deign to show +Resentment on this public foe, +Our Nightingale might fit a cage; +There let him starve, and vent his rage: +Or would they but in fetters bind +This enemy of human kind! +Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, +Thou champion for the commonweal: +Nor on a theme like this repine, +For once to wet thy pen divine: +Bestow that libeller a lash, +Who daily vends seditious trash: +Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, +But in the praise of virtue is dumb: +That scribbler lash, who neither knows +The turn of verse, nor style of prose; +Whose malice, for the worst of ends, +Would have us lose our English friends:[3] +Who never had one public thought, +Nor ever gave the poor a groat. +One clincher more, and I have done, +I end my labours with a pun. +Jove send this Nightingale may fall, +Who spends his day and night in gall! +So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; +I see the greatest owls in you +That ever screech'd, or ever flew. + + +[Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.--_F._] + +[Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.--_F._] + +[Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.--_F._] + + + +DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1] + +Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.--HOR. + _Epist._, I, ii, 47. + +It was, my lord, the dexterous shift +Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, +But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, +With silver verge, and surplice clean, +Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, +In looser rhyme to beg a place. +A place he got, yclept a stall, +And eke a thousand pounds withal; +And were he less a witty writer, +He might as well have got a mitre. + Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, +In humble lays my thanks to offer, +Approach your grace with grateful heart, +My thanks and verse both void of art, +Content with what your bounty gave, +No larger income do I crave: +Rejoicing that, in better times, +Grafton requires my loyal lines. +Proud! while my patron is polite, +I likewise to the patriot write! +Proud! that at once I can commend +King George's and the Muses' friend! +Endear'd to Britain; and to thee +(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) +Endear'd by twice three anxious years, +Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; +By love, by wisdom, and by skill; +For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will. + But where shall Smedley make his nest, +And lay his wandering head to rest? +Where shall he find a decent house, +To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? +O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, +In wholesome soil, and ether pure; +The garden stored with artless flowers, +In either angle shady bowers. +No gay parterre, with costly green, +Within the ambient hedge be seen: +Let Nature freely take her course, +Nor fear from me ungrateful force; +No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, +Nor shape the yews to antic figure: +A limpid brook shall trout supply, +In May, to take the mimic fly; +Round a small orchard may it run, +Whose apples redden to the sun. +Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; +For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, +A little Euston[2] may it be, +Euston I'll carve on every tree. +But then, to keep it in repair, +My lord--twice fifty pounds a-year +Will barely do; but if your grace +Could make them hundreds--charming place! +Thou then wouldst show another face. + Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, +'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: +One shivers with the arctic wind, +One hears the polar axis grind. +Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, +Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. +He has a purse to keep a table, +And eke a soul as hospitable. +My heart is good; but assets fail, +To fight with storms of snow and hail. +Besides, the country's thin of people, +Who seldom meet but at the steeple: +The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, +Ne'er named the thing without a frown, +When, much fatigued with sermon study, +He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; +No fit companion could be found, +To push the lazy bottle round: +Sure then, for want of better folks +To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. + Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, +Where beaux and belles in parties meet; +Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, +And jostle as they troll along; +Where tea and coffee hourly flow, +And gape-seed does in plenty grow; +And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, +Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!" +There Lady Luna in her sphere +Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; +But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, +Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. +There--but 'tis endless to write down +All the amusements of the town; +And spouse will think herself quite undone, +To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; +And care we must our wives to please, +Or else--we shall be ill at ease. + You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, +'Tis only some convenient tack, +Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, +To be my late, my last retreat; +A decent church, close by its side, +There, preaching, praying, to reside; +And as my time securely rolls, +To save my own and other souls. + + +[Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to +in the preceding poems.--_Scott_.] + +[Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.--_N._] + +[Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.--_H._] + +[Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there +are two deans.