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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:42:32 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:42:32 -0700 |
| commit | 892130cc1a7811aad525b347d5b94929a4ea5a4e (patch) | |
| tree | 2197c8053ce85b193eae3dd6f48999a0dc798ce7 /13621-h | |
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diff --git a/13621-h/13621-h.htm b/13621-h/13621-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2709d2c --- /dev/null +++ b/13621-h/13621-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,21717 @@ +<?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 + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:15%; 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 13621 ***</div> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT + </h1> + <h3> + VOL. II + </h3> + <h3> + LONDON + </h3> + <h4> + G. Bell And Sons, Ltd. 1910 <br /><br /> Chiswick Press: Charles Whittingham + And Co. <br /><br /> Tooks Court, Chancery Lane, London + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>POEMS ADDRESSED TO VANESSA AND STELLA</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CADENUS AND VANESSA[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> LOVE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A REBUS. BY VANESSA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE DEAN'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY MARCH 13, 1718-19 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.[1] 1719-20 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> TO STELLA, WHO COLLECTED AND TRANSCRIBED HIS + POEMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> STELLA VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> STELLA TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, + 1721 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> TO STELLA ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1721-2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE BY DR. DELANY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> EPITAPH BY THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> STELLA AT WOOD PARK, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR BEC [1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> DINGLEY AND BRENT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> TO STELLA WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> VERSES BY STELLA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> A RECEIPT TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> BEC'S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER, MRS. DINGLEY'S LAP-DOG + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, MARCH 13, 1726-7 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> DEATH AND DAPHNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> DAPHNE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <b>RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> PETHOX THE GREAT. 1723 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> ON A PEN. 1724 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> ON GOLD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> ON THE POSTERIORS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> ON A HORN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> ON A CORKSCREW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE GULF OF ALL HUMAN POSSESSIONS, 1724 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> LOUISA[1] TO STREPHON. 1724 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> A MAYPOLE. 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> ON THE MOON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> ON A CIRCLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> ON INK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> ON THE FIVE SENSES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> FONTINELLA[1] TO FLORINDA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> AN ECHO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS; </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> ON TIME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> ON THE GALLOWS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> ON THE VOWELS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> ON SNOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> ON A CANNON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> ON A PAIR OF DICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> ON A CANDLE, TO LADY CARTERET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> TO LADY CARTERET, BY DR. DELANY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> TO LADY CARTERET, BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> ANSWERED BY DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> A RIDDLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> ANSWER, BY MR. F——R </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> A LETTER TO DR. HELSHAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> PROBATUR ALITER </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> <b>POEMS COMPOSED AT MARKET HILL</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1] + 1727 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> TO DEAN SWIFT, BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S IN THE NORTH + OF IRELAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> EPITAPH IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> MY LADY'S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST + THE DEAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED: WHETHER HAMILTON'S + BAWN[1] SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR MALT-HOUSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> DRAPIER'S-HILL.[1] 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> THE DEAN'S REASONS FOR NOT BUILDING AT + DRAPIER'S-HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> ROBIN AND HARRY.[1] 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> A PANEGYRIC ON THE DEAN IN THE PERSON OF A LADY + IN THE NORTH [l] 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> TWELVE ARTICLES[1] </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> <b>POLITICAL POETRY</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> PARODY ON THE RECORDER OF BLESSINGTON'S ADDRESS + TO QUEEN ANNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> MR. WILLIAM CROWE'S ADDRESS TO HER MAJESTY, + TURNED INTO METRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> JACK FRENCHMAN'S LAMENTATION[1] AN EXCELLENT NEW + SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> THE GARDEN PLOT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> SID HAMET'S ROD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> THE VIRTUES OF SID HAMET[1] THE MAGICIAN'S ROD. + 1710[2] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> THE FAMOUS SPEECH-MAKER OF ENGLAND, OR BARON + (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 1710 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> PARODY ON THE RECORDER'S SPEECH TO HIS GRACE THE + DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, 1711 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> THE RECORDER'S SPEECH EXPLAINED BY THE TORIES + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> THE SPEECH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> BALLAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE[1] TO THE LORD + TREASURER OXFORD, 1710 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY'S BEING + STABBED,mAND ADDRESSED TO HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH + OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST PEACE. 1711 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> THE SPEECH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD, 1711-12 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> THE FABLE OF MIDAS.[1] 1711-12 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> TOLAND'S INVITATION TO DISMAL[1] TO DINE WITH + THE CALVES HEAD CLUB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> PEACE AND DUNKIRK, BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG + UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL, 1712 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> HORACE, EPIST. I, VII, IMITATION OF HORACE, TO + LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF, 1713 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> THE FAGOT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> IMITATION OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE + SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] 1714 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> HORACE, BOOK II, ODE I, PARAPHRASED, ADDRESSED + TO RICHARD STEELE, ESQ. 1714 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> DENNIS INVITATION TO STEELE, HORACE, BOOK I, EP. + V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> IN SICKNESS, WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES[1], WRITTEN IN THE YEAR + 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> THE MORAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> HORACE, BOOK III, ODE II, TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, + LATE LORD TREASURER. SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE + OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> A TALE OF A NETTLE[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS + GENERAL[1] </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> <b>POEMS CHIEFLY RELATING TO IRISH POLITICS</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> PARODY ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,[1] + PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] ON A SEDITIOUS + PAMPHLET. 1720-21 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> UPON THE HORRID PLOT DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, + THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S FRENCH DOG,[1] IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND + A TORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> A QUIBBLING ELEGY ON JUDGE BOAT, 1723 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> THE EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> VERSES OCCASIONED BY WHITSHED'S [1] MOTTO ON HIS + COACH. 1724 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> PROMETHEUS[1] ON WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH + HALFPENCE[2], 1724 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> VERSES ON THE REVIVAL OF THE ORDER OF THE + BATH,[1] DURING WALPOLE'S ADMINISTRATION, A. D. 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> EPIGRAM ON WOOD'S BRASS MONEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> A SIMILE ON OUR WANT OF SILVER, AND THE ONLY WAY + TO REMEDY IT. 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> WOOD AN INSECT. 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> WILL WOOD'S PETITION TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND, + BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> A SERIOUS POEM UPON WILLIAM WOOD, BRAZIER, + TINKER, HARD-WAREMAN, COINER, FOUNDER, AND ESQUIRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF + THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPENCE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE, WHO CONDEMNED THE + DRAPIER'S PRINTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> EPIGRAM IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN'S VERSES ON HIS + OWN DEAFNESS [1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XIV PARAPHRASED AND + INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> VERSES ON THE SUDDEN DRYING UP OF ST. PATRICK'S + WELL NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN. 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> ON READING DR. YOUNG'S SATIRE, CALLED THE + UNIVERSAL PASSION, 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> THE DOG AND THIEF. 1726 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> A DIALOGUE[1] BETWEEN MAD MULLINIX AND TIMOTHY, + 1728 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> TIM AND THE FABLES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> TOM AND DICK[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> DICK, A MAGGOT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> CLAD ALL IN BROWN, TO DICK[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> DICK'S VARIETY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> TRAULUS. PART I, A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND + ROBIN[1], 1730 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> TRAULUS. PART II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> A FABLE OF THE LION AND OTHER BEASTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> ON THE IRISH BISHOPS.[1] 1731 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX., ADDRESSED TO HUMPHRY + FRENCH, ESQ.[1] LATE LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> ON MR. PULTENEY'S[1] BEING PUT OUT OF THE + COUNCIL. 1731 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS AND FELLOW + CHRISTIANS, SO FAMILIARLY USED BY THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REPEAL OF THE + TEST-ACT IN IRELAND, 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> BETTESWORTH'S EXULTATION UPON HEARING THAT HIS + NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED TO POSTERITY IN DR. SWIFT'S WORKS. BY WILLIAM + DUNKIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> AN EPIGRAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> AN EPIGRAM INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE SERGEANT + KITE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> THE YAHOO'S OVERTHROW, OR, THE KEVAN BAYL'S NEW + BALLAD, UPON SERGEANT KITE'S INSULTING THE DEAN [1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> ON THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL,[1] AND BETTESWORTH + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> ON THE IRISH CLUB. 1733[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> ON NOISY TOM. HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT. VI, + PARAPHRASED, 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0158"> ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY, 1734-5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0159"> EPIGRAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0160"> A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE + LEGION CLUB, 1736 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0161"> PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0162"> ON A PRINTER'S[1] BEING SENT TO NEWGATE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0163"> A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL; OR, A NEW BALLAD, + WRITTEN BY A SHOE-BOY, ON AN ATTORNEY WHO WAS FORMERLY A SHOE-BOY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0164"> A FRIENDLY APOLOGY FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF + PEACE BY WAY OF DEFENCE OF HARTLEY HUTCHESON, ESQ. BY JAMES BLACK-WELL, + OPERATOR FOR THE FEET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0165"> AY AND NO, A TALE FROM DUBLIN.[1] WRITTEN IN + 1737 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0166"> A BALLAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0167"> A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0168"> EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY BY SWIFT AND OTHERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0169"> ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0170"> ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0171"> ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0172"> ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0173"> IMITATED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0174"> AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0175"> IMITATED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0176"> AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0177"> ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0178"> RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0179"> ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0180"> CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0181"> TO CARTHY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0182"> ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER + THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0183"> TO CARTHY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0184"> TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. + DUNKIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0185"> UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0186"> POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0187"> LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL + PALACE AT KILMORE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0188"> THE UPSTART </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0189"> ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0190"> VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0191"> AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND + JURY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0192"> AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD + LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0193"> TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0194"> TO THE CITIZENS[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0195"> PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0196"> EPIGRAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0197"> EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0198"> EPIGRAM[1] </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0199"> <b>TRIFLES</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0200"> GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, + DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0201"> MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0202"> A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1] TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718 + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0203"> TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S IN ANSWER TO HIS + LEFT-HANDED LETTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0204"> TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0205"> AD AMICUM ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0206"> TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0207"> TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0208"> AN ANSWER, BY DELANY, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0209"> A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0210"> ANOTHER REPLY, BY SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0211"> TO THOMAS SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0212"> SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0213"> AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0214"> TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0215"> THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0216"> DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT, 1718 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0217"> THE DEAN'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0218"> DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0219"> TO THE SAME. BY DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0220"> THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0221"> TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0222"> THE DEAN TO THOMAS SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0223"> TO DR. SHERIDAN[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0224"> DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0225"> DR. SWIFT'S REPLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0226"> A COPY OF A COPY OF VERSES FROM THOMAS SHERIDAN, + CLERK, TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0227"> GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0228"> GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S INVITATION TO THOMAS + SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0229"> TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ. UPON HIS + INCOMPARABLE VERSES. BY DR. DELANY IN SHERIDAN'S NAME[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0230"> TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN + IN CIRCLES BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0231"> ON DR. SHERIDAN'S CIRCULAR VERSES BY MR. GEORGE + ROCHFORT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0232"> ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND + PAPER[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0233"> ON THE SAME PICTURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0234"> ON THE SAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0235"> ON THE SAME PICTURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0236"> ON THE SAME PICTURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0237"> DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0238"> MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0239"> DR. DELANY'S REPLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0240"> SHERIDAN'S REPLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0241"> A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0242"> ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0243"> SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0244"> THE PARDON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0245"> THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL + JACKSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0246"> TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON TO BE HUMBLY + PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON, WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED. TO BE + DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0247"> SHERIDAN TO SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0248"> SHERIDAN TO SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0249"> SWIFT TO SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0250"> MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. + 1723 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0251"> A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0252"> ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0253"> THE DEAN'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0254"> A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S + SCHOOL. SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0255"> THE EPILOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0256"> THE SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0257"> A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S + GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY SHERIDAN, 1723 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0258"> TO QUILCA, A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN + NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0259"> THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE, 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0260"> THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0261"> A FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING + TO —— ROOM IN T. C. D. IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER. + WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0262"> PALINODIA[1], HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0263"> A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY + DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0264"> AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO + DOCTOR SWIFT, 1727 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0265"> ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1] WITH THE + DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0266"> THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BEAU, WITH THE + WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD BY DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0267"> THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0268"> DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728 + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0269"> ANSWER.[1] BY DR. SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0270"> AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS[1] TO DR. HELSHAM [2] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0271"> TO DR. SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0272"> DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0273"> A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE GOODS + BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR. UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE + BISHOP OF MEATH, UNTIL HIS OWN WAS BUILT[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0274"> A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES WITH USEFUL + ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1] 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0275"> AN ANSWER TO A SCANDALOUS POEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0276"> PEG RADCLIFFE THE HOSTESS'S INVITATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0277"> VERSES BY SHERIDAN </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0278"> <b>VERSES ADDRESSED TO SWIFT AND TO HIS MEMORY</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0279"> ON DR. SWIFT, 1733 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0280"> TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S A + BIRTH-DAY POEM. NOV. 30, 1736 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0281"> EPIGRAMS OCCASIONED BY DR. SWIFT'S INTENDED + HOSPITAL FOR IDIOTS AND LUNATICS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0282"> ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTH-DAY BEING + NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0283"> AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0284"> ON THE DRAPIER. BY DR. DUNKIN.[1] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0285"> EPITAPH PROPOSED FOR DR. SWIFT. 1745 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0286"> EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN. 1754 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0287"> TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0288"> A SCHOOLBOY'S THEME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0289"> VERSES ON THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS, BY MR. JAMES + STERLING, OF THE COUNTY OF MEATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0290"> ON DR. SWIFT'S LEAVING HIS ESTATE TO IDIOTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0291"> ON SEVERAL PETTY PIECES LATELY PUBLISHED AGAINST + DEAN SWIFT, NOW DEAF AND INFIRM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0292"> ON FAULKNER'S EDITION OF SWIFT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0293"> EPIGRAM, ON LORD ORRERY'S REMARKS ON SWIFT'S + LIFE AND WRITINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0294"> TO DOCTOR DELANY ON HIS BOOK ENTITLED + "OBSERVATIONS ON LORD ORRERY'S REMARKS" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0295"> EPIGRAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0296"> AN INSCRIPTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0297"> AN EPIGRAM OCCASIONED BY THE ABOVE INSCRIPTION + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0298"> INDEX </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POEMS ADDRESSED TO VANESSA AND STELLA + </h2> + <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> + CADENUS AND VANESSA[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1713 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The shepherds and the nymphs were seen + Pleading before the Cyprian queen. + The counsel for the fair began, + Accusing the false creature Man. + The brief with weighty crimes was charged + On which the pleader much enlarged; + That Cupid now has lost his art, + Or blunts the point of every dart;— + His altar now no longer smokes, + His mother's aid no youth invokes: + This tempts freethinkers to refine, + And bring in doubt their powers divine; + Now love is dwindled to intrigue, + And marriage grown a money league; + Which crimes aforesaid (with her leave) + Were (as he humbly did conceive) + Against our sovereign lady's peace, + Against the statute in that case, + Against her dignity and crown: + Then pray'd an answer, and sat down. + The nymphs with scorn beheld their foes; + When the defendant's counsel rose, + And, what no lawyer ever lack'd, + With impudence own'd all the fact; + But, what the gentlest heart would vex, + Laid all the fault on t'other sex. + That modern love is no such thing + As what those ancient poets sing: + A fire celestial, chaste, refined, + Conceived and kindled in the mind; + Which, having found an equal flame, + Unites, and both become the same, + In different breasts together burn, + Together both to ashes turn. + But women now feel no such fire, + And only know the gross desire. + Their passions move in lower spheres, + Where'er caprice or folly steers, + A dog, a parrot, or an ape, + Or some worse brute in human shape, + Engross the fancies of the fair, + The few soft moments they can spare, + From visits to receive and pay, + From scandal, politics, and play; + From fans, and flounces, and brocades, + From equipage and park parades, + From all the thousand female toys, + From every trifle that employs + The out or inside of their heads, + Between their toilets and their beds. + In a dull stream, which moving slow, + You hardly see the current flow; + If a small breeze obstruct the course, + It whirls about, for want of force, + And in its narrow circle gathers + Nothing but chaff, and straws, and feathers. + The current of a female mind + Stops thus, and turns with every wind: + Thus whirling round together draws + Fools, fops, and rakes, for chaff and straws. + Hence we conclude, no women's hearts + Are won by virtue, wit, and parts: + Nor are the men of sense to blame, + For breasts incapable of flame; + The faults must on the nymphs be placed + Grown so corrupted in their taste. + The pleader having spoke his best, + Had witness ready to attest, + Who fairly could on oath depose, + When questions on the fact arose, + That every article was true; + Nor further those deponents knew: + Therefore he humbly would insist, + The bill might be with costs dismiss'd. + The cause appear'd of so much weight, + That Venus, from her judgment seat, + Desired them not to talk so loud, + Else she must interpose a cloud: + For if the heavenly folks should know + These pleadings in the courts below, + That mortals here disdain to love, + She ne'er could show her face above; + For gods, their betters, are too wise + To value that which men despise. + And then, said she, my son and I + Must stroll in air, 'twixt land and sky; + Or else, shut out from heaven and earth, + Fly to the sea, my place of birth: + There live with daggled mermaids pent, + And keep on fish perpetual Lent. + But since the case appear'd so nice, + She thought it best to take advice. + The Muses, by the king's permission, + Though foes to love, attend the session, + And on the right hand took their places + In order; on the left, the Graces: + To whom she might her doubts propose + On all emergencies that rose. + The Muses oft were seen to frown; + The Graces half ashamed look'd down; + And 'twas observed, there were but few + Of either sex among the crew, + Whom she or her assessors knew. + The goddess soon began to see, + Things were not ripe for a decree; + And said, she must consult her books, + The lovers' Fletas, Bractons, Cokes. + First to a dapper clerk she beckon'd + To turn to Ovid, book the second: + She then referr'd them to a place + In Virgil, <i>vide</i> Dido's case: + As for Tibullus's reports, + They never pass'd for law in courts: + For Cowley's briefs, and pleas of Waller, + Still their authority was smaller. + There was on both sides much to say: + She'd hear the cause another day; + And so she did; and then a third; + She heard it—there she kept her word: + But, with rejoinders or replies, + Long bills, and answers stuff'd with lies, + Demur, imparlance, and essoign, + The parties ne'er could issue join: + For sixteen years the cause was spun, + And then stood where it first begun. + Now, gentle Clio, sing, or say + What Venus meant by this delay? + The goddess much perplex'd in mind + To see her empire thus declined, + When first this grand debate arose, + Above her wisdom to compose, + Conceived a project in her head + To work her ends; which, if it sped, + Would show the merits of the cause + Far better than consulting laws. + In a glad hour Lucina's aid + Produced on earth a wondrous maid, + On whom the Queen of Love was bent + To try a new experiment. + She threw her law-books on the shelf, + And thus debated with herself. + Since men allege, they ne'er can find + Those beauties in a female mind, + Which raise a flame that will endure + For ever uncorrupt and pure; + If 'tis with reason they complain, + This infant shall restore my reign. + I'll search where every virtue dwells, + From courts inclusive down to cells: + What preachers talk, or sages write; + These will I gather and unite, + And represent them to mankind + Collected in that infant's mind. + This said, she plucks in Heaven's high bowers + A sprig of amaranthine flowers. + In nectar thrice infuses bays, + Three times refined in Titan's rays; + Then calls the Graces to her aid, + And sprinkles thrice the newborn maid: + From whence the tender skin assumes + A sweetness above all perfumes: + From whence a cleanliness remains, + Incapable of outward stains: + From whence that decency of mind, + So lovely in the female kind, + Where not one careless thought intrudes; + Less modest than the speech of prudes; + Where never blush was call'd in aid, + That spurious virtue in a maid, + A virtue but at second-hand; + They blush because they understand. + The Graces next would act their part, + And show'd but little of their art; + Their work was half already done, + The child with native beauty shone; + The outward form no help required: + Each, breathing on her thrice, inspired + That gentle, soft, engaging air, + Which in old times adorn'd the fair: + And said, "Vanessa be the name + By which thou shall be known to fame: + Vanessa, by the gods enroll'd: + Her name on earth shall not be told." + But still the work was not complete; + When Venus thought on a deceit. + Drawn by her doves, away she flies, + And finds out Pallas in the skies. + Dear Pallas, I have been this morn + To see a lovely infant born: + A boy in yonder isle below, + So like my own without his bow, + By beauty could your heart be won, + You'd swear it is Apollo's son; + But it shall ne'er be said, a child + So hopeful, has by me been spoil'd: + I have enough besides to spare, + And give him wholly to your care. + Wisdom's above suspecting wiles; + The Queen of Learning gravely smiles, + Down from Olympus comes with joy, + Mistakes Vanessa for a boy; + Then sows within her tender mind + Seeds long unknown to womankind: + For manly bosoms chiefly fit, + The seeds of knowledge, judgment, wit. + Her soul was suddenly endued + With justice, truth, and fortitude; + With honour, which no breath can stain, + Which malice must attack in vain; + With open heart and bounteous hand. + But Pallas here was at a stand; + She knew, in our degenerate days, + Bare virtue could not live on praise; + That meat must be with money bought: + She therefore, upon second thought, + Infused, yet as it were by stealth, + Some small regard for state and wealth; + Of which, as she grew up, there staid + A tincture in the prudent maid: + She managed her estate with care, + Yet liked three footmen to her chair. + But, lest he should neglect his studies + Like a young heir, the thrifty goddess + (For fear young master should be spoil'd) + Would use him like a younger child; + And, after long computing, found + 'Twould come to just five thousand pound. + The Queen of Love was pleased, and proud, + To see Vanessa thus endow'd: + She doubted not but such a dame + Through every breast would dart a flame, + That every rich and lordly swain + With pride would drag about her chain; + That scholars would forsake their books, + To study bright Vanessa's looks; + As she advanced, that womankind + Would by her model form their mind, + And all their conduct would be tried + By her, as an unerring guide; + Offending daughters oft would hear + Vanessa's praise rung in their ear: + Miss Betty, when she does a fault, + Lets fall her knife, or spills the salt, + Will thus be by her mother chid, + "Tis what Vanessa never did!" + Thus by the nymphs and swains adored, + My power shall be again restored, + And happy lovers bless my reign— + So Venus hoped, but hoped in vain. + For when in time the Martial Maid + Found out the trick that Venus play'd, + She shakes her helm, she knits her brows, + And, fired with indignation, vows, + To-morrow, ere the setting sun, + She'd all undo that she had done. + But in the poets we may find + A wholesome law, time out of mind, + Had been confirm'd by Fate's decree, + That gods, of whatsoe'er degree, + Resume not what themselves have given, + Or any brother god in Heaven: + Which keeps the peace among the gods, + Or they must always be at odds: + And Pallas, if she broke the laws, + Must yield her foe the stronger cause; + A shame to one so much adored + For wisdom at Jove's council-board. + Besides, she fear'd the Queen of Love + Would meet with better friends above. + And though she must with grief reflect, + To see a mortal virgin deck'd + With graces hitherto unknown + To female breasts, except her own: + Yet she would act as best became + A goddess of unspotted fame. + She knew, by augury divine, + Venus would fail in her design: + She studied well the point, and found + Her foe's conclusions were not sound, + From premises erroneous brought, + And therefore the deduction's naught, + And must have contrary effects, + To what her treacherous foe expects. + In proper season Pallas meets + The Queen of Love, whom thus she greets, + (For gods, we are by Homer told, + Can in celestial language scold:)— + Perfidious goddess! but in vain + You form'd this project in your brain; + A project for your talents fit, + With much deceit and little wit. + Thou hast, as thou shall quickly see, + Deceived thyself, instead of me; + For how can heavenly wisdom prove + An instrument to earthly love? + Know'st thou not yet, that men commence + Thy votaries for want of sense? + Nor shall Vanessa be the theme + To manage thy abortive scheme: + She'll prove the greatest of thy foes; + And yet I scorn to interpose, + But, using neither skill nor force, + Leave all things to their natural course. + The goddess thus pronounced her doom: + When, lo! Vanessa in her bloom + Advanced, like Atalanta's star, + But rarely seen, and seen from far: + In a new world with caution slept, + Watch'd all the company she kept, + Well knowing, from the books she read, + What dangerous paths young virgins tread: + Would seldom at the Park appear, + Nor saw the play-house twice a year; + Yet, not incurious, was inclined + To know the converse of mankind. + First issued from perfumers' shops, + A crowd of fashionable fops: + They ask'd her how she liked the play; + Then told the tattle of the day; + A duel fought last night at two, + About a lady—you know who; + Mention'd a new Italian, come + Either from Muscovy or Rome; + Gave hints of who and who's together; + Then fell to talking of the weather; + Last night was so extremely fine, + The ladies walk'd till after nine: + Then, in soft voice and speech absurd, + With nonsense every second word, + With fustian from exploded plays, + They celebrate her beauty's praise; + Run o'er their cant of stupid lies, + And tell the murders of her eyes. + With silent scorn Vanessa sat, + Scarce listening to their idle chat; + Farther than sometimes by a frown, + When they grew pert, to pull them down. + At last she spitefully was bent + To try their wisdom's full extent; + And said, she valued nothing less + Than titles, figure, shape, and dress; + That merit should be chiefly placed + In judgment, knowledge, wit, and taste; + And these, she offer'd to dispute, + Alone distinguish'd man from brute: + That present times have no pretence + To virtue, in the noble sense + By Greeks and Romans understood, + To perish for our country's good. + She named the ancient heroes round, + Explain'd for what they were renown'd; + Then spoke with censure or applause + Of foreign customs, rites, and laws; + Through nature and through art she ranged + And gracefully her subject changed; + In vain! her hearers had no share + In all she spoke, except to stare. + Their judgment was, upon the whole, + —That lady is the dullest soul!— + Then tapt their forehead in a jeer, + As who should say—She wants it here! + She may be handsome, young, and rich, + But none will burn her for a witch! + A party next of glittering dames, + From round the purlieus of St. James, + Came early, out of pure good will, + To see the girl in dishabille. + Their clamour, 'lighting from their chairs + Grew louder all the way up stairs; + At entrance loudest, where they found + The room with volumes litter'd round. + Vanessa held Montaigne, and read, + While Mrs. Susan comb'd her head. + They call'd for tea and chocolate, + And fell into their usual chat, + Discoursing with important face, + On ribbons, fans, and gloves, and lace; + Show'd patterns just from India brought, + And gravely ask'd her what she thought, + Whether the red or green were best, + And what they cost? Vanessa guess'd + As came into her fancy first; + Named half the rates, and liked the worst. + To scandal next—What awkward thing + Was that last Sunday in the ring? + I'm sorry Mopsa breaks so fast: + I said her face would never last. + Corinna, with that youthful air, + Is thirty, and a bit to spare: + Her fondness for a certain earl + Began when I was but a girl! + Phillis, who but a month ago + Was married to the Tunbridge beau, + I saw coquetting t'other night + In public with that odious knight! + They rallied next Vanessa's dress: + That gown was made for old Queen Bess. + Dear madam, let me see your head: + Don't you intend to put on red? + A petticoat without a hoop! + Sure, you are not ashamed to stoop! + With handsome garters at your knees, + No matter what a fellow sees. + Filled with disdain, with rage inflamed + Both of herself and sex ashamed, + The nymph stood silent out of spite, + Nor would vouchsafe to set them right. + Away the fair detractors went, + And gave by turns their censures vent. + She's not so handsome in my eyes: + For wit, I wonder where it lies! + She's fair and clean, and that's the most: + But why proclaim her for a toast? + A baby face; no life, no airs, + But what she learn'd at country fairs; + Scarce knows what difference is between + Rich Flanders lace and Colberteen. [2] + I'll undertake, my little Nancy + In flounces has a better fancy; + With all her wit, I would not ask + Her judgment how to buy a mask. + We begg'd her but to patch her face, + She never hit one proper place; + Which every girl at five years old + Can do as soon as she is told. + I own, that out-of-fashion stuff + Becomes the creature well enough. + The girl might pass, if we could get her + To know the world a little better. + (To know the world! a modern phrase + For visits, ombre, balls, and plays.) + Thus, to the world's perpetual shame, + The Queen of Beauty lost her aim; + Too late with grief she understood + Pallas had done more harm than good; + For great examples are but vain, + Where ignorance begets disdain. + Both sexes, arm'd with guilt and spite, + Against Vanessa's power unite: + To copy her few nymphs aspired; + Her virtues fewer swains admired. + So stars, beyond a certain height, + Give mortals neither heat nor light. + Yet some of either sex, endow'd + With gifts superior to the crowd, + With virtue, knowledge, taste, and wit + She condescended to admit: + With pleasing arts she could reduce + Men's talents to their proper use; + And with address each genius held + To that wherein it most excell'd; + Thus, making others' wisdom known, + Could please them, and improve her own. + A modest youth said something new; + She placed it in the strongest view. + All humble worth she strove to raise, + Would not be praised, yet loved to praise. + The learned met with free approach, + Although they came not in a coach: + Some clergy too she would allow, + Nor quarrell'd at their awkward bow; + But this was for Cadenus' sake, + A gownman of a different make; + Whom Pallas once, Vanessa's tutor, + Had fix'd on for her coadjutor. + But Cupid, full of mischief, longs + To vindicate his mother's wrongs. + On Pallas all attempts are vain: + One way he knows to give her pain; + Vows on Vanessa's heart to take + Due vengeance, for her patron's sake; + Those early seeds by Venus sown, + In spite of Pallas now were grown; + And Cupid hoped they would improve + By time, and ripen into love. + The boy made use of all his craft, + In vain discharging many a shaft, + Pointed at colonels, lords, and beaux: + Cadenus warded off the blows; + For, placing still some book betwixt, + The darts were in the cover fix'd, + Or, often blunted and recoil'd, + On Plutarch's Moral struck, were spoil'd. + The Queen of Wisdom could foresee, + But not prevent, the Fates' decree: + And human caution tries in vain + To break that adamantine chain. + Vanessa, though by Pallas taught, + By Love invulnerable thought, + Searching in books for wisdom's aid, + Was, in the very search, betray'd. + Cupid, though all his darts were lost, + Yet still resolved to spare no cost: + He could not answer to his fame + The triumphs of that stubborn dame, + A nymph so hard to be subdued, + Who neither was coquette nor prude. + I find, said he, she wants a doctor, + Both to adore her, and instruct her: + I'll give her what she most admires + Among those venerable sires. + Cadenus is a subject fit, + Grown old in politics and wit, + Caress'd by ministers of state, + Of half mankind the dread and hate. + Whate'er vexations love attend, + She needs no rivals apprehend. + Her sex, with universal voice, + Must laugh at her capricious choice. + Cadenus many things had writ: + Vanessa much esteem'd his wit, + And call'd for his poetic works: + Meantime the boy in secret lurks; + And, while the book was in her hand, + The urchin from his private stand + Took aim, and shot with all his strength + A dart of such prodigious length, + It pierced the feeble volume through, + And deep transfix'd her bosom too. + Some lines, more moving than the rest, + Stuck to the point that pierced her breast, + And, borne directly to the heart, + With pains unknown increased her smart. + Vanessa, not in years a score, + Dreams of a gown of forty-four; + Imaginary charms can find + In eyes with reading almost blind: + Cadenus now no more appears + Declined in health, advanced in years. + She fancies music in his tongue; + Nor farther looks, but thinks him young. + What mariner is not afraid + To venture in a ship decay'd? + What planter will attempt to yoke + A sapling with a falling oak? + As years increase, she brighter shines; + Cadenus with each day declines: + And he must fall a prey to time, + While she continues in her prime. + Cadenus, common forms apart, + In every scene had kept his heart; + Had sigh'd and languish'd, vow'd and writ, + For pastime, or to show his wit, + But books, and time, and state affairs, + Had spoil'd his fashionable airs: + He now could praise, esteem, approve, + But understood not what was love. + His conduct might have made him styled + A father, and the nymph his child. + That innocent delight he took + To see the virgin mind her book, + Was but the master's secret joy + In school to hear the finest boy. + Her knowledge with her fancy grew; + She hourly press'd for something new; + Ideas came into her mind + So fast, his lessons lagg'd behind; + She reason'd, without plodding long, + Nor ever gave her judgment wrong. + But now a sudden change was wrought; + She minds no longer what he taught. + Cadenus was amazed to find + Such marks of a distracted mind: + For, though she seem'd to listen more + To all he spoke, than e'er before, + He found her thoughts would absent range, + Yet guess'd not whence could spring the change. + And first he modestly conjectures + His pupil might be tired with lectures; + Which help'd to mortify his pride, + Yet gave him not the heart to chide: + But, in a mild dejected strain, + At last he ventured to complain: + Said, she should be no longer teazed, + Might have her freedom when she pleased; + Was now convinced he acted wrong + To hide her from the world so long, + And in dull studies to engage + One of her tender sex and age; + That every nymph with envy own'd, + How she might shine in the <i>grand monde</i>: + And every shepherd was undone + To see her cloister'd like a nun. + This was a visionary scheme: + He waked, and found it but a dream; + A project far above his skill: + For nature must be nature still. + If he were bolder than became + A scholar to a courtly dame, + She might excuse a man of letters; + Thus tutors often treat their better; + And, since his talk offensive grew, + He came to take his last adieu. + Vanessa, fill'd with just disdain, + Would still her dignity maintain, + Instructed from her early years + To scorn the art of female tears. + Had he employ'd his time so long + To teach her what was right and wrong; + Yet could such notions entertain + That all his lectures were in vain? + She own'd the wandering of her thoughts; + But he must answer for her faults. + She well remember'd to her cost, + That all his lessons were not lost. + Two maxims she could still produce, + And sad experience taught their use; + That virtue, pleased by being shown, + Knows nothing which it dares not own; + Can make us without fear disclose + Our inmost secrets to our foes; + That common forms were not design'd + Directors to a noble mind. + Now, said the nymph, to let you see + My actions with your rules agree; + That I can vulgar forms despise, + And have no secrets to disguise; + I knew, by what you said and writ, + How dangerous things were men of wit; + You caution'd me against their charms, + But never gave me equal arms; + Your lessons found the weakest part, + Aim'd at the head, but reach'd the heart. + Cadenus felt within him rise + Shame, disappointment, guilt, surprise. + He knew not how to reconcile + Such language with her usual style: + And yet her words were so exprest, + He could not hope she spoke in jest. + His thoughts had wholly been confined + To form and cultivate her mind. + He hardly knew, till he was told, + Whether the nymph were young or old; + Had met her in a public place, + Without distinguishing her face; + Much less could his declining age + Vanessa's earliest thoughts engage; + And, if her youth indifference met, + His person must contempt beget; + Or grant her passion be sincere, + How shall his innocence be clear? + [3]Appearances were all so strong, + The world must think him in the wrong; + Would say, he made a treacherous use + Of wit, to flatter and seduce; + The town would swear, he had betray'd + By magic spells the harmless maid: + And every beau would have his joke, + That scholars were like other folk; + And, when Platonic flights were over, + The tutor turn'd a mortal lover! + So tender of the young and fair! + It show'd a true paternal care— + Five thousand guineas in her purse! + The doctor might have fancied worse.— + Hardly at length he silence broke, + And falter'd every word he spoke; + Interpreting her complaisance, + Just as a man <i>sans</i> consequence. + She rallied well, he always knew: + Her manner now was something new; + And what she spoke was in an air + As serious as a tragic player. + But those who aim at ridicule + Should fix upon some certain rule, + Which fairly hints they are in jest, + Else he must enter his protest: + For let a man be ne'er so wise, + He may be caught with sober lies; + A science which he never taught, + And, to be free, was dearly bought; + For, take it in its proper light, + 'Tis just what coxcombs call a bite. + But, not to dwell on things minute, + Vanessa finish'd the dispute; + Brought weighty arguments to prove + That reason was her guide in love. + She thought he had himself described, + His doctrines when she first imbibed; + What he had planted, now was grown; + His virtues she might call her own; + As he approves, as he dislikes, + Love or contempt her fancy strikes. + Self-love, in nature rooted fast, + Attends us first, and leaves us last; + Why she likes him, admire not at her; + She loves herself, and that's the matter. + How was her tutor wont to praise + The geniuses of ancient days! + (Those authors he so oft had named, + For learning, wit, and wisdom, famed;) + Was struck with love, esteem, and awe, + For persons whom he never saw. + Suppose Cadenus flourish'd then, + He must adore such godlike men. + If one short volume could comprise + All that was witty, learn'd, and wise, + How would it be esteem'd and read, + Although the writer long were dead! + If such an author were alive, + How all would for his friendship strive, + And come in crowds to see his face! + And this she takes to be her case. + Cadenus answers every end, + The book, the author, and the friend; + The utmost her desires will reach, + Is but to learn what he can teach: + His converse is a system fit + Alone to fill up all her wit; + While every passion of her mind + In him is centred and confined. + Love can with speech inspire a mute, + And taught Vanessa to dispute. + This topic, never touch'd before, + Display'd her eloquence the more: + Her knowledge, with such pains acquired, + By this new passion grew inspired; + Through this she made all objects pass, + Which gave a tincture o'er the mass; + As rivers, though they bend and twine, + Still to the sea their course incline: + Or, as philosophers, who find + Some favourite system to their mind; + In every point to make it fit, + Will force all nature to submit. + Cadenus, who could ne'er suspect + His lessons would have such effect, + Or be so artfully applied, + Insensibly came on her side. + It was an unforeseen event; + Things took a turn he never meant. + Whoe'er excels in what we prize, + Appears a hero in our eyes; + Each girl, when pleased with what is taught, + Will have the teacher in her thought. + When miss delights in her spinet, + A fiddler may a fortune get; + A blockhead, with melodious voice, + In boarding-schools may have his choice: + And oft the dancing-master's art + Climbs from the toe to touch the heart. + In learning let a nymph delight, + The pedant gets a mistress by't. + Cadenus, to his grief and shame, + Could scarce oppose Vanessa's flame; + And, though her arguments were strong, + At least could hardly wish them wrong. + Howe'er it came, he could not tell, + But sure she never talk'd so well. + His pride began to interpose; + Preferr'd before a crowd of beaux! + So bright a nymph to come unsought! + Such wonder by his merit wrought! + 'Tis merit must with her prevail! + He never knew her judgment fail! + She noted all she ever read! + And had a most discerning head! + 'Tis an old maxim in the schools, + That flattery's the food of fools; + Yet now and then your men of wit + Will condescend to take a bit. + So when Cadenus could not hide, + He chose to justify his pride; + Construing the passion she had shown, + Much to her praise, more to his own. + Nature in him had merit placed, + In her a most judicious taste. + Love, hitherto a transient guest, + Ne'er held possession of his breast; + So long attending at the gate, + Disdain'd to enter in so late. + Love why do we one passion call, + When 'tis a compound of them all? + Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet, + In all their equipages meet; + Where pleasures mix'd with pains appear, + Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear; + Wherein his dignity and age + Forbid Cadenus to engage. + But friendship, in its greatest height, + A constant, rational delight, + On virtue's basis fix'd to last, + When love allurements long are past, + Which gently warms, but cannot burn, + He gladly offers in return; + His want of passion will redeem + With gratitude, respect, esteem: + With what devotion we bestow, + When goddesses appear below. + While thus Cadenus entertains + Vanessa in exalted strains, + The nymph in sober words entreats + A truce with all sublime conceits; + For why such raptures, flights, and fancies, + To her who durst not read romances? + In lofty style to make replies, + Which he had taught her to despise? + But when her tutor will affect + Devotion, duty, and respect, + He fairly abdicates the throne: + The government is now her own; + He has a forfeiture incurr'd; + She vows to take him at his word, + And hopes he will not think it strange + If both should now their stations change, + The nymph will have her turn to be + The tutor; and the pupil, he; + Though she already can discern + Her scholar is not apt to learn; + Or wants capacity to reach + The science she designs to teach; + Wherein his genius was below + The skill of every common beau, + Who, though he cannot spell, is wise + Enough to read a lady's eyes, + And will each accidental glance + Interpret for a kind advance. + But what success Vanessa met, + Is to the world a secret yet. + Whether the nymph, to please her swain, + Talks in a high romantic strain; + Or whether he at last descends + To act with less seraphic ends; + Or to compound the business, whether + They temper love and books together; + Must never to mankind be told, + Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold. + Meantime the mournful Queen of Love + Led but a weary life above. + She ventures now to leave the skies, + Grown by Vanessa's conduct wise: + For though by one perverse event + Pallas had cross'd her first intent; + Though her design was not obtain'd: + Yet had she much experience gain'd, + And, by the project vainly tried, + Could better now the cause decide. + She gave due notice, that both parties, + <i>Coram Regina, prox' die Martis,</i> + Should at their peril, without fail, + Come and appear, and save their bail. + All met; and, silence thrice proclaimed, + One lawyer to each side was named. + The judge discover'd in her face + Resentments for her late disgrace; + And full of anger, shame, and grief, + Directed them to mind their brief; + Nor spend their time to show their reading: + She'd have a summary proceeding. + She gather'd under every head + The sum of what each lawyer said, + Gave her own reasons last, and then + Decreed the cause against the men. + But in a weighty case like this, + To show she did not judge amiss, + Which evil tongues might else report, + She made a speech in open court; + Wherein she grievously complains, + "How she was cheated by the swains; + On whose petition (humbly showing, + That women were not worth the wooing, + And that, unless the sex would mend, + The race of lovers soon must end)— + She was at Lord knows what expense + To form a nymph of wit and sense, + A model for her sex design'd, + Who never could one lover find. + She saw her favour was misplaced; + The fellows had a wretched taste; + She needs must tell them to their face, + They were a stupid, senseless race; + And, were she to begin again, + She'd study to reform the men; + Or add some grains of folly more + To women, than they had before, + To put them on an equal foot; + And this, or nothing else, would do't. + This might their mutual fancy strike; + Since every being loves its like. + "But now, repenting what was done, + She left all business to her son; + She put the world in his possession, + And let him use it at discretion." + The crier was order'd to dismiss + The court, who made his last "O yes!" + The goddess would no longer wait; + But, rising from her chair of state, + Left all below at six and seven, + Harness'd her doves, and flew to Heaven. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Hester, elder daughter of Bartholomew Vanhomrigh, a Dutch + merchant in Dublin, where he acquired a fortune of some #16,000. Upon + his death, his widow and two daughters settled in London, about 1710-11, + where Swift became intimate with the family. See "Prose Works," + especially Journal to Stella. After Swift became Dean of St. Patrick's, + Vanessa and her sister, on their mother's death, returned to Ireland. The + younger sister died about 1720, and Vanessa died at Marlay Abbey in + May, 1723.] + + [Footnote 2: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, + Colbert. Planchi's "British Costume," 395.<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See the verses "On Censure," vol. i, p.160.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <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> + LOVE[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In all I wish, how happy should I be, + Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee! + So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise; + And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise. + Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art, + They catch the cautious, let the rash depart. + Most nets are fill'd by want of thought and care + But too much thinking brings us to thy snare; + Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay, + And throw the pleasing part of life away. + But, what does most my indignation move, + Discretion! thou wert ne'er a friend to Love: + Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts, + By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts; + While the blind loitering God is at his play, + Thou steal'st his golden pointed darts away: + Those darts which never fail; and in their stead + Convey'st malignant arrows tipt with lead: + The heedless God, suspecting no deceits, + Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats; + But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn, + And from her shepherd can find no return, + Laments, and rages at the power divine, + When, curst Discretion! all the fault was thine: + Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds, + And bred such feuds between those kindred gods, + That Venus cannot reconcile her sons; + When one appears, away the other runs. + The former scales, wherein he used to poise + Love against love, and equal joys with joys, + Are now fill'd up with avarice and pride, + Where titles, power, and riches, still subside. + Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run, + And tell him, how thy children are undone: + Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow, + And strike Discretion to the shades below. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Found in Miss Vanhomrigh's desk, after her death, in the + handwriting of Dr. Swift.—<i>H.</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> + A REBUS. BY VANESSA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cut the name of the man [1] who his mistress denied, + And let the first of it be only applied + To join with the prophet[2] who David did chide; + Then say what a horse is that runs very fast;[3] + And that which deserves to be first put the last; + Spell all then, and put them together, to find + The name and the virtues of him I design'd. + Like the patriarch in Egypt, he's versed in the state; + Like the prophet in Jewry, he's free with the great; + Like a racer he flies, to succour with speed, + When his friends want his aid, or desert is in need. + + [Footnote 1: Jo-seph.] + + [Footnote 2: Nathan.] + + [Footnote 3: Swift.] +</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> + THE DEAN'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit, + I cannot but envy the pride of her wit, + Which thus she will venture profusely to throw + On so mean a design, and a subject so low. + For mean's her design, and her subject as mean, + The first but a rebus, the last but a dean. + A dean's but a parson: and what is a rebus? + A thing never known to the Muses or Phoebus. + The corruption of verse; for, when all is done, + It is but a paraphrase made on a pun. + But a genius like hers no subject can stifle, + It shows and discovers itself through a trifle. + By reading this trifle, I quickly began + To find her a great wit, but the dean a small man. + Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff, + Which others for mantuas would think fine enough: + So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here, + Might furnish a second-rate poet a year. + Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next, + Where the nymph has entirely forsaken her text: + Her fine panegyrics are quite out of season: + And what she describes to be merit, is treason: + The changes which faction has made in the state, + Have put the dean's politics quite out of date: + Now no one regards what he utters with freedom, + And, should he write pamphlets, no great man would read 'em; + And, should want or desert stand in need of his aid, + This racer would prove but a dull founder'd jade. +</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> + STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY MARCH 13, 1718-19 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stella this day is thirty-four, + (We shan't dispute a year or more:) + However, Stella, be not troubled, + Although thy size and years are doubled + Since first I saw thee at sixteen, + The brightest virgin on the green; + So little is thy form declined; + Made up so largely in thy mind. + O, would it please the gods to split + Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit! + No age could furnish out a pair + Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; + With half the lustre of your eyes, + With half your wit, your years, and size. + And then, before it grew too late, + How should I beg of gentle fate, + (That either nymph might have her swain,) + To split my worship too in twain. +</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> + STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.[1] 1719-20 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WRITTEN A.D. 1720-21.—<i>Stella</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All travellers at first incline + Where'er they see the fairest sign + And if they find the chambers neat, + And like the liquor and the meat, + Will call again, and recommend + The Angel Inn to every friend. + And though the painting grows decay'd, + The house will never lose its trade: + Nay, though the treach'rous tapster,[2] Thomas, + Hangs a new Angel two doors from us, + As fine as daubers' hands can make it, + In hopes that strangers may mistake it, + We[3] think it both a shame and sin + To quit the true old Angel Inn. + Now this is Stella's case in fact, + An angel's face a little crack'd. + (Could poets or could painters fix + How angels look at thirty-six:) + This drew us in at first to find + In such a form an angel's mind; + And every virtue now supplies + The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. + See, at her levee crowding swains, + Whom Stella freely entertains + With breeding, humour, wit, and sense, + And puts them to so small expense; + Their minds so plentifully fills, + And makes such reasonable bills, + So little gets for what she gives, + We really wonder how she lives! + And had her stock been less, no doubt + She must have long ago run out. + Then, who can think we'll quit the place, + When Doll hangs out a newer face? + Nail'd to her window full in sight + All Christian people to invite. + Or stop and light at Chloe's head, + With scraps and leavings to be fed? + Then, Chloe, still go on to prate + Of thirty-six and thirty-eight; + Pursue your trade of scandal-picking, + Your hints that Stella is no chicken; + Your innuendoes, when you tell us, + That Stella loves to talk with fellows: + But let me warn you to believe + A truth, for which your soul should grieve; + That should you live to see the day, + When Stella's locks must all be gray, + When age must print a furrow'd trace + On every feature of her face; + Though you, and all your senseless tribe, + Could Art, or Time, or Nature bribe, + To make you look like Beauty's Queen, + And hold for ever at fifteen; + No bloom of youth can ever blind + The cracks and wrinkles of your mind: + All men of sense will pass your door, + And crowd to Stella's at four-score. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's own copy transcribed in her + volume.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Rascal.—<i>Stella</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: They.—<i>Stella</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> + TO STELLA, WHO COLLECTED AND TRANSCRIBED HIS POEMS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1720 + + As, when a lofty pile is raised, + We never hear the workmen praised, + Who bring the lime, or place the stones. + But all admire Inigo Jones: + So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes + Should be approved in aftertimes; + If it both pleases and endures, + The merit and the praise are yours. + Thou, Stella, wert no longer young, + When first for thee my harp was strung, + Without one word of Cupid's darts, + Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts; + With friendship and esteem possest, + I ne'er admitted Love a guest. + In all the habitudes of life, + The friend, the mistress, and the wife, + Variety we still pursue, + In pleasure seek for something new; + Or else, comparing with the rest, + Take comfort that our own is best; + The best we value by the worst, + As tradesmen show their trash at first; + But his pursuits are at an end, + Whom Stella chooses for a friend. + A poet starving in a garret, + Conning all topics like a parrot, + Invokes his mistress and his Muse, + And stays at home for want of shoes: + Should but his Muse descending drop + A slice of bread and mutton-chop; + Or kindly, when his credit's out, + Surprise him with a pint of stout; + Or patch his broken stocking soles; + Or send him in a peck of coals; + Exalted in his mighty mind, + He flies and leaves the stars behind; + Counts all his labours amply paid, + Adores her for the timely aid. + Or, should a porter make inquiries + For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris; + Be told the lodging, lane, and sign, + The bowers that hold those nymphs divine; + Fair Chloe would perhaps be found + With footmen tippling under ground; + The charming Sylvia beating flax, + Her shoulders mark'd with bloody tracks;[1] + Bright Phillis mending ragged smocks: + And radiant Iris in the pox. + These are the goddesses enroll'd + In Curll's collection, new and old, + Whose scoundrel fathers would not know 'em, + If they should meet them in a poem. + True poets can depress and raise, + Are lords of infamy and praise; + They are not scurrilous in satire, + Nor will in panegyric flatter. + Unjustly poets we asperse; + Truth shines the brighter clad in verse, + And all the fictions they pursue + Do but insinuate what is true. + Now, should my praises owe their truth + To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth, + What stoics call without our power, + They could not be ensured an hour; + 'Twere grafting on an annual stock, + That must our expectation mock, + And, making one luxuriant shoot, + Die the next year for want of root: + Before I could my verses bring, + Perhaps you're quite another thing. + So Mfvius, when he drain'd his skull + To celebrate some suburb trull, + His similes in order set, + And every crambo[2] he could get; + Had gone through all the common-places + Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces; + Before he could his poem close, + The lovely nymph had lost her nose. + Your virtues safely I commend; + They on no accidents depend: + Let malice look with all her eyes, + She dares not say the poet lies. + Stella, when you these lines transcribe, + Lest you should take them for a bribe, + Resolved to mortify your pride, + I'll here expose your weaker side. + Your spirits kindle to a flame, + Moved by the lightest touch of blame; + And when a friend in kindness tries + To show you where your error lies, + Conviction does but more incense; + Perverseness is your whole defence; + Truth, judgment, wit, give place to spite, + Regardless both of wrong and right; + Your virtues all suspended wait, + Till time has open'd reason's gate; + And, what is worse, your passion bends + Its force against your nearest friends, + Which manners, decency, and pride, + Have taught from you the world to hide; + In vain; for see, your friend has brought + To public light your only fault; + And yet a fault we often find + Mix'd in a noble, generous mind: + And may compare to Ftna's fire, + Which, though with trembling, all admire; + The heat that makes the summit glow, + Enriching all the vales below. + Those who, in warmer climes, complain + From Phoebus' rays they suffer pain, + Must own that pain is largely paid + By generous wines beneath a shade. + Yet, when I find your passions rise, + And anger sparkling in your eyes, + I grieve those spirits should be spent, + For nobler ends by nature meant. + One passion, with a different turn, + Makes wit inflame, or anger burn: + So the sun's heat, with different powers, + Ripens the grape, the liquor sours: + Thus Ajax, when with rage possest, + By Pallas breathed into his breast, + His valour would no more employ, + Which might alone have conquer'd Troy; + But, blinded by resentment, seeks + For vengeance on his friends the Greeks. + You think this turbulence of blood + From stagnating preserves the flood, + Which, thus fermenting by degrees, + Exalts the spirits, sinks the lees. + Stella, for once you reason wrong; + For, should this ferment last too long, + By time subsiding, you may find + Nothing but acid left behind; + From passion you may then be freed, + When peevishness and spleen succeed. + Say, Stella, when you copy next, + Will you keep strictly to the text? + Dare you let these reproaches stand, + And to your failing set your hand? + Or, if these lines your anger fire, + Shall they in baser flames expire? + Whene'er they burn, if burn they must, + They'll prove my accusation just. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: At Bridewell; see vol. i, "A Beautiful Young Nymph," at + p. 201.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: A cant word for a rhyme.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + STELLA VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1720 + + Pallas, observing Stella's wit + Was more than for her sex was fit, + And that her beauty, soon or late, + Might breed confusion in the state, + In high concern for human kind, + Fix'd honour in her infant mind. + But (not in wrangling to engage + With such a stupid, vicious age) + If honour I would here define, + It answers faith in things divine. + As natural life the body warms, + And, scholars teach, the soul informs, + So honour animates the whole, + And is the spirit of the soul. + Those numerous virtues which the tribe + Of tedious moralists describe, + And by such various titles call, + True honour comprehends them all. + Let melancholy rule supreme, + Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm, + It makes no difference in the case, + Nor is complexion honour's place. + But, lest we should for honour take + The drunken quarrels of a rake: + Or think it seated in a scar, + Or on a proud triumphal car; + Or in the payment of a debt + We lose with sharpers at piquet; + Or when a whore, in her vocation, + Keeps punctual to an assignation; + Or that on which his lordship swears, + When vulgar knaves would lose their ears; + Let Stella's fair example preach + A lesson she alone can teach. + In points of honour to be tried, + All passions must be laid aside: + Ask no advice, but think alone; + Suppose the question not your own. + How shall I act, is not the case; + But how would Brutus in my place? + In such a case would Cato bleed? + And how would Socrates proceed? + Drive all objections from your mind, + Else you relapse to human kind: + Ambition, avarice, and lust, + A factious rage, and breach of trust, + And flattery tipt with nauseous fleer, + And guilty shame, and servile fear, + Envy, and cruelty, and pride, + Will in your tainted heart preside. + Heroes and heroines of old, + By honour only were enroll'd + Among their brethren in the skies, + To which (though late) shall Stella rise. + Ten thousand oaths upon record + Are not so sacred as her word: + The world shall in its atoms end, + Ere Stella can deceive a friend. + By honour seated in her breast + She still determines what is best: + What indignation in her mind + Against enslavers of mankind! + Base kings, and ministers of state, + Eternal objects of her hate! + She thinks that nature ne'er design'd + Courage to man alone confined. + Can cowardice her sex adorn, + Which most exposes ours to scorn? + She wonders where the charm appears + In Florimel's affected fears; + For Stella never learn'd the art + At proper times to scream and start; + Nor calls up all the house at night, + And swears she saw a thing in white. + Doll never flies to cut her lace, + Or throw cold water in her face, + Because she heard a sudden drum, + Or found an earwig in a plum. + Her hearers are amazed from whence + Proceeds that fund of wit and sense; + Which, though her modesty would shroud, + Breaks like the sun behind a cloud; + While gracefulness its art conceals, + And yet through every motion steals. + Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind, + And, forming you, mistook your kind? + No; 'twas for you alone he stole + The fire that forms a manly soul; + Then, to complete it every way, + He moulded it with female clay: + To that you owe the nobler flame, + To this the beauty of your frame. + How would Ingratitude delight, + And how would Censure glut her spite, + If I should Stella's kindness hide + In silence, or forget with pride! + When on my sickly couch I lay, + Impatient both of night and day, + Lamenting in unmanly strains, + Call'd every power to ease my pains; + Then Stella ran to my relief, + With cheerful face and inward grief; + And, though by Heaven's severe decree + She suffers hourly more than me, + No cruel master could require, + From slaves employ'd for daily hire, + What Stella, by her friendship warm'd + With vigour and delight perform'd: + My sinking spirits now supplies + With cordials in her hands and eyes: + Now with a soft and silent tread + Unheard she moves about my bed. + I see her taste each nauseous draught, + And so obligingly am caught; + I bless the hand from whence they came, + Nor dare distort my face for shame. + Best pattern of true friends! beware; + You pay too dearly for your care, + If, while your tenderness secures + My life, it must endanger yours; + For such a fool was never found, + Who pull'd a palace to the ground, + Only to have the ruins made + Materials for a house decay'd. +</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> + STELLA TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1721 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + St. Patrick's Dean, your country's pride, + My early and my only guide, + Let me among the rest attend, + Your pupil and your humble friend, + To celebrate in female strains + The day that paid your mother's pains; + Descend to take that tribute due + In gratitude alone to you. + When men began to call me fair, + You interposed your timely care: + You early taught me to despise + The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes; + Show'd where my judgment was misplaced; + Refined my fancy and my taste. + Behold that beauty just decay'd, + Invoking art to nature's aid: + Forsook by her admiring train, + She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain; + Short was her part upon the stage; + Went smoothly on for half a page; + Her bloom was gone, she wanted art, + As the scene changed, to change her part; + She, whom no lover could resist, + Before the second act was hiss'd. + Such is the fate of female race + With no endowments but a face; + Before the thirtieth year of life, + A maid forlorn, or hated wife. + Stella to you, her tutor, owes + That she has ne'er resembled those: + Nor was a burden to mankind + With half her course of years behind. + You taught how I might youth prolong, + By knowing what was right and wrong; + How from my heart to bring supplies + Of lustre to my fading eyes; + How soon a beauteous mind repairs + The loss of changed or falling hairs; + How wit and virtue from within + Send out a smoothness o'er the skin: + Your lectures could my fancy fix, + And I can please at thirty-six. + The sight of Chloe at fifteen, + Coquetting, gives not me the spleen; + The idol now of every fool + Till time shall make their passions cool; + Then tumbling down Time's steepy hill, + While Stella holds her station still. + O! turn your precepts into laws, + Redeem the women's ruin'd cause, + Retrieve lost empire to our sex, + That men may bow their rebel necks. + 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 to-morrow. +</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> + TO STELLA ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1721-2 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While, Stella, to your lasting praise + The Muse her annual tribute pays, + While I assign myself a task + Which you expect, but scorn to ask; + If I perform this task with pain, + Let me of partial fate complain; + You every year the debt enlarge, + I grow less equal to the charge: + In you each virtue brighter shines, + But my poetic vein declines; + My harp will soon in vain be strung, + And all your virtues left unsung. + For none among the upstart race + Of poets dare assume my place; + Your worth will be to them unknown, + They must have Stellas of their own; + And thus, my stock of wit decay'd, + I dying leave the debt unpaid, + Unless Delany, as my heir, + Will answer for the whole arrear. +</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> + ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE BY DR. DELANY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Amphora, quae moestum linquis, laetumque revises + Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis. + Tu quoque depositum serves, neve opprime, marmor; + Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori. +</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> + EPITAPH BY THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenaea sepulchro, + Immortale genus, nee peritura jacet; + Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo: + Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater. +</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> + STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY: + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A GREAT BOTTLE OF WINE, LONG BURIED, + BEING THAT DAY DUG UP. 1722-3 + + Resolv'd my annual verse to pay, + By duty bound, on Stella's day, + Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink, + I gravely sat me down to think: + I bit my nails, and scratch'd my head, + But found my wit and fancy fled: + Or if, with more than usual pain, + A thought came slowly from my brain, + It cost me Lord knows how much time + To shape it into sense and rhyme: + And, what was yet a greater curse, + Long thinking made my fancy worse. + Forsaken by th'inspiring Nine, + I waited at Apollo's shrine: + I told him what the world would say, + If Stella were unsung to-day: + How I should hide my head for shame, + When both the Jacks and Robin came; + How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer, + How Sheridan the rogue would sneer, + And swear it does not always follow, + That <i>semel'n anno ridet Apollo</i>. + I have assur'd them twenty times, + That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes; + Phoebus inspired me from above, + And he and I were hand and glove. + But, finding me so dull and dry since, + They'll call it all poetic license; + And when I brag of aid divine, + Think Eusden's[1] right as good as mine. + Nor do I ask for Stella's sake; + 'Tis my own credit lies at stake: + And Stella will be sung, while I + Can only be a stander by. + Apollo, having thought a little, + Return'd this answer to a tittle. + Though you should live like old Methusalem, + I furnish hints and you shall use all 'em, + You yearly sing as she grows old, + You'd leave her virtues half untold. + But, to say truth, such dulness reigns, + Through the whole set of Irish deans, + I'm daily stunn'd with such a medley, + Dean White, Dean Daniel, and Dean Smedley, + That, let what dean soever come, + My orders are, I'm not at home; + And if your voice had not been loud, + You must have pass'd among the crowd. + But now, your danger to prevent, + You must apply to Mrs. Brent;[2] + For she, as priestess, knows the rites + Wherein the god of earth delights. + First, nine ways looking,[3] let her stand + With an old poker in her hand; + Let her describe a circle round + In Saunders'[4] cellar on the ground: + A spade let prudent Archy[5] hold, + And with discretion dig the mould. + Let Stella look with watchful eye, + Rebecca,[6] Ford, and Grattans by. + Behold the bottle, where it lies + With neck elated toward the skies! + The god of winds and god of fire + Did to its wondrous birth conspire; + And Bacchus for the poet's use + Pour'd in a strong inspiring juice. + See! as you raise it from its tomb, + It drags behind a spacious womb, + And in the spacious womb contains + A sov'reign med'cine for the brains. + You'll find it soon, if fate consents; + If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents, + Ten thousand Archys, arm'd with spades, + May dig in vain to Pluto's shades. + From thence a plenteous draught infuse, + And boldly then invoke the Muse; + But first let Robert[7] on his knees + With caution drain it from the lees; + The Muse will at your call appear, + With Stella's praise to crown the year. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Poet Laureate.] + + [Footnote 2: "Mrs. Brent, my housekeeper, famous in print for digging out + the great bottle." "I dine <i>tjte a tjte</i> five days a week with my old + presbyterian housekeeper whom I call Sir Robert." Swift to Pope. Pope's + "Works," edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, pp. 145, 212.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: She had a cast in her eyes.—<i>Swift.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: The butler.] + + [Footnote 5: The footman.] + + [Footnote 6: Mrs. Dingley.] + + [Footnote 7: The valet.] +</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> + STELLA AT WOOD PARK, + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A HOUSE OF CHARLES FORD, ESQ., NEAR DUBLIN + + 1723 + + —cuicumque nocere volebat, + Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.[1] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Don Carlos, in a merry spight, + Did Stella to his house invite: + He entertain'd her half a year + With generous wines and costly cheer. + Don Carlos made her chief director, + That she might o'er the servants hector. + In half a week the dame grew nice, + Got all things at the highest price: + Now at the table head she sits, + Presented with the nicest bits: + She look'd on partridges with scorn, + Except they tasted of the corn: + A haunch of ven'son made her sweat, + Unless it had the right <i>fumette</i>. + Don Carlos earnestly would beg, + "Dear Madam, try this pigeon's leg;" + Was happy, when he could prevail + To make her only touch a quail. + Through candle-light she view'd the wine, + To see that ev'ry glass was fine. + At last, grown prouder than the devil + With feeding high, and treatment civil, + Don Carlos now began to find + His malice work as he design'd. + The winter sky began to frown: + Poor Stella must pack off to town; + From purling streams and fountains bubbling, + To Liffey's stinking tide in Dublin: + From wholesome exercise and air + To sossing in an easy-chair: + From stomach sharp, and hearty feeding, + To piddle[2] like a lady breeding: + From ruling there the household singly. + To be directed here by Dingley:[3] + From every day a lordly banquet, + To half a joint, and God be thank it: + From every meal Pontac in plenty, + To half a pint one day in twenty: + From Ford attending at her call, + To visits of Archdeacon Wall: + From Ford, who thinks of nothing mean, + To the poor doings of the Dean: + From growing richer with good cheer, + To running out by starving here. + But now arrives the dismal day; + She must return to Ormond Quay.[4] + The coachman stopt; she look'd, and swore + The rascal had mistook the door: + At coming in, you saw her stoop; + The entry brush'd against her hoop: + Each moment rising in her airs, + She curst the narrow winding stairs: + Began a thousand faults to spy; + The ceiling hardly six feet high; + The smutty wainscot full of cracks: + And half the chairs with broken backs: + Her quarter's out at Lady-day; + She vows she will no longer stay + In lodgings like a poor Grisette, + While there are houses to be let. + Howe'er, to keep her spirits up, + She sent for company to sup: + When all the while you might remark, + She strove in vain to ape Wood Park. + Two bottles call'd for, (half her store, + The cupboard could contain but four:) + A supper worthy of herself, + Five nothings in five plates of delf. + Thus for a week the farce went on; + When, all her country savings gone, + She fell into her former scene, + Small beer, a herring, and the Dean. + Thus far in jest: though now, I fear, + You think my jesting too severe; + But poets, when a hint is new, + Regard not whether false or true: + Yet raillery gives no offence, + Where truth has not the least pretence; + Nor can be more securely placed + Than on a nymph of Stella's taste. + I must confess your wine and vittle + I was too hard upon a little: + Your table neat, your linen fine; + And, though in miniature, you shine: + Yet, when you sigh to leave Wood Park, + The scene, the welcome, and the spark, + To languish in this odious town, + And pull your haughty stomach down, + We think you quite mistake the case, + The virtue lies not in the place: + For though my raillery were true, + A cottage is Wood Park with you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Horat., "Epist.," i, 18, 31.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: In its proper sense—to pick at table, to feed squeamishly. + "With entremets to piddle with at hand." + BYRON, <i>Don Juan.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The constant companion of Stella.] + + [Footnote 4: Where the two ladies lodged.] +</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> + A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR BEC [1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1723-4 + + Returning Janus[2] now prepares, + For Bec, a new supply of cares, + Sent in a bag to Dr. Swift, + Who thus displays the new-year's gift. + First, this large parcel brings you tidings + Of our good Dean's eternal chidings; + Of Nelly's pertness, Robin's leasings, + And Sheridan's perpetual teazings. + This box is cramm'd on every side + With Stella's magisterial pride. + Behold a cage with sparrows fill'd, + First to be fondled, then be kill'd. + Now to this hamper I invite you, + With six imagined cares to fright you. + Here in this bundle Janus sends + Concerns by thousands for your friends. + And here's a pair of leathern pokes, + To hold your cares for other folks. + Here from this barrel you may broach + A peck of troubles for a coach. + This ball of wax your ears will darken, + Still to be curious, never hearken. + Lest you the town may have less trouble in + Bring all your Quilca's [3] cares to Dublin, + For which he sends this empty sack; + And so take all upon your back. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley, Stella's friend and companion.] + + [Footnote 2: The sun god represented with two faces, one in front, and + one behind, to whom the new year was sacred.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Country-house of Dr. Sheridan.] +</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> + DINGLEY AND BRENT[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A SONG + + To the tune of "Ye Commons and Peers." + + Dingley and Brent, + Wherever they went, + Ne'er minded a word that was spoken; + Whatever was said, + They ne'er troubled their head, + But laugh'd at their own silly joking. + + Should Solomon wise + In majesty rise, + And show them his wit and his learning; + They never would hear, + But turn the deaf ear, + As a matter they had no concern in. + + You tell a good jest, + And please all the rest; + Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it? + And, curious to know, + Away she will go + To seek an old rag in the closet. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift's housekeeper.] +</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> + TO STELLA WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARCH 13, 1723-4, + BUT NOT ON THE SUBJECT, WHEN I WAS SICK IN BED + + Tormented with incessant pains, + Can I devise poetic strains? + Time was, when I could yearly pay + My verse to Stella's native day: + But now unable grown to write, + I grieve she ever saw the light. + Ungrateful! since to her I owe + That I these pains can undergo. + She tends me like an humble slave; + And, when indecently I rave, + When out my brutish passions break, + With gall in every word I speak, + She with soft speech my anguish cheers, + Or melts my passions down with tears; + Although 'tis easy to descry + She wants assistance more than I; + Yet seems to feel my pains alone, + And is a stoic in her own. + When, among scholars, can we find + So soft and yet so firm a mind? + All accidents of life conspire + To raise up Stella's virtue higher; + Or else to introduce the rest + Which had been latent in her breast. + Her firmness who could e'er have known, + Had she not evils of her own? + Her kindness who could ever guess, + Had not her friends been in distress? + Whatever base returns you find + From me, dear Stella, still be kind. + In your own heart you'll reap the fruit, + Though I continue still a brute. + But, when I once am out of pain, + I promise to be good again; + Meantime, your other juster friends + Shall for my follies make amends; + So may we long continue thus, + Admiring you, you pitying us. +</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> + VERSES BY STELLA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If it be true, celestial powers, + That you have form'd me fair, + And yet, in all my vainest hours, + My mind has been my care: + Then, in return, I beg this grace, + As you were ever kind, + What envious Time takes from my face + Bestow upon my mind! +</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> + A RECEIPT TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Scottish hinds, too poor to house + In frosty nights their starving cows, + While not a blade of grass or hay + Appears from Michaelmas to May, + Must let their cattle range in vain + For food along the barren plain: + Meagre and lank with fasting grown, + And nothing left but skin and bone; + Exposed to want, and wind, and weather, + They just keep life and soul together, + Till summer showers and evening's dew + Again the verdant glebe renew; + And, as the vegetables rise, + The famish'd cow her want supplies; + Without an ounce of last year's flesh; + Whate'er she gains is young and fresh; + Grows plump and round, and full of mettle, + As rising from Medea's [1] kettle. + With youth and beauty to enchant + Europa's[2] counterfeit gallant. + Why, Stella, should you knit your brow, + If I compare you to a cow? + 'Tis just the case; for you have fasted + So long, till all your flesh is wasted; + And must against the warmer days + Be sent to Quilca down to graze; + Where mirth, and exercise, and air, + Will soon your appetite repair: + The nutriment will from within, + Round all your body, plump your skin; + Will agitate the lazy flood, + And fill your veins with sprightly blood. + Nor flesh nor blood will be the same + Nor aught of Stella but the name: + For what was ever understood, + By human kind, but flesh and blood? + And if your flesh and blood be new, + You'll be no more the former you; + But for a blooming nymph will pass, + Just fifteen, coming summer's grass, + Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd: + While all the squires for nine miles round, + Attended by a brace of curs, + With jockey boots and silver spurs, + No less than justices o' quorum, + Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em, + Shall leave deciding broken pates, + To kiss your steps at Quilca gates. + But, lest you should my skill disgrace, + Come back before you're out of case; + For if to Michaelmas you stay, + The new-born flesh will melt away; + The 'squires in scorn will fly the house + For better game, and look for grouse; + But here, before the frost can mar it, + We'll make it firm with beef and claret. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The celebrated sorceress, daughter of Fetes, King of + Colchis, who assisted Jason in obtaining possession of the Golden + Fleece.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Carried off by Jupiter under the form of a bull. Ovid, + "Met." ii, 836.] +</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> + STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As when a beauteous nymph decays, + We say she's past her dancing days; + So poets lose their feet by time, + And can no longer dance in rhyme. + Your annual bard had rather chose + To celebrate your birth in prose: + Yet merry folks, who want by chance + A pair to make a country dance, + Call the old housekeeper, and get her + To fill a place for want of better: + While Sheridan is off the hooks, + And friend Delany at his books, + That Stella may avoid disgrace, + Once more the Dean supplies their place. + Beauty and wit, too sad a truth! + Have always been confined to youth; + The god of wit and beauty's queen, + He twenty-one and she fifteen, + No poet ever sweetly sung, + Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; + Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, + Unless, like Venus, in her prime. + At fifty-six, if this be true, + Am I a poet fit for you? + Or, at the age of forty-three, + Are you a subject fit for me? + Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes! + You must be grave and I be wise. + Our fate in vain we would oppose: + But I'll be still your friend in prose: + Esteem and friendship to express, + Will not require poetic dress; + And if the Muse deny her aid + To have them sung, they may be said. + But, Stella, say, what evil tongue + Reports you are no longer young; + That Time sits with his scythe to mow + Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; + That half your locks are turn'd to gray? + I'll ne'er believe a word they say. + 'Tis true, but let it not be known, + My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown; + For nature, always in the right, + To your decays adapts my sight; + And wrinkles undistinguished pass, + For I'm ashamed to use a glass: + And till I see them with these eyes, + Whoever says you have them, lies. + No length of time can make you quit + Honour and virtue, sense and wit; + Thus you may still be young to me, + While I can better hear than see. + O ne'er may Fortune show her spite, + To make me deaf, and mend my sight![1] + + [Footnote 1: Now deaf, 1740.—<i>Swift</i>. This pathetic note was in Swift's + writing in his own copy of the "Miscellanies," edit. + 1727-32.—<i>W. E. B.</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> + BEC'S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity; + Had Fate a luckier one, she'd give it ye. + She chose a thread of greatest length, + And doubly twisted it for strength: + Nor will be able with her shears + To cut it off these forty years. + Then who says care will kill a cat? + Rebecca shows they're out in that. + For she, though overrun with care, + Continues healthy, fat, and fair. + As, if the gout should seize the head, + Doctors pronounce the patient dead; + But, if they can, by all their arts, + Eject it to the extremest parts, + They give the sick man joy, and praise + The gout that will prolong his days. + Rebecca thus I gladly greet, + Who drives her cares to hands and feet: + For, though philosophers maintain + The limbs are guided by the brain, + Quite contrary Rebecca's led; + Her hands and feet conduct her head; + By arbitrary power convey her, + She ne'er considers why or where: + Her hands may meddle, feet may wander, + Her head is but a mere by-stander: + And all her bustling but supplies + The part of wholesome exercise. + Thus nature has resolved to pay her + The cat's nine lives, and eke the care. + Long may she live, and help her friends + Whene'er it suits her private ends; + Domestic business never mind + Till coffee has her stomach lined; + But, when her breakfast gives her courage, + Then think on Stella's chicken porridge: + I mean when Tiger[2]has been served, + Or else poor Stella may be starved. + May Bec have many an evening nap, + With Tiger slabbering in her lap; + But always take a special care + She does not overset the chair; + Still be she curious, never hearken + To any speech but Tiger's barking! + And when she's in another scene, + Stella long dead, but first the Dean, + May fortune and her coffee get her + Companions that will please her better! + Whole afternoons will sit beside her, + Nor for neglects or blunders chide her. + A goodly set as can be found + Of hearty gossips prating round; + Fresh from a wedding or a christening, + To teach her ears the art of listening, + And please her more to hear them tattle, + Than the Dean storm, or Stella rattle. + Late be her death, one gentle nod, + When Hermes,[3] waiting with his rod, + Shall to Elysian fields invite her, + Where there will be no cares to fright her! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley.] + + [Footnote 2: Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog. See next + page.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Mercury.—Virg., "Aeneid," iv.] +</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> + ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER, MRS. DINGLEY'S LAP-DOG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pray steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's, + Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies. +</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> + STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, MARCH 13, 1726-7 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This day, whate'er the Fates decree, + Shall still be kept with joy by me: + This day then let us not be told, + That you are sick, and I grown old; + Nor think on our approaching ills, + And talk of spectacles and pills; + To-morrow will be time enough + To hear such mortifying stuff. + Yet, since from reason may be brought + A better and more pleasing thought, + Which can, in spite of all decays, + Support a few remaining days; + From not the gravest of divines + Accept for once some serious lines. + Although we now can form no more + Long schemes of life, as heretofore; + Yet you, while time is running fast, + Can look with joy on what is past. + Were future happiness and pain + A mere contrivance of the brain; + As atheists argue, to entice + And fit their proselytes for vice; + (The only comfort they propose, + To have companions in their woes;) + Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hard + That virtue, styled its own reward, + And by all sages understood + To be the chief of human good, + Should acting die; nor leave behind + Some lasting pleasure in the mind, + Which, by remembrance, will assuage + Grief, sickness, poverty, and age; + And strongly shoot a radiant dart + To shine through life's declining part. + Say, Stella, feel you no content, + Reflecting on a life well spent? + Your skilful hand employ'd to save + Despairing wretches from the grave; + And then supporting with your store + Those whom you dragg'd from death before? + So Providence on mortals waits, + Preserving what it first creates. + Your generous boldness to defend + An innocent and absent friend; + That courage which can make you just + To merit humbled in the dust; + The detestation you express + For vice in all its glittering dress; + That patience under torturing pain, + Where stubborn stoics would complain: + Must these like empty shadows pass, + Or forms reflected from a glass? + Or mere chimeras in the mind, + That fly, and leave no marks behind? + Does not the body thrive and grow + By food of twenty years ago? + And, had it not been still supplied, + It must a thousand times have died. + Then who with reason can maintain + That no effects of food remain? + And is not virtue in mankind + The nutriment that feeds the mind; + Upheld by each good action past, + And still continued by the last? + Then, who with reason can pretend + That all effects of virtue end? + Believe me, Stella, when you show + That true contempt for things below, + Nor prize your life for other ends, + Than merely to oblige your friends; + Your former actions claim their part, + And join to fortify your heart. + For Virtue, in her daily race, + Like Janus, bears a double face; + Looks back with joy where she has gone + And therefore goes with courage on: + She at your sickly couch will wait, + And guide you to a better state. + O then, whatever Heaven intends, + Take pity on your pitying friends! + Nor let your ills affect your mind, + To fancy they can be unkind. + Me, surely me, you ought to spare, + Who gladly would your suffering share; + Or give my scrap of life to you, + And think it far beneath your due; + You, to whose care so oft I owe + That I'm alive to tell you so. +</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> + DEATH AND DAPHNE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEAN. 1730 + + Lord Orrery gives us the following curious anecdote respecting this + poem: + + "I have just now cast my eye over a poem called 'Death and Daphne, which + makes me recollect an odd incident, relating to that nymph. Swift, soon + after our acquaintance, introduced me to her as to one of his female + favourites. I had scarce been half an hour in her company, before she + asked me if I had seen the Dean's poem upon 'Death and Daphne.' As I + told her I had not, she immediately unlocked a cabinet, and, bringing out + the manuscript, read it to me with a seeming satisfaction, of which, at + that time, I doubted the sincerity. While she was reading, the Dean was + perpetually correcting her for bad pronunciation, and for placing a wrong + emphasis upon particular words. As soon as she had gone through the + composition, she assured me, smilingly, that the portrait of Daphne was + drawn for herself. I begged to be excused from believing it; and + protested that I could not see one feature that had the least + resemblance; but the Dean immediately burst into a fit of laughter. 'You + fancy,' says he, 'that you are very polite, but you are much mistaken. + That lady had rather be a Daphne drawn by me, than a Sacharissa by any + other pencil.' She confirmed what he had said with great earnestness, so + that I had no other method of retrieving my error, than by whispering in + her ear, as I was conducting her down stairs to dinner, that indeed I + found + 'Her hand as dry and cold as lead!'" + —<i>Remarks on the Life of Swift</i>, Lond., 1752, p. 126. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Death went upon a solemn day + At Pluto's hall his court to pay; + The phantom having humbly kiss'd + His grisly monarch's sooty fist, + Presented him the weekly bills + Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills. + Pluto, observing since the peace + The burial article decrease, + And vex'd to see affairs miscarry, + Declared in council Death must marry; + Vow'd he no longer could support + Old bachelors about his court; + The interest of his realm had need + That Death should get a numerous breed; + Young deathlings, who, by practice made + Proficient in their father's trade, + With colonies might stock around + His large dominions under ground. + A consult of coquettes below + Was call'd, to rig him out a beau; + From her own head Megaera[1] takes + A periwig of twisted snakes: + Which in the nicest fashion curl'd, + (Like toupees[2] of this upper world) + With flower of sulphur powder'd well, + That graceful on his shoulders fell; + An adder of the sable kind + In line direct hung down behind: + The owl, the raven, and the bat, + Clubb'd for a feather to his hat: + His coat, a usurer's velvet pall, + Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpse and all. + But, loath his person to expose + Bare, like a carcass pick'd by crows, + A lawyer, o'er his hands and face + Stuck artfully a parchment case. + No new flux'd rake show'd fairer skin; + Nor Phyllis after lying in. + With snuff was fill'd his ebon box, + Of shin-bones rotted by the pox. + Nine spirits of blaspheming fops, + With aconite anoint his chops; + And give him words of dreadful sounds, + G—d d—n his blood! and b—d and w—ds!' + Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train + To take a house in Warwick-lane:[3] + The faculty, his humble friends, + A complimental message sends: + Their president in scarlet gown + Harangued, and welcomed him to town. + But Death had business to dispatch; + His mind was running on his match. + And hearing much of Daphne's fame, + His majesty of terrors came, + Fine as a colonel of the guards, + To visit where she sat at cards; + She, as he came into the room, + Thought him Adonis in his bloom. + And now her heart with pleasure jumps, + She scarce remembers what is trumps; + For such a shape of skin and bone + Was never seen except her own. + Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout, + Her pocket-glass drew slily out; + And grew enamour'd with her phiz, + As just the counterpart of his. + She darted many a private glance, + And freely made the first advance; + Was of her beauty grown so vain, + She doubted not to win the swain; + Nothing she thought could sooner gain him, + Than with her wit to entertain him. + She ask'd about her friends below; + This meagre fop, that batter'd beau; + Whether some late departed toasts + Had got gallants among the ghosts? + If Chloe were a sharper still + As great as ever at quadrille? + (The ladies there must needs be rooks, + For cards, we know, are Pluto's books.) + If Florimel had found her love, + For whom she hang'd herself above? + How oft a-week was kept a ball + By Proserpine at Pluto's hall? + She fancied those Elysian shades + The sweetest place for masquerades; + How pleasant on the banks of Styx, + To troll it in a coach and six! + What pride a female heart inflames? + How endless are ambition's aims: + Cease, haughty nymph; the Fates decree + Death must not be a spouse for thee; + For, when by chance the meagre shade + Upon thy hand his finger laid, + Thy hand as dry and cold as lead, + His matrimonial spirit fled; + He felt about his heart a damp, + That quite extinguished Cupid's lamp: + Away the frighted spectre scuds, + And leaves my lady in the suds. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Megaera, one of three Furies, beautifully described by + Virgil, "Aeneid," xii, 846.—. <i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Periwigs with long tails.] + + [Footnote 3: Where the College of Physicians was situated at that time. + See Cunningham's "Handbook of London."—<i>W. E. B.</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> + DAPHNE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Daphne knows, with equal ease, + How to vex, and how to please; + But the folly of her sex + Makes her sole delight to vex. + Never woman more devised + Surer ways to be despised; + Paradoxes weakly wielding, + Always conquer'd, never yielding. + To dispute, her chief delight, + Without one opinion right: + Thick her arguments she lays on, + And with cavils combats reason; + Answers in decisive way, + Never hears what you can say; + Still her odd perverseness shows + Chiefly where she nothing knows; + And, where she is most familiar, + Always peevisher and sillier; + All her spirits in a flame + When she knows she's most to blame. + Send me hence ten thousand miles, + From a face that always smiles: + None could ever act that part, + But a fury in her heart. + Ye who hate such inconsistence, + To be easy, keep your distance: + Or in folly still befriend her, + But have no concern to mend her; + Lose not time to contradict her, + Nor endeavour to convict her. + Never take it in your thought, + That she'll own, or cure a fault. + Into contradiction warm her, + Then, perhaps, you may reform her: + Only take this rule along, + Always to advise her wrong; + And reprove her when she's right; + She may then grow wise for spight. + No—that scheme will ne'er succeed, + She has better learnt her creed; + She's too cunning and too skilful, + When to yield, and when be wilful. + Nature holds her forth two mirrors, + One for truth, and one for errors: + That looks hideous, fierce, and frightful; + This is flattering and delightful: + That she throws away as foul; + Sits by this to dress her soul. + Thus you have the case in view, + Daphne, 'twixt the Dean and you: + Heaven forbid he should despise thee, + But he'll never more advise thee. +</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> + RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724 + + The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin + edition: "About nine or ten years ago, (<i>i.e.</i> about 1724,) some + ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves + with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; + copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and + in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same + amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, + entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom + the author hath a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the + copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two + or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are + informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of + compositions." +</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> + PETHOX THE GREAT. 