--_Scott_.] + + + + +THE DUKE'S ANSWER +BY DR. SWIFT + + +Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, +Where wit in all its glory shines; +Where compliments, with all their pride, +Are by their numbers dignified: +I hope to make you yet as clean +As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. +I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, +And may be something else withal; +And, were you not so good a writer, +I should present you with a mitre. +Write worse, then, if you can--be wise- +Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. +Talk not of making of thy nest: +Ah! never lay thy head to rest! +That head so well with wisdom fraught, +That writes without the toil of thought! +While others rack their busy brains, +You are not in the least at pains. +Down to your dean'ry now repair, +And build a castle in the air. +I'm sure a man of your fine sense +Can do it with a small expense. +There your dear spouse and you together +May breathe your bellies full of ether, +When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, +She'll help your wife when she's in labour, +Well skill'd in midwife artifices, +For she herself oft falls in pieces. +There you shall see a raree show +Will make you scorn this world below, +When you behold the milky-way, +As white as snow, as bright as day; +The glittering constellations roll +About the grinding arctic pole; +The lovely tingling in your ears, +Wrought by the music of the spheres-- +Your spouse shall then no longer hector, +You need not fear a curtain-lecture; +Nor shall she think that she is undone +For quitting her beloved London. +When she's exalted in the skies, +She'll never think of mutton-pies; +When you're advanced above Dean Viz, +You'll never think of Goody Griz; +But ever, ever live at ease, +And strive, and strive your wife to please; +In her you'll centre all your joys, +And get ten thousand girls and boys; +Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, +And they like stars shall rise and set. +While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon +Be a new sun and a new moon: +Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, +For then your horns shall be your pride. + + +[Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the +text.--_W. E. B._] + + + + +PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, +WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1] + + +The very reverend Dean Smedley, +Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, +Was equally allow'd to shine +As poet, scholar, and divine; +With godliness could well dispense, +Would be a rake, but wanted sense; +Would strictly after Truth inquire, +Because he dreaded to come nigh her. +For Liberty no champion bolder, +He hated bailiffs at his shoulder. +To half the world a standing jest, +A perfect nuisance to the rest; +From many (and we may believe him) +Had the best wishes they could give him. +To all mankind a constant friend, +Provided they had cash to lend. +One thing he did before he went hence, +He left us a laconic sentence, +By cutting of his phrase, and trimming +To prove that bishops were old women. +Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, +She was so terrified at his. +He waded, without any shame, +Through thick and thin to get a name, +Tried every sharping trick for bread, +And after all he seldom sped. +When Fortune favour'd, he was nice; +He never once would cog the dice; +But, if she turn'd against his play, +He knew to stop _a quatre trois_. +Now sound in mind, and sound in _corpus_, +(Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise, +He hies from hence at forty-four +(But by his leave he sinks a score) +To the East Indies, there to cheat, +Till he can purchase an estate; +Where, after he has fill'd his chest, +He'll mount his tub, and preach his best, +And plainly prove, by dint of text, +This world is his, and theirs the next. +Lest that the reader should not know +The bank where last he set his toe, +'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship, +And gave his creditors the slip. +But lest chronology should vary, +Upon the ides of February, +In seventeen hundred eight-and-twenty, +To Fort St. George, a pedler went he. +Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent, +RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT! + + +[Footnote 1: INSCRIPTION, +BY DEAN SMEDLEY, 1729. + +[*text centered] +Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY, +Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus, +Politioribus excultus literis; +Parce pius, impius minime; +Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor; +Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam, +Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus, +Auctor hujus sententiae, PATRES SUNT VETULAE. +Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam; +Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus, +Mente Sana, sano corpore, volens, laetusque, +Lustris plus quam XI numeratis, +Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque, +Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales praedicandum, +_Grevae_, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, +Arcemque _Sancti_ petens _Georgii_, vernale per aequinoxium, +Anno Aerae Christianae MDCCXXVIII, +Transfretavit. +Fata vocant--revocentque precamur.] + + +END OF VOL. I + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., +VOLUME I (OF 2)*** + + +******* This file should be named 14353.txt or 14353.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/3/5/14353 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: +https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/old/14353.zip b/old/14353.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1275cb --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14353.zip |