1723 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows; + But who thy father, no man knows: + Nor can the skilful herald trace + The founder of thy ancient race; + Whether thy temper, full of fire, + Discovers Vulcan for thy sire, + The god who made Scamander boil, + And round his margin singed the soil: + (From whence, philosophers agree, + An equal power descends to thee;) + Whether from dreadful Mars you claim + The high descent from whence you came, + And, as a proof, show numerous scars + By fierce encounters made in wars, + Those honourable wounds you bore + From head to foot, and all before, + And still the bloody field frequent, + Familiar in each leader's tent; + Or whether, as the learn'd contend, + You from the neighbouring Gaul descend; + Or from Parthenope[1] the proud, + Where numberless thy votaries crowd; + Whether thy great forefathers came + From realms that bear Vespuccio's name,[2] + For so conjectures would obtrude; + And from thy painted skin conclude; + Whether, as Epicurus[3] shows, + The world from justling seeds arose, + Which, mingling with prolific strife + In chaos, kindled into life: + So your production was the same, + And from contending atoms came. + Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd + Thy head with sparkling rubies round: + Beneath thy decent steps the road + Is all with precious jewels strew'd, + The bird of Pallas,[4] knows his post, + Thee to attend, where'er thou goest. + Byzantians boast, that on the clod + Where once their Sultan's horse hath trod, + Grows neither grass, nor shrub, nor tree: + The same thy subjects boast of thee. + The greatest lord, when you appear, + Will deign your livery to wear, + In all the various colours seen + Of red and yellow, blue and green. + With half a word when you require, + The man of business must retire. + The haughty minister of state, + With trembling must thy leisure wait; + And, while his fate is in thy hands, + The business of the nation stands. + Thou darest the greatest prince attack, + Canst hourly set him on the rack; + And, as an instance of thy power, + Enclose him in a wooden tower, + With pungent pains on every side: + So Regulus[5] in torments died. + From thee our youth all virtues learn, + Dangers with prudence to discern; + And well thy scholars are endued + With temperance and with fortitude, + With patience, which all ills supports, + And secrecy, the art of courts. + The glittering beau could hardly tell, + Without your aid, to read or spell; + But, having long conversed with you, + Knows how to scroll a billet-doux. + With what delight, methinks, I trace + Your blood in every noble race! + In whom thy features, shape, and mien, + Are to the life distinctly seen! + The Britons, once a savage kind, + By you were brighten'd and refined, + Descendants to the barbarous Huns, + With limbs robust, and voice that stuns: + But you have moulded them afresh, + Removed the tough superfluous flesh, + Taught them to modulate their tongues, + And speak without the help of lungs. + Proteus on you bestow'd the boon + To change your visage like the moon; + You sometimes half a face produce, + Keep t'other half for private use. + How famed thy conduct in the fight + With Hermes, son of Pleias bright! + Outnumber'd, half encompass'd round, + You strove for every inch of ground; + Then, by a soldierly retreat, + Retired to your imperial seat. + The victor, when your steps he traced, + Found all the realms before him waste: + You, o'er the high triumphal arch + Pontific, made your glorious march: + The wondrous arch behind you fell, + And left a chasm profound as hell: + You, in your capitol secured, + A siege as long as Troy endured. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Naples, anciently called Parthenope, from the name of the + siren who threw herself into the sea for grief at the departure of + Ulysses, and was cast up and buried there.—Ovid, "Met.," xiv, + 101.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Americus Vespuccius, the discoverer of America in 1497. See + Hakluyts "Navigations, Voyages, etc.," vii, 161; viii, 449.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See Lucretius, "De Rer. Nat.," lib. i.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Bubo, the owl.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Taken prisoner by the Carthaginians in the first Punic war, + and ultimately tortured to death. See the story in Cicero, "De Officiis," + i, 13; Hor., "Carm.," iii, 5.—<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> + ON A PEN. 1724 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In youth exalted high in air, + Or bathing in the waters fair, + Nature to form me took delight, + And clad my body all in white. + My person tall, and slender waist, + On either side with fringes graced; + Till me that tyrant man espied, + And dragg'd me from my mother's side: + No wonder now I look so thin; + The tyrant stript me to the skin: + My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt: + At head and foot my body lopt: + And then, with heart more hard than stone, + He pick'd my marrow from the bone. + To vex me more, he took a freak + To slit my tongue and make me speak: + But, that which wonderful appears, + I speak to eyes, and not to ears. + He oft employs me in disguise, + And makes me tell a thousand lies: + To me he chiefly gives in trust + To please his malice or his lust. + From me no secret he can hide; + I see his vanity and pride: + And my delight is to expose + His follies to his greatest foes. + All languages I can command, + Yet not a word I understand. + Without my aid, the best divine + In learning would not know a line: + The lawyer must forget his pleading; + The scholar could not show his reading. + Nay; man my master is my slave; + I give command to kill or save, + Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year, + And make a beggar's brat a peer. + But, while I thus my life relate, + I only hasten on my fate. + My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd, + I hardly now can force a word. + I die unpitied and forgot, + And on some dunghill left to rot. +</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 GOLD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All-ruling tyrant of the earth, + To vilest slaves I owe my birth, + How is the greatest monarch blest, + When in my gaudy livery drest! + No haughty nymph has power to run + From me; or my embraces shun. + Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame, + My constancy is still the same. + The favourite messenger of Jove, + And Lemnian god, consulting strove + To make me glorious to the sight + Of mortals, and the gods' delight. + Soon would their altar's flame expire + If I refused to lend them fire. + + By fate exalted high in place, + Lo, here I stand with double face: + Superior none on earth I find; + But see below me all mankind + Yet, as it oft attends the great, + I almost sink with my own weight. + + At every motion undertook, + The vulgar all consult my look. + I sometimes give advice in writing, + But never of my own inditing. + I am a courtier in my way; + For those who raised me, I betray; + And some give out that I entice + To lust, to luxury, and dice. + Who punishments on me inflict, + Because they find their pockets pickt. + By riding post, I lose my health, + And only to get others wealth. +</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> + ON THE POSTERIORS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because I am by nature blind, + I wisely choose to walk behind; + However, to avoid disgrace, + I let no creature see my face. + My words are few, but spoke with sense; + And yet my speaking gives offence: + Or, if to whisper I presume, + The company will fly the room. + By all the world I am opprest: + And my oppression gives them rest. + Through me, though sore against my will, + Instructors every art instil. + By thousands I am sold and bought, + Who neither get nor lose a groat; + For none, alas! by me can gain, + But those who give me greatest pain. + Shall man presume to be my master, + Who's but my caterer and taster? + Yet, though I always have my will, + I'm but a mere depender still: + An humble hanger-on at best; + Of whom all people make a jest. + In me detractors seek to find + Two vices of a different kind; + I'm too profuse, some censurers cry, + And all I get, I let it fly; + While others give me many a curse, + Because too close I hold my purse. + But this I know, in either case, + They dare not charge me to my face. + 'Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save, + Sometimes run out of all I have; + But, when the year is at an end, + Computing what I get and spend, + My goings-out, and comings-in, + I cannot find I lose or win; + And therefore all that know me say, + I justly keep the middle way. + I'm always by my betters led; + I last get up, and first a-bed; + Though, if I rise before my time, + The learn'd in sciences sublime + Consult the stars, and thence foretell + Good luck to those with whom I dwell. +</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> + ON A HORN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The joy of man, the pride of brutes, + Domestic subject for disputes, + Of plenty thou the emblem fair, + Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care! + I saw thee raised to high renown, + Supporting half the British crown; + And often have I seen thee grace + The chaste Diana's infant face; + And whensoe'er you please to shine, + Less useful is her light than thine: + Thy numerous fingers know their way, + And oft in Celia's tresses play. + To place thee in another view, + I'll show the world strange things and true; + What lords and dames of high degree + May justly claim their birth from thee! + The soul of man with spleen you vex; + Of spleen you cure the female sex. + Thee for a gift the courtier sends + With pleasure to his special friends: + He gives, and with a generous pride, + Contrives all means the gift to hide: + Nor oft can the receiver know, + Whether he has the gift or no. + On airy wings you take your flight, + And fly unseen both day and night; + Conceal your form with various tricks; + And few know how or where you fix: + Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast + That they to others give thee most. + Meantime, the wise a question start, + If thou a real being art; + Or but a creature of the brain, + That gives imaginary pain? + But the sly giver better knows thee; + Who feels true joys when he bestows thee. +</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> + ON A CORKSCREW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though I, alas! a prisoner be, + My trade is prisoners to set free. + No slave his lord's commands obeys + With such insinuating ways. + My genius piercing, sharp, and bright, + Wherein the men of wit delight. + The clergy keep me for their ease, + And turn and wind me as they please. + A new and wondrous art I show + Of raising spirits from below; + In scarlet some, and some in white; + They rise, walk round, yet never fright. + In at each mouth the spirits pass, + Distinctly seen as through a glass: + O'er head and body make a rout, + And drive at last all secrets out; + And still, the more I show my art, + The more they open every heart. + A greater chemist none than I + Who, from materials hard and dry, + Have taught men to extract with skill + More precious juice than from a still. + Although I'm often out of case, + I'm not ashamed to show my face. + Though at the tables of the great + I near the sideboard take my seat; + Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done, + Is never pleased till I make one; + He kindly bids me near him stand, + And often takes me by the hand. + I twice a-day a-hunting go; + Nor ever fail to seize my foe; + And when I have him by the poll, + I drag him upwards from his hole; + Though some are of so stubborn kind, + I'm forced to leave a limb behind. + I hourly wait some fatal end; + For I can break, but scorn to bend. +</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> + THE GULF OF ALL HUMAN POSSESSIONS, 1724 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come hither, and behold the fruits, + Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits. + Take wise advice, and look behind, + Bring all past actions to thy mind. + Here you may see, as in a glass, + How soon all human pleasures pass; + How will it mortify thy pride, + To turn the true impartial side! + How will your eyes contain their tears, + When all the sad reverse appears! + This cave within its womb confines + The last result of all designs: + Here lie deposited the spoils + Of busy mortals' endless toils: + Here, with an easy search, we find + The foul corruptions of mankind. + The wretched purchase here behold + Of traitors, who their country sold. + This gulf insatiate imbibes + The lawyer's fees, the statesman's bribes. + Here, in their proper shape and mien, + Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen. + Necessity, the tyrant's law, + All human race must hither draw; + All prompted by the same desire, + The vigorous youth and aged sire. + Behold the coward and the brave, + The haughty prince, the humble slave, + Physician, lawyer, and divine, + All make oblations at this shrine. + Some enter boldly, some by stealth, + And leave behind their fruitless wealth. + For, while the bashful sylvan maid, + As half-ashamed and half-afraid, + Approaching finds it hard to part + With that which dwelt so near her heart; + The courtly dame, unmoved by fear, + Profusely pours her offering here. + A treasure here of learning lurks, + Huge heaps of never-dying works; + Labours of many an ancient sage, + And millions of the present age. + In at this gulf all offerings pass + And lie an undistinguish'd mass. + Deucalion,[1] to restore mankind, + Was bid to throw the stones behind; + So those who here their gifts convey + Are forced to look another way; + For few, a chosen few, must know + The mysteries that lie below. + Sad charnel-house! a dismal dome, + For which all mortals leave their home! + The young, the beautiful, and brave, + Here buried in one common grave! + Where each supply of dead renews + Unwholesome damps, offensive dews: + And lo! the writing on the walls + Points out where each new victim falls; + The food of worms and beasts obscene, + Who round the vault luxuriant reign. + See where those mangled corpses lie, + Condemn'd by female hands to die; + A comely dame once clad in white, + Lies there consign'd to endless night; + By cruel hands her blood was spilt, + And yet her wealth was all her guilt. + And here six virgins in a tomb, + All-beauteous offspring of one womb, + Oft in the train of Venus seen, + As fair and lovely as their queen; + In royal garments each was drest, + Each with a gold and purple vest; + I saw them of their garments stript, + Their throats were cut, their bellies ript, + Twice were they buried, twice were born, + Twice from their sepulchres were torn; + But now dismember'd here are cast, + And find a resting-place at last. + Here oft the curious traveller finds + The combat of opposing winds; + And seeks to learn the secret cause, + Which alien seems from nature's laws; + Why at this cave's tremendous mouth, + He feels at once both north and south; + Whether the winds, in caverns pent, + Through clefts oppugnant force a vent; + Or whether, opening all his stores, + Fierce Folus in tempest roars. + Yet, from this mingled mass of things, + In time a new creation springs. + These crude materials once shall rise + To fill the earth, and air, and skies; + In various forms appear again, + Of vegetables, brutes, and men. + So Jove pronounced among the gods, + Olympus trembling as he nods. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Ovid, "Metam.," i, 383.] +</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> + LOUISA[1] TO STREPHON. 1724 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah! Strephon, how can you despise + Her, who without thy pity dies! + To Strephon I have still been true, + And of as noble blood as you; + Fair issue of the genial bed, + A virgin in thy bosom bred: + Embraced thee closer than a wife; + When thee I leave, I leave my life. + Why should my shepherd take amiss, + That oft I wake thee with a kiss? + Yet you of every kiss complain; + Ah! is not love a pleasing pain? + A pain which every happy night + You cure with ease and with delight; + With pleasure, as the poet sings, + Too great for mortals less than kings. + Chloe, when on thy breast I lie, + Observes me with revengeful eye: + If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails, + She'll tear me with her desperate nails; + And with relentless hands destroy + The tender pledges of our joy. + Nor have I bred a spurious race; + They all were born from thy embrace. + Consider, Strephon, what you do; + For, should I die for love of you, + I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost; + And all my kin, (a numerous host,) + Who down direct our lineage bring + From victors o'er the Memphian king; + Renown'd in sieges and campaigns, + Who never fled the bloody plains: + Who in tempestuous seas can sport, + And scorn the pleasures of a court; + From whom great Sylla[2] found his doom, + Who scourged to death that scourge of Rome, + Shall on thee take a vengeance dire; + Thou like Alcides[3] shalt expire, + When his envenom'd shirt he wore, + And skin and flesh in pieces tore. + Nor less that shirt, my rival's gift, + Cut from the piece that made her shift, + Shall in thy dearest blood be dyed, + And make thee tear thy tainted hide. + + [Footnote 1: The solution is, <i>phtheirhiasis</i> morbus pedicularis. With + this piece may be read Peter Pindar's epic, "The Lousiad."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla's body was so corrupted with these + vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: <i>pasan esthjta kai + loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai + tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei.</i> "Vita Syllae," xxxvi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 3: Hercules, who died from wearing the shirt (given him by his + wife as a charm against his infidelities) stained with the blood of + Nessus, the centaur, whom Hercules had slain with a poisoned arrow. Ovid, + "Epist. Heroid. Deianira Herculi," and "Metam.," lib. ix, + 101.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + A MAYPOLE. 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Deprived of root, and branch and rind, + Yet flowers I bear of every kind: + And such is my prolific power, + They bloom in less than half an hour; + Yet standers-by may plainly see + They get no nourishment from me. + My head with giddiness goes round, + And yet I firmly stand my ground: + All over naked I am seen, + And painted like an Indian queen. + No couple-beggar in the land + E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand. + I join'd them fairly with a ring; + Nor can our parson blame the thing. + And though no marriage words are spoke, + They part not till the ring is broke; + Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, + I'm but an idol raised on high; + And once a weaver in our town, + A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down. + I lay a prisoner twenty years, + And then the jovial cavaliers + To their old post restored all three— + I mean the church, the king, and me. +</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> + ON THE MOON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I with borrow'd silver shine + What you see is none of mine. + First I show you but a quarter, + Like the bow that guards the Tartar: + Then the half, and then the whole, + Ever dancing round the pole. + + What will raise your admiration, + I am not one of God's creation, + But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,) + Like Pallas, from my father's brain. + And after all, I chiefly owe + My beauty to the shades below. + Most wondrous forms you see me wear, + A man, a woman, lion, bear, + A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field, + All figures Heaven or earth can yield; + Like Daphne sometimes in a tree; + Yet am not one of all you see. +</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> + ON A CIRCLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm up and down, and round about, + Yet all the world can't find me out; + Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure, + They never yet could find my measure. + I'm found almost in every garden, + Nay, in the compass of a farthing. + There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill, + Can move an inch except I will. +</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> + ON INK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am jet black, as you may see, + The son of pitch and gloomy night: + Yet all that know me will agree, + I'm dead except I live in light. + + Sometimes in panegyric high, + Like lofty Pindar, I can soar; + And raise a virgin to the sky, + Or sink her to a pocky whore. + + My blood this day is very sweet, + To-morrow of a bitter juice; + Like milk, 'tis cried about the street, + And so applied to different use. + + Most wondrous is my magic power: + For with one colour I can paint; + I'll make the devil a saint this hour, + Next make a devil of a saint. + + Through distant regions I can fly, + Provide me but with paper wings; + And fairly show a reason why + There should be quarrels among kings: + + And, after all, you'll think it odd, + When learned doctors will dispute, + That I should point the word of God, + And show where they can best confute. + + Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats: + 'Tis I that must the lands convey, + And strip their clients to their coats; + Nay, give their very souls away. +</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> + ON THE FIVE SENSES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All of us in one you'll find, + Brethren of a wondrous kind; + Yet among us all no brother + Knows one tittle of the other; + We in frequent councils are, + And our marks of things declare, + Where, to us unknown, a clerk + Sits, and takes them in the dark. + He's the register of all + In our ken, both great and small; + By us forms his laws and rules, + He's our master, we his tools; + Yet we can with greatest ease + Turn and wind him where we please. + One of us alone can sleep, + Yet no watch the rest will keep, + But the moment that he closes, + Every brother else reposes. + If wine's brought or victuals drest, + One enjoys them for the rest. + Pierce us all with wounding steel, + One for all of us will feel. + Though ten thousand cannons roar, + Add to them ten thousand more, + Yet but one of us is found + Who regards the dreadful sound. + Do what is not fit to tell, + There's but one of us can smell. +</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> + FONTINELLA[1] TO FLORINDA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When on my bosom thy bright eyes, + Florinda, dart their heavenly beams, + I feel not the least love surprise, + Yet endless tears flow down in streams; + There's nought so beautiful in thee, + But you may find the same in me. + + The lilies of thy skin compare; + In me you see them full as white: + The roses of your cheeks, I dare + Affirm, can't glow to more delight. + Then, since I show as fine a face, + Can you refuse a soft embrace? + + Ah! lovely nymph, thou'rt in thy prime! + And so am I, while thou art here; + But soon will come the fatal time, + When all we see shall disappear. + 'Tis mine to make a just reflection, + And yours to follow my direction. + + Then catch admirers while you may; + Treat not your lovers with disdain; + For time with beauty flies away, + And there is no return again. + To you the sad account I bring, + Life's autumn has no second spring. + + [Footnote 1: A fountain.] +</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> + AN ECHO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Never sleeping, still awake, + Pleasing most when most I speak; + The delight of old and young, + Though I speak without a tongue. + Nought but one thing can confound me, + Many voices joining round me; + Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, + Like the labourers of Babel. + Now I am a dog, or cow, + I can bark, or I can low; + I can bleat, or I can sing, + Like the warblers of the spring. + Let the lovesick bard complain, + And I mourn the cruel pain; + Let the happy swain rejoice, + And I join my helping voice: + Both are welcome, grief or joy, + I with either sport and toy. + Though a lady, I am stout, + Drums and trumpets bring me out: + Then I clash, and roar, and rattle, + Join in all the din of battle. + Jove, with all his loudest thunder, + When I'm vext, can't keep me under; + Yet so tender is my ear, + That the lowest voice I fear; + Much I dread the courtier's fate, + When his merit's out of date, + For I hate a silent breath, + And a whisper is my death. +</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> + ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS; + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By something form'd, I nothing am, + Yet everything that you can name; + In no place have I ever been, + Yet everywhere I may be seen; + In all things false, yet always true, + I'm still the same—but ever new. + Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear, + Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear, + Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear. + All shapes and features I can boast, + No flesh, no bones, no blood—no ghost: + All colours, without paint, put on, + And change like the cameleon. + Swiftly I come, and enter there, + Where not a chink lets in the air; + Like thought, I'm in a moment gone, + Nor can I ever be alone: + All things on earth I imitate + Faster than nature can create; + Sometimes imperial robes I wear, + Anon in beggar's rags appear; + A giant now, and straight an elf, + I'm every one, but ne'er myself; + Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice, + I move my lips, but want a voice; + I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die, + Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I? + + Most things by me do rise and fall, + And, as I please, they're great and small; + Invading foes without resistance, + With ease I make to keep their distance: + Again, as I'm disposed, the foe + Will come, though not a foot they go. + Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks + And gamesome goats, and fleecy flocks, + And lowing herds, and piping swains, + Come dancing to me o'er the plains. + The greatest whale that swims the sea + Does instantly my power obey. + In vain from me the sailor flies, + The quickest ship I can surprise, + And turn it as I have a mind, + And move it against tide and wind. + Nay, bring me here the tallest man, + I'll squeeze him to a little span; + Or bring a tender child, and pliant, + You'll see me stretch him to a giant: + Nor shall they in the least complain, + Because my magic gives no pain. +</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> + ON TIME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ever eating, never cloying, + All-devouring, all-destroying, + Never finding full repast, + Till I eat the world at last. +</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> + ON THE GALLOWS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is a gate, we know full well, + That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, + Where many for a passage venture, + Yet very few are fond to enter: + Although 'tis open night and day, + They for that reason shun this way: + Both dukes and lords abhor its wood, + They can't come near it for their blood. + What other way they take to go, + Another time I'll let you know. + Yet commoners with greatest ease + Can find an entrance when they please. + The poorest hither march in state + (Or they can never pass the gate) + Like Roman generals triumphant, + And then they take a turn and jump on't, + If gravest parsons here advance, + They cannot pass before they dance; + There's not a soul that does resort here, + But strips himself to pay the porter. +</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> + ON THE VOWELS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We are little airy creatures, + All of different voice and features; + One of us in glass is set, + One of us you'll find in jet. + T'other you may see in tin, + And the fourth a box within. + If the fifth you should pursue, + It can never fly from you. +</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> + ON SNOW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin, + No lady alive can show such a skin. + I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, + But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together. + Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear, + Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare. + Though so much of Heaven appears in my make, + The foulest impressions I easily take. + My parent and I produce one another, + The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother. +</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> + ON A CANNON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Begotten, and born, and dying with noise, + The terror of women, and pleasure of boys, + Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind, + I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined. + For silver and gold I don't trouble my head, + But all I delight in is pieces of lead; + Except when I trade with a ship or a town, + Why then I make pieces of iron go down. + One property more I would have you remark, + No lady was ever more fond of a spark; + The moment I get one, my soul's all a-fire, + And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire. +</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> + ON A PAIR OF DICE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We are little brethren twain, + Arbiters of loss and gain, + Many to our counters run, + Some are made, and some undone: + But men find it to their cost, + Few are made, but numbers lost. + Though we play them tricks for ever, + Yet they always hope our favour. +</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> + ON A CANDLE, TO LADY CARTERET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of all inhabitants on earth, + To man alone I owe my birth, + And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee, + Are all my parents more than he: + I, a virtue, strange and rare, + Make the fairest look more fair, + And myself, which yet is rarer, + Growing old, grow still the fairer. + Like sots, alone I'm dull enough, + When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff; + But, in the midst of mirth and wine, + I with double lustre shine. + Emblem of the Fair am I, + Polish'd neck, and radiant eye; + In my eye my greatest grace, + Emblem of the Cyclops' race; + Metals I like them subdue, + Slave like them to Vulcan too; + Emblem of a monarch old, + Wise, and glorious to behold; + Wasted he appears, and pale, + Watching for the public weal: + Emblem of the bashful dame, + That in secret feeds her flame, + Often aiding to impart + All the secrets of her heart; + Various is my bulk and hue, + Big like Bess, and small like Sue: + Now brown and burnish'd like a nut, + At other times a very slut; + Often fair, and soft, and tender, + Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender: + Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers, + Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours: + But whatever be my dress, + Greater be my size or less, + Swelling be my shape or small, + Like thyself I shine in all. + Clouded if my face is seen, + My complexion wan and green, + Languid like a love-sick maid, + Steel affords me present aid. + Soon or late, my date is done, + As my thread of life is spun; + Yet to cut the fatal thread + Oft revives my drooping head; + Yet I perish in my prime, + Seldom by the death of time; + Die like lovers as they gaze, + Die for those I live to please; + Pine unpitied to my urn, + Nor warm the fair for whom I burn: + Unpitied, unlamented too, + Die like all that look on you. +</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> + TO LADY CARTERET, BY DR. DELANY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I reach all things near me, and far off to boot, + Without stretching a finger, or stirring a foot; + I take them all in too, to add to your wonder, + Though many and various, and large and asunder, + Without jostling or crowding they pass side by side, + Through a wonderful wicket, not half an inch wide; + Then I lodge them at ease in a very large store, + Of no breadth or length, with a thousand things more. + All this I can do without witchcraft or charm, + Though sometimes they say, I bewitch and do harm; + Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade: + And nothing can shield from my spell but a shade. + A thief that has robb'd you, or done you disgrace, + In magical mirror, I'll show you his face: + Nay, if you'll believe what the poets have said, + They'll tell you I kill, and can call back the dead. + Like conjurers safe in my circle I dwell; + I love to look black too, it heightens my spell; + Though my magic is mighty in every hue, + Who see all my power must see it in you. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WITH half an eye your riddle I spy, + I observe your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket, + And whatever passes is strain'd through glasses. + You say it is quiet: I flatly deny it. + It wanders about, without stirring out; + No passion so weak but gives it a tweak; + Love, joy, and devotion, set it always in motion. + And as for trie tragic effects of its magic, + Which you say it can kill, or revive at its will, + The dead are all sound, and they live above ground: + After all you have writ, it cannot be wit; + Which plainly does follow, since it flies from Apollo. + Its cowardice such it cries at a touch; + 'Tis a perfect milksop, grows drunk with a drop, + Another great fault, it cannot bear salt: + And a hair can disarm it of every charm. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO LADY CARTERET, BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FROM India's burning clime I'm brought, + With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught. + Not Iris, when she paints the sky, + Can show more different hues than I; + Nor can she change her form so fast, + I'm now a sail, and now a mast. + I here am red, and there am green, + A beggar there, and here a queen. + I sometimes live in house of hair, + And oft in hand of lady fair. + I please the young, I grace the old, + And am at once both hot and cold. + Say what I am then, if you can, + And find the rhyme, and you're the man. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWERED BY DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your house of hair, and lady's hand, + At first did put me to a stand. + I have it now—'tis plain enough— + Your hairy business is a muff. + Your engine fraught with cooling gales, + At once so like your masts and sails; + Your thing of various shape and hue + Must be some painted toy, I knew; + And for the rhyme to you're the man, + What fits it better than a fan? +</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> + A RIDDLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm wealthy and poor, + I'm empty and full, + I'm humble and proud, + I'm witty and dull. + I'm foul and yet fair: + I'm old, and yet young; + I lie with Moll Kerr, + And toast Mrs. Long. +</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> + ANSWER, BY MR. F——R + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In rigging he's rich, though in pocket he's poor, + He cringes to courtiers, and cocks to the cits; + Like twenty he dresses, but looks like threescore; + He's a wit to the fools, and a fool to the wits. + Of wisdom he's empty, but full of conceit; + He paints and perfumes while he rots with the scab; + 'Tis a beau you may swear by his sense and his gait; + He boasts of a beauty and lies with a drab. +</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> + A LETTER TO DR. HELSHAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SIR, + + Pray discruciate what follows. + + The dullest beast, and gentleman's liquor, + When young is often due to the vicar,[1] + + The dullest of beasts, and swine's delight, + Make up a bird very swift of flight.[2] + + The dullest beast, when high in stature, + And another of royal nature, + For breeding is a useful creature.[3] + + The dullest beast, and a party distress'd, + When too long, is bad at best.[4] + + The dullest beast, and the saddle it wears, + Is good for partridge, not for hares.[5] + + The dullest beast, and kind voice of a cat, + Will make a horse go, though he be not fat.[6] + + The dullest of beasts and of birds in the air, + Is that by which all Irishmen swear.[7] + + The dullest beast, and famed college for Teagues, + Is a person very unfit for intrigues.[8] + + The dullest beast, and a cobbler's tool, + With a boy that is only fit for school, + In summer is very pleasant and cool.[9] + + The dullest beast, and that which you kiss, + May break a limb of master or miss.[10] + + Of serpent kind, and what at distance kills, + Poor mistress Dingley oft hath felt its bills.[11] + + The dullest beast, and eggs unsound, + Without it I rather would walk on the ground.[12] + + The dullest beast, and what covers a house, + Without it a writer is not worth a louse.[13] + + The dullest beast, and scandalous vermin, + Of roast or boil'd, to the hungry is charming.[14] + + The dullest beast, and what's cover'd with crust, + There's nobody but a fool that would trust.[15] + + The dullest beast, and mending highways, + Is to a horse an evil disease.[16] + + The dullest beast, and a hole in the ground, + Will dress a dinner worth five pound.[17] + + The dullest beast, and what doctors pretend, + The cook-maid often has by the end.[18] + + The dullest beast, and fish for lent, + May give you a blow you'll for ever repent.[19] + + The dullest beast, and a shameful jeer, + Without it a lady should never appear.[20] + + <i>Wednesday Night</i>. + + I writ all these before I went to bed. Pray explain them for me, because + I cannot do it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A swine.] + [Footnote 2: A swallow.] + [Footnote 3: A stallion.] + [Footnote 4: A sail.] + [Footnote 5: A spaniel.] + [Footnote 6: A spur.] + [Footnote 7: A soul.] + [Footnote 8: A sloven.] + [Footnote 9: A sallad.] + [Footnote 10: A slip.] + [Footnote 11: A sparrow.] + [Footnote 12: A saddle.] + [Footnote 13: A style.] + [Footnote 14: A slice.] + [Footnote 15: A spy.] + [Footnote 16: A spavin.] + [Footnote 17: A spit.] + [Footnote 18: A skewer.] + [Footnote 19: Assault.] + [Footnote 20: A smock.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROBATUR ALITER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A long-ear'd beast, and a field-house for cattle, + Among the coals doth often rattle.[1] + + A long-ear'd beast, a bird that prates, + The bridegrooms' first gift to their mates, + Is by all pious Christians thought, + In clergymen the greatest fault.[2] + + A long-ear'd beast, and woman of Endor, + If your wife be a scold, that will mend her.[3] + + With a long-ear'd beast, and medicine's use, + Cooks make their fowl look tight and spruce.[4] + + A long-ear'd beast, and holy fable, + Strengthens the shoes of half the rabble.[5] + + A long-ear'd beast, and Rhenish wine, + Lies in the lap of ladies fine.[6] + + A long-ear'd beast, and Flanders College, + Is Dr. T——l, to my knowledge.[7] + + A long-ear'd beast, and building knight, + Censorious people do in spite.[8] + + A long-ear'd beast, and bird of night, + We sinners art too apt to slight.[9] + + A long-ear'd beast, and shameful vermin, + A judge will eat, though clad in ermine.[10] + + A long-ear'd beast, and Irish cart, + Can leave a mark, and give a smart.[11] + + A long-ear'd beast, in mud to lie, + No bird in air so swift can fly.[12] + + A long-ear'd beast, and a sputt'ring old Whig, + I wish he were in it, and dancing a jig.[13] + + A long-ear'd beast, and liquor to write, + Is a damnable smell both morning and night.[14] + + A long-ear'd beast, and the child of a sheep, + At Whist they will make a desperate sweep.[15] + + A beast long-ear'd, and till midnight you stay, + Will cover a house much better than clay.[16] + + A long-ear'd beast, and the drink you love best, + You call him a sloven in earnest for jest.[17] + + A long-ear'd beast, and the sixteenth letter, + I'd not look at all unless I look'd better.[18] + + A long-ear'd beast give me, and eggs unsound, + Or else I will not ride one inch of ground.[19] + + A long-ear'd beast, another name for jeer, + To ladies' skins there nothing comes so near.[20] + + A long-ear'd beast, and kind noise of a cat, + Is useful in journeys, take notice of that.[21] + + A long-ear'd beast, and what seasons your beef, + On such an occasion the law gives relief.[22] + + A long-ear'd beast, a thing that force must drive in, + Bears up his house, that's of his own contriving.[23] + + [Footnote 1: A shovel.] + [Footnote 2: Aspiring.] + [Footnote 3: A switch.] + [Footnote 4: A skewer.] + [Footnote 5: A sparable; a small nail in a shoe.] + [Footnote 6: A shock.] + [Footnote 7: A sloven.] + [Footnote 8: Asperse. (Pearce was an architect, who built the + Parliament-House, Dublin.)] + [Footnote 9: A soul.] + [Footnote 10: A slice.] + [Footnote 11: A scar.] + [Footnote 12: A swallow.] + [Footnote 13: A sty.] + [Footnote 14: A sink.] + [Footnote 15: A slam.] + [Footnote 16: A slate.] + [Footnote 17: A swine.] + [Footnote 18: Askew.] + [Footnote 19: A saddle.] + [Footnote 20: A smock.] + [Footnote 21: A spur.] + [Footnote 22: Assault.] + [Footnote 23: A snail.] +</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> + POEMS COMPOSED AT MARKET HILL + </h2> + <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 CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1] 1727 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At Market-Hill, as well appears + By chronicle of ancient date, + There stood for many hundred years + A spacious thorn before the gate. + + Hither came every village maid, + And on the boughs her garland hung, + And here, beneath the spreading shade, + Secure from satyrs sat and sung. + + Sir Archibald,[2] that valorous knight. + The lord of all the fruitful plain, + Would come to listen with delight, + For he was fond of rural strain. + + (Sir Archibald, whose favourite name + Shall stand for ages on record, + By Scottish bards of highest fame, + Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.[3]) + + But time with iron teeth, I ween, + Has canker'd all its branches round; + No fruit or blossom to be seen, + Its head reclining toward the ground. + + This aged, sickly, sapless thorn, + Which must, alas! no longer stand, + Behold the cruel Dean in scorn + Cuts down with sacrilegious hand. + + Dame Nature, when she saw the blow, + Astonish'd gave a dreadful shriek; + And mother Tellus trembled so, + She scarce recover'd in a week. + + The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd, + In prudence and compassion sent + (For none could tell whose turn was next) + Sad omens of the dire event. + + The magpie, lighting on the stock, + Stood chattering with incessant din: + And with her beak gave many a knock, + To rouse and warn the nymph within. + + The owl foresaw, in pensive mood, + The ruin of her ancient seat; + And fled in haste, with all her brood, + To seek a more secure retreat. + + Last trotted forth the gentle swine, + To ease her itch against the stump, + And dismally was heard to whine, + All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump. + + The nymph who dwells in every tree, + (If all be true that poets chant,) + Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree, + Must die with her expiring plant. + + Thus, when the gentle Spina found + The thorn committed to her care, + Received its last and deadly wound, + She fled, and vanish'd into air. + + But from the root a dismal groan + First issuing struck the murderer's ears: + And, in a shrill revengeful tone, + This prophecy he trembling hears: + + "Thou chief contriver of my fall, + Relentless Dean, to mischief born; + My kindred oft thine hide shall gall, + Thy gown and cassock oft be torn. + + "And thy confederate dame, who brags + That she condemn'd me to the fire, + Shall rend her petticoats to rags, + And wound her legs with every brier. + + "Nor thou, Lord Arthur,[4] shall escape; + To thee I often call'd in vain, + Against that assassin in crape; + Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain: + + "Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow, + Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse; + Since you could see me treated so, + (An old retainer to your house:) + + "May that fell Dean, by whose command + Was form'd this Machiavelian plot, + Not leave a thistle on thy land; + Then who will own thee for a Scot? + + "Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues, + Through all my empire I foresee, + To tear thy hedges join in leagues, + Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. + + "And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate, + Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown, + With hatchet blunter than thy pate, + To hack my hallow'd timber down; + + "When thou, suspended high in air, + Diest on a more ignoble tree, + (For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,) + Then, bloody caitiff! think on me." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the + Dean made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much + admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours, + gave directions for cutting it down in the absence of Sir Arthur, who + was, of course, highly incensed. By way of making his peace, the Dean + wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.] + + [Footnote 3: Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of + Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their + poetry.] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Arthur Acheson.] +</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> + TO DEAN SWIFT, BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good cause have I to sing and vapour, + For I am landlord to the Drapier: + He, that of every ear's the charmer, + Now condescends to be my farmer, + And grace my villa with his strains; + Lives such a bard on British plains? + No; not in all the British court; + For none but witlings there resort, + Whose names and works (though dead) are made + Immortal by the Dunciad; + And, sure as monument of brass, + Their fame to future times shall pass; + How, with a weakly warbling tongue, + Of brazen knight they vainly sung; + A subject for their genius fit; + He dares defy both sense and wit. + What dares he not? He can, we know it, + A laureat make that is no poet; + A judge, without the least pretence + To common law, or common sense; + A bishop that is no divine; + And coxcombs in red ribbons shine: + Nay, he can make, what's greater far, + A middle state 'twixt peace and war; + And say, there shall; for years together, + Be peace and war, and both, and neither. + Happy, O Market-Hill! at least, + That court and courtiers have no taste: + You never else had known the Dean, + But, as of old, obscurely lain; + All things gone on the same dull track, + And Drapier's-Hill been still Drumlack; + But now your name with Penshurst vies, + And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies. +</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> + DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Dean would visit Market-Hill, + Our invitation was but slight; + I said—"Why let him, if he will:" + And so I bade Sir Arthur write. + + His manners would not let him wait, + Lest we should think ourselves neglected, + And so we see him at our gate + Three days before he was expected, + + After a week, a month, a quarter, + And day succeeding after day, + Says not a word of his departure, + Though not a soul would have him stay. + + I've said enough to make him blush, + Methinks, or else the devil's in't; + But he cares not for it a rush, + Nor for my life will take the hint. + + But you, my dear, may let him know, + In civil language, if he stays, + How deep and foul the roads may grow, + And that he may command the chaise. + + Or you may say—"My wife intends, + Though I should be exceeding proud, + This winter to invite some friends, + And, sir, I know you hate a crowd." + + Or, "Mr. Dean—I should with joy + Beg you would here continue still, + But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1] + Or Mr. Moore will take it ill." + + The house accounts are daily rising; + So much his stay doth swell the bills: + My dearest life, it is surprising, + How much he eats, how much he swills. + + His brace of puppies how they stuff! + And they must have three meals a-day, + Yet never think they get enough; + His horses too eat all our hay. + + O! if I could, how I would maul + His tallow face and wainscot paws, + His beetle brows, and eyes of wall, + And make him soon give up the cause! + + Must I be every moment chid + With [2] <i>Skinnybonia, Snipe</i>, and <i>Lean?</i> + O! that I could but once be rid + Of this insulting tyrant Dean! + + [Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.] + + [Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See "My + Lady's Lamentation," next page.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I; + Though none can tell which of us first shall die. +</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> + ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature, + May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature. +</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> + EPITAPH IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool, + Men call'd him Dicky Pearce; + His folly served to make folks laugh, + When wit and mirth were scarce. + + Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone, + What signifies to cry? + Dickies enough are still behind, + To laugh at by and by. + + Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63. +</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> + MY LADY'S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JULY 28, 1728 + + Sure never did man see + A wretch like poor Nancy, + So teazed day and night + By a Dean and a Knight. + To punish my sins, + Sir Arthur begins, + And gives me a wipe, + With Skinny and Snipe:[2], + His malice is plain, + Hallooing the Dean. + + The Dean never stops, + When he opens his chops; + I'm quite overrun + With rebus and pun. + Before he came here, + To spunge for good cheer, + I sat with delight, + From morning till night, + With two bony thumbs + Could rub my old gums, + Or scratching my nose + And jogging my toes; + But at present, forsooth, + I must not rub a tooth. + When my elbows he sees + Held up by my knees, + My arms, like two props, + Supporting my chops, + And just as I handle 'em + Moving all like a pendulum; + He trips up my props, + And down my chin drops + From my head to my heels, + Like a clock without wheels; + I sink in the spleen, + A useless machine. + If he had his will, + I should never sit still: + He comes with his whims + I must move my limbs; + I cannot be sweet + Without using my feet; + To lengthen my breath, + He tires me to death. + By the worst of all squires, + Thro' bogs and thro' briers, + Where a cow would be startled, + I'm in spite of my heart led; + And, say what I will, + Haul'd up every hill; + Till, daggled and tatter'd, + My spirits quite shatter'd, + I return home at night, + And fast, out of spite: + For I'd rather be dead, + Than it e'er should be said, + I was better for him, + In stomach or limb. + But now to my diet; + No eating in quiet, + He's still finding fault, + Too sour or too salt: + The wing of a chick + I hardly can pick: + But trash without measure + I swallow with pleasure. + Next, for his diversion, + He rails at my person. + What court breeding this is! + He takes me to pieces: + From shoulder to flank + I'm lean and am lank; + My nose, long and thin, + Grows down to my chin; + My chin will not stay, + But meets it halfway; + My fingers, prolix, + Are ten crooked sticks: + He swears my el—bows + Are two iron crows, + Or sharp pointed rocks, + And wear out my smocks: + To 'scape them, Sir Arthur + Is forced to lie farther, + Or his sides they would gore + Like the tusks of a boar. + Now changing the scene + But still to the Dean; + He loves to be bitter at + A lady illiterate; + If he sees her but once, + He'll swear shes a dunce; + Can tell by her looks + A hater of books; + Thro' each line of her face + Her folly can trace; + Which spoils every feature + Bestow'd her by nature; + But sense gives a grace + To the homeliest face: + Wise books and reflection + Will mend the complexion: + (A civil divine! + I suppose, meaning mine!) + No lady who wants them, + Can ever be handsome. + I guess well enough + What he means by this stuff: + He haws and he hums, + At last out it comes: + What, madam? No walking, + No reading, nor talking? + You're now in your prime, + Make use of your time. + Consider, before + You come to threescore, + How the hussies will fleer + Where'er you appear; + "That silly old puss + Would fain be like us: + What a figure she made + In her tarnish'd brocade!" + And then he grows mild: + Come, be a good child: + If you are inclined + To polish your mind, + Be adored by the men + Till threescore and ten, + And kill with the spleen + The jades of sixteen; + I'll show you the way; + Read six hours a-day. + The wits will frequent ye, + And think you but twenty. + [To make you learn faster, + I'll be your schoolmaster + And leave you to choose + The books you peruse.[3]] + Thus was I drawn in; + Forgive me my sin. + At breakfast he'll ask + An account of my task. + Put a word out of joint, + Or miss but a point, + He rages and frets, + His manners forgets; + And as I am serious, + Is very imperious. + 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.[4] + If I be not a drudge, + Let all the world judge. + 'Twere better be blind, + Than thus be confined. + But while in an ill tone, + I murder poor Milton, + The Dean you will swear, + Is at study or prayer. + He's all the day sauntering, + With labourers bantering, + Among his colleagues, + A parcel of Teagues, + Whom he brings in among us + And bribes with mundungus. + [He little believes + How they laugh in their sleeves.] + Hail, fellow, well met, + All dirty and wet: + Find out, if you can, + Who's master, who's man; + Who makes the best figure, + The Dean or the digger; + And which is the best + At cracking a jest. + [Now see how he sits + Perplexing his wits + In search of a motto + To fix on his grotto.] + How proudly he talks + Of zigzags and walks, + And all the day raves + Of cradles and caves; + And boasts of his feats, + His grottos and seats; + Shows all his gewgaws, + And gapes for applause; + A fine occupation + For one in his station! + A hole where a rabbit + Would scorn to inhabit, + Dug out in an hour; + He calls it a bower. + But, O! how we laugh, + To see a wild calf + Come, driven by heat, + And foul the green seat; + Or run helter-skelter, + To his arbour for shelter, + Where all goes to ruin + The Dean has been doing: + The girls of the village + Come flocking for pillage, + Pull down the fine briers + And thorns to make fires; + But yet are so kind + To leave something behind: + No more need be said on't, + I smell when I tread on't. + Dear friend, Doctor Jinny. + If I could but win ye, + Or Walmsley or Whaley, + To come hither daily, + Since fortune, my foe, + Will needs have it so, + That I'm, by her frowns, + Condemn'd to black gowns; + No squire to be found + The neighbourhood round; + (For, under the rose, + I would rather choose those) + If your wives will permit ye, + Come here out of pity, + To ease a poor lady, + And beg her a play-day. + So may you be seen + No more in the spleen; + May Walmsley give wine + Like a hearty divine! + May Whaley disgrace + Dull Daniel's whey-face! + And may your three spouses + Let you lie at friends' houses! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.] + + [Footnote 2: See <i>ante</i>, p.94 <i>W.—W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Added from the Dean's manuscript.] + + [Footnote 4: "The Pantheon," containing the mythological systems of the + Greeks and Romans, by Andrew Tooke, A.M., first published, 1713. The + little work became very popular. The copy I have is of the thirty-sixth + edition, with plates, 1831. It is still in demand, as it deserves to be. + Compare Leigh Hunt's remark on the illustrations to the "Pantheon," cited + by Mr. Coleridge in his notes to "Don Juan," Canto I, St. xli, Byron's + Works, edit. 1903.—<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 PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DERMOT, SHEELAH + + A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight; + Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1] + While each with stubbed knife removed the roots, + That raised between the stones their daily shoots; + As at their work they sate in counterview, + With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew. + Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain, + The soft endearments of the nymph and swain. + + DERMOT + + My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt, + Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt; + My spud these nettles from the stones can part; + No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart. + + SHEELAH + + My love for gentle Dermot faster grows, + Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose. + Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O! + Love rooted out, again will never grow. + + DERMOT + + No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake: + (I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur's[2] sake) + Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat; + The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat. + + SHEELAH + + Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide; + This petticoat shall save thy dear backside; + Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet, + Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat. + + DERMOT + + At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug, + When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug; + A longer ha'p'orth [3] never did I see; + This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me. + + SHEELAH + + In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt, + And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt: + Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe; + And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half. + + DERMOT + + When you saw Tady at long bullets play, + You sate and loused him all a sunshine day: + How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales, + Or crack such lice as his between your nails? + + SHEELAH + + When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch, + I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch; + Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts? + I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts. + + DERMOT + + If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide; + Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side: + But, if I ever touch her lips again, + May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain! + + SHEELAH + + Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold + Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold; + Him on my lap you never more shall see; + Or may I lose my weeding knife—and thee! + + DERMOT + + O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass, + A pair of brogues [5] to bear thee dry to mass! + But see, where Norah with the sowins [6] comes— + Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great-grandfather was Sir + Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.] + + [Footnote 2: Who was a great lover of Scotland.] + + [Footnote 3: Halfpenny-worth.] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Arthur's butler.] + + [Footnote 5: Shoes with flat low heels.] + + [Footnote 6: A sort of flummery.] +</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> + THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED: WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN[1] SHOULD BE TURNED + INTO A BARRACK OR MALT-HOUSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1729 + + THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION + + The author of the following poem is said to be Dr. J. S. D. S. P. D. who + writ it, as well as several other copies of verses of the like kind, by + way of amusement, in the family of an honourable gentleman in the north + of Ireland, where he spent a summer, about two or three years ago.[2] A + certain very great person,[3] then in that kingdom, having heard much of + this poem, obtained a copy from the gentleman, or, as some say, the lady + in whose house it was written, from whence I know not by what accident + several other copies were transcribed full of errors. As I have a great + respect for the supposed author, I have procured a true copy of the poem, + the publication whereof can do him less injury than printing any of those + incorrect ones which run about in manuscript, and would infallibly be + soon in the press, if not thus prevented. Some expressions being peculiar + to Ireland, I have prevailed on a gentleman of that kingdom to explain + them, and I have put the several explanations in their proper + places.—<i>First Edition</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thus spoke to my lady the knight[2] full of care, + "Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. + This Hamilton's bawn, while it sticks in my hand + I lose by the house what I get by the land; + But how to dispose of it to the best bidder, + For a barrack[6] or malt-house, we now must consider. + "First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house, + Here I have computed the profit will fall t'us: + There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain, + I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain; + A handsome addition for wine and good cheer, + Three dishes a-day, and three hogsheads a-year; + With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored; + No little scrub joint shall come on my board; + And you and the Dean no more shall combine + To stint me at night to one bottle of wine; + Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin + A stone and a quarter of beef from my sir-loin. + If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant; + My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on't: + In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent, + Whatever they give me, I must be content, + Or join with the court in every debate; + And rather than that, I would lose my estate." + Thus ended the knight; thus began his meek wife: + "It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life. + I'm grown a mere <i>mopus</i>; no company comes + But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums.[5] + With parsons what lady can keep herself clean? + I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean. + But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, + The captain I'm sure will always come here; + I then shall not value his deanship a straw, + For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe; + Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert, + Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert; + That men of his coat should be minding their prayers, + And not among ladies to give themselves airs." + Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain; + The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. + But Hannah,[6] who listen'd to all that was past, + And could not endure so vulgar a taste, + As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd, + Cried, "Madam, why surely my master's possess'd, + Sir Arthur the maltster! how fine it will sound! + I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground. + But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good, + When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.[7] + And now my dream's out; for I was a-dream'd + That I saw a huge rat—O dear, how I scream'd! + And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes; + And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news. + "Dear Madam, had you but the spirit to tease, + You might have a barrack whenever you please: + And, madam, I always believed you so stout, + That for twenty denials you would not give out. + If I had a husband like him, I <i>purtest,</i> + Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest; + And, rather than come in the same pair of sheets + With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets: + But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent, + And worry him out, till he gives his consent. + Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, + An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink: + For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, + I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain. + I fancy already a barrack contrived + At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arrived; + Of this to be sure, Sir Arthur has warning, + And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. + "Now see, when they meet, how their honours behave; + 'Noble captain, your servant'—'Sir Arthur, your slave; + You honour me much'—'The honour is mine.'— + ''Twas a sad rainy night'—'But the morning is fine.'— + 'Pray, how does my lady?'—'My wife's at your service.'— + 'I think I have seen her picture by Jervas.'— + 'Good-morrow, good captain'—'I'll wait on you down'— + 'You shan't stir a foot'—'You'll think me a clown.'— + 'For all the world, captain, not half an inch farther'— + 'You must be obey'd—Your servant, Sir Arthur! + My humble respects to my lady unknown.'— + 'I hope you will use my house as your own.'" + "Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate, + Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate." + "Pray, madam, be quiet: what was it I said? + You had like to have put it quite out of my head. + Next day to be sure, the captain will come, + At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum. + Now, madam, observe how he marches in state: + The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate: + Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow. + Tantara, tantara; while all the boys holla. + See now comes the captain all daub'd with gold lace: + O la! the sweet gentleman! look in his face; + And see how he rides like a lord of the land, + With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand; + And his horse, the dear <i>creter</i>, it prances and rears; + With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears: + At last comes the troop, by word of command, + Drawn up in our court; when the captain cries, STAND! + Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen, + For sure I had dizen'd you out like a queen. + The captain, to show he is proud of the favour, + Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver; + (His beaver is cock'd: pray, madam, mark that, + For a captain of horse never takes off his hat, + Because he has never a hand that is idle, + For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle;) + Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, + As a compliment due to a lady so fair; + (How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt!) + Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the hilt. + Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin: + 'Pray, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in.' + The captain salutes you with congee profound, + And your ladyship curtseys half way to the ground. + 'Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us; + I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us; + And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay, + And take a short dinner here with us to-day: + You're heartily welcome; but as for good cheer, + You come in the very worst time of the year; + If I had expected so worthy a guest—' + 'Lord, madam! your ladyship sure is in jest; + You banter me, madam; the kingdom must grant—' + 'You officers, captain, are so complaisant!'"— + "Hist, hussey, I think I hear somebody coming "— + "No madam: 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. + To shorten my tale, (for I hate a long story,) + The captain at dinner appears in his glory; + The dean and the doctor[8] have humbled their pride, + For the captain's entreated to sit by your side; + And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first; + The parsons for envy are ready to burst. + The servants, amazed, are scarce ever able + To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table; + And Molly and I have thrust in our nose, + To peep at the captain in all his fine <i>clo'es.</i> + Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man, + Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran; + And, 'madam,' says he, 'if such dinners you give, + You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live. + I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose; + But the devil's as welcome, wherever he goes: + G—d d—n me! they bid us reform and repent, + But, z—s! by their looks, they never keep Lent: + Mister curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid + You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid: + I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand + In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band: + (For the Dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny, + That the captain supposed he was curate to Jinny.) + 'Whenever you see a cassock and gown, + A hundred to one but it covers a clown. + Observe how a parson comes into a room; + G—d d—n me, he hobbles as bad as my groom; + A <i>scholard</i>, when just from his college broke loose, + Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose; + Your Noveds, and Bluturks, and Omurs,[9] and stuff + By G—, they don't signify this pinch of snuff. + To give a young gentleman right education, + The army's the only good school in the nation: + My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool, + But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school; + I never could take to my book for the blood o' me, + And the puppy confess'd he expected no good o' me. + He caught me one morning coquetting his wife, + But he maul'd me, I ne'er was so maul'd in my life: [10] + So I took to the road, and, what's very odd, + The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G—. + Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say, + But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day. + "Never since I was born did I hear so much wit, + And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split. + So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the Dean, + As who should say, 'Now, am I skinny[11] and lean?' + But he durst not so much as once open his lips, + And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips." + Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, + Till she heard the Dean call, "Will your ladyship walk?" + Her ladyship answers, "I'm just coming down:" + Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, + Although it was plain in her heart she was glad, + Cried, "Hussey, why sure the wench is gone mad! + How could these chimeras get into your brains!— + Come hither and take this old gown for your pains. + But the Dean, if this secret should come to his ears, + Will never have done with his gibes and his jeers: + For your life, not a word of the matter I charge ye: + Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A bawn was a place near the house, enclosed with mud or + stone walls, to keep the cattle from being stolen in the night, now + little used.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Arthur Acheson, at whose seat this was written.] + + [Footnote 3: John, Lord Carteret, then Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, since + Earl of Granville, in right of his mother.] + + [Footnote 4: The army in Ireland was lodged in strong buildings, called + barracks. See "Verses on his own Death," and notes, vol. i, + 247.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: A cant-word in Ireland for a poor country clergyman.] + + [Footnote 6: My lady's waiting-woman.] + + [Footnote 7: Two of Sir Arthur's managers.] + + [Footnote 8: Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood.] + + [Footnote 9: Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.] + + [Footnote 10: These four lines were added by Swift in his own copy of the + Miscellanies, edit. 1732.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 11: Nicknames for my lady, see <i>ante</i>, pp. 94, 95.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + DRAPIER'S-HILL.[1] 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We give the world to understand, + Our thriving Dean has purchased land; + A purchase which will bring him clear + Above his rent four pounds a-year; + Provided to improve the ground, + He will but add two hundred pound; + And from his endless hoarded store, + To build a house, five hundred more. + Sir Arthur, too, shall have his will, + And call the mansion Drapier's-Hill; + That, when a nation, long enslaved, + Forgets by whom it once was saved; + When none the Drapier's praise shall sing, + His signs aloft no longer swing, + His medals and his prints forgotten, + And all his handkerchiefs [2] are rotten, + His famous letters made waste paper, + This hill may keep the name of Drapier; + In spite of envy, flourish still, + And Drapier's vie with Cooper's-Hill. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlach, which he + took of Sir Arthur Acheson, whose seat lay between that and Market-Hill; + and intended to build a house upon it, but afterwards changed his mind.] + + [Footnote 2: Medals were cast, many signs hung up, and handkerchiefs + made, with devices in honour of the Dean, under the name of M. B. + Drapier. See "Verses on his own death," vol. i.—<i>W. E. B.</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> + THE DEAN'S REASONS FOR NOT BUILDING AT DRAPIER'S-HILL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I will not build on yonder mount; + And, should you call me to account, + Consulting with myself, I find + It was no levity of mind. + Whate'er I promised or intended, + No fault of mine, the scheme is ended; + Nor can you tax me as unsteady, + I have a hundred causes ready; + All risen since that flattering time, + When Drapier's-Hill appear'd in rhyme. + I am, as now too late I find, + The greatest cully of mankind; + The lowest boy in Martin's school + May turn and wind me like a fool. + How could I form so wild a vision, + To seek, in deserts, Fields Elysian? + To live in fear, suspicion, variance, + With thieves, fanatics, and barbarians? + But here my lady will object; + Your deanship ought to recollect, + That, near the knight of Gosford[1] placed, + Whom you allow a man of taste, + Your intervals of time to spend + With so conversable a friend, + It would not signify a pin + Whatever climate you were in. + 'Tis true, but what advantage comes + To me from all a usurer's plums; + Though I should see him twice a-day, + And am his neighbour 'cross the way: + If all my rhetoric must fail + To strike him for a pot of ale? + Thus, when the learned and the wise + Conceal their talents from our eyes, + And from deserving friends withhold + Their gifts, as misers do their gold; + Their knowledge to themselves confined + Is the same avarice of mind; + Nor makes their conversation better, + Than if they never knew a letter. + Such is the fate of Gosford's knight, + Who keeps his wisdom out of sight; + Whose uncommunicative heart + Will scarce one precious word impart: + Still rapt in speculations deep, + His outward senses fast asleep; + Who, while I talk, a song will hum, + Or with his fingers beat the drum; + Beyond the skies transports his mind, + And leaves a lifeless corpse behind. + But, as for me, who ne'er could clamber high, + To understand Malebranche or Cambray; + Who send my mind (as I believe) less + Than others do, on errands sleeveless; + Can listen to a tale humdrum, + And with attention read Tom Thumb; + My spirits with my body progging, + Both hand in hand together jogging; + Sunk over head and ears in matter. + Nor can of metaphysics smatter; + Am more diverted with a quibble + Than dream of words intelligible; + And think all notions too abstracted + Are like the ravings of a crackt head; + What intercourse of minds can be + Betwixt the knight sublime and me, + If when I talk, as talk I must, + It is but prating to a bust? + Where friendship is by Fate design'd, + It forms a union in the mind: + But here I differ from the knight + In every point, like black and white: + For none can say that ever yet + We both in one opinion met: + Not in philosophy, or ale; + In state affairs, or planting kale; + In rhetoric, or picking straws; + In roasting larks, or making laws; + In public schemes, or catching flies; + In parliaments, or pudding pies. + The neighbours wonder why the knight + Should in a country life delight, + Who not one pleasure entertains + To cheer the solitary scenes: + His guests are few, his visits rare; + Nor uses time, nor time will spare; + Nor rides, nor walks, nor hunts, nor fowls, + Nor plays at cards, or dice, or bowls; + But seated in an easy-chair, + Despises exercise and air. + His rural walks he ne'er adorns; + Here poor Pomona sits on thorns: + And there neglected Flora settles + Her bum upon a bed of nettles. + Those thankless and officious cares + I used to take in friends' affairs, + From which I never could refrain, + And have been often chid in vain; + From these I am recover'd quite, + At least in what regards the knight. + Preserve his health, his store increase; + May nothing interrupt his peace! + But now let all his tenants round + First milk his cows, and after, pound; + Let every cottager conspire + To cut his hedges down for fire; + The naughty boys about the village + His crabs and sloes may freely pillage; + He still may keep a pack of knaves + To spoil his work, and work by halves; + His meadows may be dug by swine, + It shall be no concern of mine; + For why should I continue still + To serve a friend against his will? + + [Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson's great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, of + Gosford, in Scotland.] +</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> + THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1730 + + From distant regions Fortune sends + An odd triumvirate of friends; + Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend, + Where never yet a codling ripen'd: + Hither the frantic goddess draws + Three sufferers in a ruin'd cause: + By faction banish'd, here unite, + A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3] + Unite, but on conditions cruel; + The Dean and Spaniard find it too well, + Condemn'd to live in service hard; + On either side his honour's guard: + The Dean to guard his honour's back, + Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4] + The Spaniard, sore against his will, + Must raise a fort at Market-Hill. + And thus the pair of humble gentry + At north and south are posted sentry; + While in his lordly castle fixt, + The knight triumphant reigns betwixt: + And, what the wretches most resent, + To be his slaves, must pay him rent; + Attend him daily as their chief, + Decant his wine, and carve his beef. + O Fortune! 'tis a scandal for thee + To smile on those who are least worthy: + Weigh but the merits of the three, + His slaves have ten times more than he. + Proud baronet of Nova Scotia! + The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye: + Of their two fames the world enough rings: + Where are thy services and sufferings? + What if for nothing once you kiss'd, + Against the grain, a monarch's fist? + What if, among the courtly tribe, + You lost a place and saved a bribe? + And then in surly mood came here, + To fifteen hundred pounds a-year, + And fierce against the Whigs harangu'd? + You never ventured to be hang'd. + How dare you treat your betters thus? + Are you to be compared with us? + Come, Spaniard, let us from our farms + Call forth our cottagers to arms: + Our forces let us both unite, + Attack the foe at left and right; + From Market-Hill's[5] exalted head, + Full northward let your troops be led; + While I from Drapier's-Mount descend, + And to the south my squadrons bend. + New-River Walk, with friendly shade, + Shall keep my host in ambuscade; + While you, from where the basin stands, + Shall scale the rampart with your bands. + Nor need we doubt the fort to win; + I hold intelligence within. + True, Lady Anne no danger fears, + Brave as the Upton fan she wears;[6] + Then, lest upon our first attack + Her valiant arm should force us back, + And we of all our hopes deprived; + I have a stratagem contrived. + By these embroider'd high-heel shoes + She shall be caught as in a noose: + So well contriv'd her toes to pinch, + She'll not have power to stir an inch: + These gaudy shoes must Hannah [7] place + Direct before her lady's face; + The shoes put on, our faithful portress + Admits us in, to storm the fortress, + While tortured madam bound remains, + Like Montezume,[8] in golden chains; + Or like a cat with walnuts shod, + Stumbling at every step she trod. + Sly hunters thus, in Borneo's isle, + To catch a monkey by a wile, + The mimic animal amuse; + They place before him gloves and shoes; + Which, when the brute puts awkward on: + All his agility is gone; + In vain to frisk or climb he tries; + The huntsmen seize the grinning prize. + But let us on our first assault + Secure the larder and the vault; + The valiant Dennis,[9] you must fix on, + And I'll engage with Peggy Dixon:[10] + Then, if we once can seize the key + And chest that keeps my lady's tea, + They must surrender at discretion! + And, soon as we have gain'd possession, + We'll act as other conquerors do, + Divide the realm between us two; + Then, (let me see,) we'll make the knight + Our clerk, for he can read and write. + But must not think, I tell him that, + Like Lorimer [11] to wear his hat; + Yet, when we dine without a friend, + We'll place him at the lower end. + Madam, whose skill does all in dress lie, + May serve to wait on Mrs. Leslie; + But, lest it might not be so proper + That her own maid should over-top her, + To mortify the creature more, + We'll take her heels five inches lower. + For Hannah, when we have no need of her, + 'Twill be our interest to get rid of her; + And when we execute our plot, + 'Tis best to hang her on the spot; + As all your politicians wise, + Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.] + + [Footnote 2: Colonel Henry Leslie, who served and lived long in + Spain.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Sir Arthur Acheson.] + + [Footnote 4: The Irish name of a farm the Dean took of Sir Arthur + Acheson, + and was to build on, but changed his mind, and called it Drapier's Hill. + See the poem so named, and "The Dean's Reasons for not building at + Drapier's-Hill," <i>ante</i>, p.107. <i>—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's.] + + [Footnote 6: A parody on the phrase, "As brave as his sword."—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: My lady's waiting-maid.] + + [Footnote 8: Montezuma or Mutezuma, the last Emperor of Mexico and the + richest, taken prisoner by Hernando Cortes, about 1511, who also obtained + possession of the whole empire. Hakluyt's "Navigations," etc., vols. + viii, ix.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: The butler.] + + [Footnote 10: The housekeeper.] + + [Footnote 11: The agent.] +</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> + ROBIN AND HARRY.[1] 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Robin to beggars with a curse, + Throws the last shilling in his purse; + And when the coachman comes for pay, + The rogue must call another day. + Grave Harry, when the poor are pressing + Gives them a penny and God's blessing; + But always careful of the main, + With twopence left, walks home in rain. + Robin from noon to night will prate, + Run out in tongue, as in estate; + And, ere a twelvemonth and a day, + Will not have one new thing to say. + Much talking is not Harry's vice; + He need not tell a story twice: + And, if he always be so thrifty, + His fund may last to five-and-fifty. + It so fell out that cautious Harry, + As soldiers use, for love must marry, + And, with his dame, the ocean cross'd; + (All for Love, or the World well Lost!) [2] + Repairs a cabin gone to ruin, + Just big enough to shelter two in; + And in his house, if anybody come, + Will make them welcome to his modicum + Where Goody Julia milks the cows, + And boils potatoes for her spouse; + Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches, + While Harry's fencing up his ditches. + Robin, who ne'er his mind could fix, + To live without a coach-and-six, + To patch his broken fortunes, found + A mistress worth five thousand pound; + Swears he could get her in an hour, + If gaffer Harry would endow her; + And sell, to pacify his wrath, + A birth-right for a mess of broth. + Young Harry, as all Europe knows, + Was long the quintessence of beaux; + But, when espoused, he ran the fate + That must attend the married state; + From gold brocade and shining armour, + Was metamorphosed to a farmer; + His grazier's coat with dirt besmear'd; + Nor twice a-week will shave his beard. + Old Robin, all his youth a sloven, + At fifty-two, when he grew loving, + Clad in a coat of paduasoy, + A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay, + Powder'd from shoulder down to flank, + In courtly style addresses Frank; + Twice ten years older than his wife, + Is doom'd to be a beau for life; + Supplying those defects by dress, + Which I must leave the world to guess. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A lively account of these two gentlemen occurs in Dr. King's + Anecdotes of his Own Times, p. 137 <i>et seq</i>., who confirms the + peculiarities which Swift has enumerated in the text.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The title of Dryden's Play, founded on the story of Antony + and Cleopatra.—<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> + A PANEGYRIC ON THE DEAN IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Resolved my gratitude to show, + Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe, + Too long I have my thanks delay'd; + Your favours left too long unpaid; + But now, in all our sex's name, + My artless Muse shall sing your fame. + Indulgent you to female kind, + To all their weaker sides are blind: + Nine more such champions as the Dean + Would soon restore our ancient reign; + How well to win the ladies' hearts, + You celebrate their wit and parts! + How have I felt my spirits raised, + By you so oft, so highly praised! + Transform'd by your convincing tongue + To witty, beautiful, and young, + I hope to quit that awkward shame, + Affected by each vulgar dame, + To modesty a weak pretence; + And soon grow pert on men of sense; + To show my face with scornful air; + Let others match it if they dare. + Impatient to be out of debt, + O, may I never once forget + The bard who humbly deigns to chuse + Me for the subject of his Muse! + Behind my back, before my nose, + He sounds my praise in verse and prose. + My heart with emulation burns, + To make you suitable returns; + My gratitude the world shall know; + And see, the printer's boy below; + Ye hawkers all, your voices lift; + "A Panegyric on Dean Swift!" + And then, to mend the matter still, + "By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!"[2] + I thus begin: My grateful Muse + Salutes the Dean in different views; + Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor; + Robert and Darby's[3] coadjutor; + And, as you in commission sit, + To rule the dairy next to Kit;[4] + In each capacity I mean + To sing your praise. And first as Dean: + Envy must own, you understand your + Precedence, and support your grandeur: + Nor of your rank will bate an ace, + Except to give Dean Daniel[5] place. + In you such dignity appears, + So suited to your state and years! + With ladies what a strict decorum! + With what devotion you adore 'em! + Treat me with so much complaisance, + As fits a princess in romance! + By your example and assistance, + The fellows learn to know their distance. + Sir Arthur, since you set the pattern, + No longer calls me snipe and slattern, + Nor dares he, though he were a duke, + Offend me with the least rebuke. + Proceed we to your preaching [5] next! + How nice you split the hardest text! + How your superior learning shines + Above our neighbouring dull divines! + At Beggar's Opera not so full pit + Is seen as when you mount our pulpit. + Consider now your conversation: + Regardful of your age and station, + You ne'er were known by passion stirr'd + To give the least offensive word: + But still, whene'er you silence break, + Watch every syllable you speak: + Your style so clear, and so concise, + We never ask to hear you twice. + But then a parson so genteel, + So nicely clad from head to heel; + So fine a gown, a band so clean, + As well become St. Patrick's Dean, + Such reverential awe express, + That cowboys know you by your dress! + Then, if our neighbouring friends come here + How proud are we when you appear, + With such address and graceful port, + As clearly shows you bred at court! + Now raise your spirits, Mr. Dean, + I lead you to a nobler scene. + When to the vault you walk in state, + In quality of butler's [6] mate; + You next to Dennis [7] bear the sway: + To you we often trust the key: + Nor can he judge with all his art + So well, what bottle holds a quart: + What pints may best for bottles pass + Just to give every man his glass: + When proper to produce the best; + And what may serve a common guest. + With Dennis you did ne'er combine, + Not you, to steal your master's wine, + Except a bottle now and then, + To welcome brother serving-men; + But that is with a good design, + To drink Sir Arthur's health and mine, + Your master's honour to maintain: + And get the like returns again. + Your usher's[8] post must next be handled: + How blest am I by such a man led! + Under whose wise and careful guardship + I now despise fatigue and hardship, + Familiar grown to dirt and wet, + Though draggled round, I scorn to fret: + From you my chamber damsels learn + My broken hose to patch and darn. + Now as a jester I accost you; + Which never yet one friend has lost you. + You judge so nicely to a hair, + How far to go, and when to spare; + By long experience grown so wise, + Of every taste to know the size; + There's none so ignorant or weak + To take offence at what you speak.[9] + Whene'er you joke, 'tis all a case + Whether with Dermot, or his grace; + With Teague O'Murphy, or an earl; + A duchess, or a kitchen girl. + With such dexterity you fit + Their several talents with your wit, + That Moll the chambermaid can smoke, + And Gahagan[10] take every joke. + I now become your humble suitor + To let me praise you as my tutor.[11] + Poor I, a savage[12] bred and born, + By you instructed every morn, + Already have improved so well, + That I have almost learnt to spell: + The neighbours who come here to dine, + Admire to hear me speak so fine. + How enviously the ladies look, + When they surprise me at my book! + And sure as they're alive at night, + As soon as gone will show their spight: + Good lord! what can my lady mean, + Conversing with that rusty Dean! + She's grown so nice, and so penurious,[13] + With Socrates and Epicurius! + How could she sit the livelong day, + Yet never ask us once to play? + But I admire your patience most; + That when I'm duller than a post, + Nor can the plainest word pronounce, + You neither fume, nor fret, nor flounce; + Are so indulgent, and so mild, + As if I were a darling child. + So gentle is your whole proceeding, + That I could spend my life in reading. + You merit new employments daily: + Our thatcher, ditcher, gardener, baily. + And to a genius so extensive + No work is grievous or offensive: + Whether your fruitful fancy lies + To make for pigs convenient styes; + Or ponder long with anxious thought + To banish rats that haunt our vault: + Nor have you grumbled, reverend Dean, + To keep our poultry sweet and clean; + To sweep the mansion-house they dwell in, + And cure the rank unsavoury smelling. + Now enter as the dairy handmaid: + Such charming butter [14] never man made. + Let others with fanatic face + Talk of their milk for babes of grace; + From tubs their snuffling nonsense utter; + Thy milk shall make us tubs of butter. + The bishop with his foot may burn it,[15] + But with his hand the Dean can churn it. + How are the servants overjoy'd + To see thy deanship thus employ'd! + Instead of poring on a book, + Providing butter for the cook! + Three morning hours you toss and shake + The bottle till your fingers ache; + Hard is the toil, nor small the art, + The butter from the whey to part: + Behold a frothy substance rise; + Be cautious or your bottle flies. + The butter comes, our fears are ceased; + And out you squeeze an ounce at least. + Your reverence thus, with like success, + (Nor is your skill or labour less,) + When bent upon some smart lampoon, + Will toss and turn your brain till noon; + Which in its jumblings round the skull, + Dilates and makes the vessel full: + While nothing comes but froth at first, + You think your giddy head will burst; + But squeezing out four lines in rhyme, + Are largely paid for all your time. + But you have raised your generous mind + To works of more exalted kind. + Palladio was not half so skill'd in + The grandeur or the art of building. + Two temples of magnific size + Attract the curious traveller's eyes, + That might be envied by the Greeks; + Raised up by you in twenty weeks: + Here gentle goddess Cloacine + Receives all offerings at her shrine. + In separate cells, the he's and she's, + Here pay their vows on bended knees: + For 'tis profane when sexes mingle, + And every nymph must enter single; + And when she feels an inward motion, + Come fill'd with reverence and devotion. + The bashful maid, to hide her blush, + Shall creep no more behind a bush; + Here unobserved she boldly goes, + As who should say, to pluck a rose,[16] + Ye, who frequent this hallow'd scene, + Be not ungrateful to the Dean; + But duly, ere you leave your station, + Offer to him a pure libation, + Or of his own or Smedley's lay, + Or billet-doux, or lock of hay: + And, O! may all who hither come, + Return with unpolluted thumb! + Yet, when your lofty domes I praise + I sigh to think of ancient days. + Permit me then to raise my style, + And sweetly moralize a-while. + Thee, bounteous goddess Cloacine, + To temples why do we confine? + Forbid in open air to breathe, + Why are thine altars fix'd beneath? + When Saturn ruled the skies alone, + (That golden age to gold unknown,) + This earthly globe, to thee assign'd, + Received the gifts of all mankind. + Ten thousand altars smoking round, + Were built to thee with offerings crown'd; + And here thy daily votaries placed + Their sacrifice with zeal and haste: + The margin of a purling stream + Sent up to thee a grateful steam; + Though sometimes thou wert pleased to wink, + If Naiads swept them from the brink: + Or where appointing lovers rove, + The shelter of a shady grove; + Or offer'd in some flowery vale, + Were wafted by a gentle gale, + There many a flower abstersive grew, + Thy favourite flowers of yellow hue; + The crocus and the daffodil, + The cowslip soft, and sweet jonquil. + But when at last usurping Jove + Old Saturn from his empire drove, + Then gluttony, with greasy paws + Her napkin pinn'd up to her jaws, + With watery chops, and wagging chin, + Braced like a drum her oily skin; + Wedged in a spacious elbow-chair, + And on her plate a treble share, + As if she ne'er could have enough, + Taught harmless man to cram and stuff. + She sent her priests in wooden shoes + From haughty Gaul to make ragouts; + Instead of wholesome bread and cheese, + To dress their soups and fricassees; + And, for our home-bred British cheer, + Botargo, catsup, and caviare. + This bloated harpy, sprung from hell, + Confined thee, goddess, to a cell: + Sprung from her womb that impious line, + Contemners of thy rites divine. + First, lolling Sloth, in woollen cap, + Taking her after-dinner nap: + Pale Dropsy, with a sallow face, + Her belly burst, and slow her pace: + And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur, + And wheezing Asthma, loth to stir: + Voluptuous Ease, the child of wealth, + Infecting thus our hearts by stealth. + None seek thee now in open air, + To thee no verdant altars rear; + But, in their cells and vaults obscene, + Present a sacrifice unclean; + From whence unsavoury vapours rose, + Offensive to thy nicer nose. + Ah! who, in our degenerate days, + As nature prompts, his offering pays? + Here nature never difference made + Between the sceptre and the spade. + Ye great ones, why will ye disdain + To pay your tribute on the plain? + Why will you place in lazy pride + Your altars near your couches' side: + When from the homeliest earthen ware + Are sent up offerings more sincere, + Than where the haughty duchess locks + Her silver vase in cedar box? + Yet some devotion still remains + Among our harmless northern swains, + Whose offerings, placed in golden ranks, + Adorn our crystal rivers' banks; + Nor seldom grace the flowery downs, + With spiral tops and copple [27] crowns; + Or gilding in a sunny morn + The humble branches of a thorn. + So poets sing, with golden bough + The Trojan hero paid his vow.[28] + Hither, by luckless error led, + The crude consistence oft I tread; + Here when my shoes are out of case, + Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace; + Here, by the sacred bramble tinged, + My petticoat is doubly fringed. + Be witness for me, nymph divine, + I never robb'd thee with design; + Nor will the zealous Hannah pout + To wash thy injured offering out. + But stop, ambitious Muse, in time, + Nor dwell on subjects too sublime. + In vain on lofty heels I tread, + Aspiring to exalt my head; + With hoop expanded wide and light, + In vain I 'tempt too high a flight. + Me Phoebus [29] in a midnight dream [30] + Accosting, said, "Go shake your cream [31] + Be humbly-minded, know your post; + Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast. + Thee best befits a lowly style; + Teach Dennis how to stir the guile;[32] + With Peggy Dixon[33] thoughtful sit, + Contriving for the pot and spit. + Take down thy proudly swelling sails, + And rub thy teeth and pare thy nails; + At nicely carving show thy wit; + But ne'er presume to eat a bit: + Turn every way thy watchful eye, + And every guest be sure to ply: + Let never at your board be known + An empty plate, except your own. + Be these thy arts;[34] nor higher aim + Than what befits a rural dame. + "But Cloacina, goddess bright, + Sleek——claims her as his right; + And Smedley,[35] flower of all divines, + Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's lines." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The Lady of Sir Arthur Acheson.] + + [Footnote 2: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's house where the author + passed two summers.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The names of two overseers.] + + [Footnote 4: My lady's footman.] + + [Footnote 4: Dr. Daniel, Dean of Down, who wrote several poems.] + + [Footnote 5: The author preached but once while he was there.] + + [Footnote 6: He sometimes used to direct the butler.] + + [Footnote 7: The butler.] + + [Footnote 8: He sometimes used to walk with the lady. See <i>ante</i>, p. 96.] + + [Footnote 9: The neighbouring ladies were no great understanders of + raillery.] + + [Footnote 10: The clown that cut down the old thorn at Market-Hill.] + + [Footnote 11: See <i>ante</i>, "My Lady's Lamentation," p. 97.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 12: Lady Acheson was daughter of Philip Savage, M. P. for + Wexford, and Chancellor of the Exchequer in Ireland.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 13: Understood here as <i>dainty, particular.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 14: A way of making butter for breakfast, by filling a bottle + with cream, and shaking it till the butter comes.] + + [Footnote 15: It is a common saying, when the milk burns, that the devil + or the bishop has set his foot in it.] + + [Footnote 16: See vol. i, p. 203.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 27: Fragments of stone.] + + [Footnote 28: Virg., "Aeneidos," lib. vi.] + + [Footnote 29: "Cynthius aurem + Vellit et admonuit."—VIRG., <i>Ecloga</i> vi, 3.] + + [Footnote 30: "Post mediam noctem visus, cum somnia vera."—HOR., <i>Sat</i>, + I, x, 33.] + + [Footnote 31: In the bottle to make butter.] + + [Footnote 32: The quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time.] + + [Footnote 33: Mrs. Dixon, the housekeeper.] + + [Footnote 34: "Hac tibi erunt artes."—VIRG., <i>Aen</i>., vi, 852.] + + [Footnote 35: A very stupid, insolent, factious, deformed, conceited + person; a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Grafton for + his wit.] +</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> + TWELVE ARTICLES[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +I + LEST it may more quarrels breed, + I will never hear you read. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +II + By disputing, I will never, + To convince you once endeavour. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +III + When a paradox you stick to, + I will never contradict you. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +IV + When I talk and you are heedless, + I will show no anger needless. + + V + When your speeches are absurd, + I will ne'er object a word. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VI + When you furious argue wrong, + I will grieve and hold my tongue. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VII + Not a jest or humorous story + Will I ever tell before ye: + To be chidden for explaining, + When you quite mistake the meaning. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VIII + Never more will I suppose, + You can taste my verse or prose. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +IX + You no more at me shall fret, + While I teach and you forget. + + X + You shall never hear me thunder, + When you blunder on, and blunder. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +XI + Show your poverty of spirit, + And in dress place all your merit; + Give yourself ten thousand airs: + That with me shall break no squares.[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +XII + Never will I give advice, + Till you please to ask me thrice: + Which if you in scorn reject, + 'Twill be just as I expect. + + Thus we both shall have our ends, + And continue special friends. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Addressed to Lady Acheson.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: That is, will do no harm—we shall not disagree. + "At Blank-Blank Square;—for we will break no squares + By naming streets." + <i>Don Juan</i>, Canto XIII, st. xxv. + See Mr. Coleridge's note on this; Byron's Works, edit. 1903.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + POLITICAL POETRY + </h2> + <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> + PARODY ON THE RECORDER OF BLESSINGTON'S ADDRESS TO QUEEN ANNE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington's Address to her Majesty, as + copied from the London Gazette</i>. + + To the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, + + The humble Address of the Sovereign, Recorder, Burgesses, and Freemen, of + the Borough of Blessington. + + May it please your Majesty, + Though we stand almost last on the roll of boroughs of this your + majesty's kingdom of Ireland, and therefore, in good manners to our elder + brothers, press but late among the joyful crowd about your royal throne: + yet we beg leave to assure your majesty, that we come behind none in our + good affection to your sacred person and government; insomuch, that the + late surprising accounts from Germany have filled us with a joy not + inferior to any of our fellow-subjects. + + We heard with transport that the English warmed the field to that degree, + that thirty squadrons, part of the vanquished enemy, were forced to fly + to water, not able to stand their fire, and drank their last draught in + the Danube, for the waste they had before committed on its injured banks, + thereby putting an end to their master's long-boasted victories: a + glorious push indeed, and worthy a general of the Queen of England. And + we are not a little pleased, to find several gentlemen in considerable + posts of your majesty's army, who drew their first breath in this + country, sharing in the good fortune of those who so effectually put in + execution the command of your gallant, enterprizing general, whose + twin-battles have, with his own title of Marlborough, given immortality + to the otherwise perishing names of Schellenberg and Hogstete: actions + that speak him born under stars as propitious to England as that he now + wears, on both which he has so often reflected lustre, as to have now + abundantly repaid the glory they once lent him. Nor can we but + congratulate with a joy proportioned to the success of your majesty's + fleet, our last campaign at sea, since by it we observe the French + obliged to steer their wonted course for security, to their ports; and + Gibraltar, the Spaniards' ancient defence, bravely stormed, possessed, + and maintained by your majesty's subjects. + + May the supplies for reducing the exorbitant power of France be such, as + may soon turn your wreaths of laurel into branches of olive: that, after + the toils of a just and honourable war, carried on by a confederacy of + which your majesty is most truly, as of the faith, styled Defender, we + may live to enjoy, under your majesty's auspicious government, the + blessings of a profound and lasting peace; a peace beyond the power of + him to violate, who, but for his own unreasonable conveniency, + destructive always of his neighbours, never yet kept any. And, to + complete our happiness, may your majesty again prove to <i>your own + family</i>, what you have been so eminently to the true church, a nursing + mother. So wish, and so pray, may it please your majesty, your majesty's + most dutiful and loyal subjects, and devoted humble servants. + + This Address was presented January 17, 1704-5. +</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> + MR. WILLIAM CROWE'S ADDRESS TO HER MAJESTY, TURNED INTO METRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From a town that consists of a church and a steeple, + With three or four houses, and as many people, + There went an Address in great form and good order, + Composed, as 'tis said, by Will Crowe, their Recorder.[1] + And thus it began to an excellent tune: + Forgive us, good madam, that we did not as soon + As the rest of the cities and towns of this nation + Wish your majesty joy on this glorious occasion. + Not that we're less hearty or loyal than others, + But having a great many sisters and brothers, + Our borough in riches and years far exceeding, + We let them speak first, to show our good breeding. + We have heard with much transport and great satisfaction + Of the victory obtain'd in the late famous action, + When the field was so warm'd, that it soon grew too hot + For the French and Bavarians, who had all gone to pot, + But that they thought best in great haste to retire, + And leap into the water for fear of the fire. + But says the good river, Ye fools, plague confound ye, + Do ye think to swim through me, and that I'll not drown ye? + Who have ravish'd, and murder'd, and play'd such damn'd pranks, + And trod down the grass on my much-injured banks? + Then, swelling with anger and rage to the brink, + He gave the poor Monsieur his last draught of drink. + So it plainly appears they were very well bang'd, + And that some may be drown'd, who deserved to be hang'd. + Great Marlbro' well push'd: 'twas well push'd indeed: + Oh, how we adore you, because you succeed! + And now I may say it, I hope without blushing, + That you have got twins, by your violent pushing; + Twin battles I mean, that will ne'er be forgotten, + But live and be talk'd of, when we're dead and rotten. + Let other nice lords sculk at home from the wars, + Prank'd up and adorn'd with garters and stars, + Which but twinkle like those in a cold frosty night; + While to yours you are adding such lustre and light, + That if you proceed, I'm sure very soon + 'Twill be brighter and larger than the sun or the moon: + A blazing star, I foretell, 'twill prove to the Gaul, + That portends of his empire the ruin and fall. + Now God bless your majesty, and our Lord Murrough,[2] + And send him in safety and health to his borough. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Subsequently M.P. for Blessington, in the Irish Parliament; + he suffered some injustice from Wharton, when Lord-Lieutenant: he lost + his senses, and died in 1710. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, + pp. 39, 54; and Character of the Earl of Wharton, "Prose Works," v, p. + 27.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Murragh Boyle, first Viscount Blessington, author of a + tragedy, "The Lost Princess." He died in 1712.—<i>W. E. B.</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> + JACK FRENCHMAN'S LAMENTATION[1] AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the Tune of "I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye Commons and Peers, + Pray lend me your ears, + I'll sing you a song, (if I can,) + How Lewis le Grand + Was put to a stand, + By the arms of our gracious Queen Anne. + + How his army so great, + Had a total defeat, + And close by the river Dender: + Where his grandchildren twain, + For fear of being slain, + Gallop'd off with the Popish Pretender. + + To a steeple on high, + The battle to spy, + Up mounted these clever young men;[3] + But when from the spire, + They saw so much fire, + Most cleverly came down again. + + Then on horseback they got + All on the same spot, + By advice of their cousin Vendosme, + O Lord! cried out he, + Unto young <i>Burgundy</i>, + Would your brother and you were at home! + + While this he did say, + Without more delay, + Away the young gentry fled; + Whose heels for that work, + Were much lighter than cork, + Though their hearts were as heavy as lead. + + Not so did behave + Young Hanover brave,[4] + In this bloody field I assure ye: + When his war-horse was shot + He valued it not, + But fought it on foot like a fury. + + Full firmly he stood, + As became his high blood, + Which runs in his veins so blue: + For this gallant young man, + Being a-kin to QUEEN ANNE, + Did as (were she a man) she would do. + + What a racket was here, + (I think 'twas last year,) + For a little misfortune in Spain! + For by letting 'em win, + We have drawn the puts in, + To lose all they're worth this campaign. + + Though <i>Bruges</i> and Ghent + To <i>Monsieur</i> we lent, + With interest they shall repay 'em; + While <i>Paris</i> may sing, + With her sorrowful king, + <i>Nunc dimittis</i> instead of <i>Te Deum</i>. + + From this dream of success, + They'll awaken, we guess, + At the sound of great Marlborough's drums, + They may think, if they will, + Of Ahnanza still, + But 'tis Blenheim wherever he comes. + + O <i>Lewis[5]</i> perplex'd, + What general next! + Thou hast hitherto changed in vain; + He has beat 'em all round, + If no new ones found, + He shall beat 'em over again. + + We'll let <i>Tallard</i> out, + If he'll take t'other bout; + And much he's improved, let me tell ye, + With <i>Nottingham</i> ale + At every meal, + And good beef and pudding in belly. + + But as losers at play, + Their dice throw away, + While the winners do still win on; + Let who will command, + Thou hadst better disband, + For, old Bully, thy doctors[6] are gone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This ballad, upon the battle of Oudenarde, was very popular, + and the tune is often referred to as that of "Ye Commons and + Peers."—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: "A Ballad upon a Wedding," by Sir John Suckling, occasioned + by the marriage of Roger Boyle, first Lord Orrery, with Lady Margaret + Howard, daughter to the Earl of Suffolk. Suckling's Works, edit. Hazlitt, + vol. i, p. 42.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: In the Dutch accounts of the battle of Oudenarde, it is said + that the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry, with the Chevalier de St. George, + viewed the action at a distance from the top of a steeple, and fled, when + the fate of the day turned against the French. Vendosme commanded the + French upon that occasion.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: The Electoral Prince of Hanover, afterwards George II, + behaved with great spirit in the engagement, and charged, at the head of + Bulau's dragoons, with great intrepidity. His horse was shot under him, + and he then fought as stated in the text. Smollett's "History of + England," ii, <i>125.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Louis XIV.] + + [Footnote 6: A cant word for false dice.—<i>Scott</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> + THE GARDEN PLOT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1709 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Naboth's vineyard[1] look'd so fine, + The king cried out, "Would this were mine!" + And yet no reason could prevail + To bring the owner to a sale. + Jezebel saw, with haughty pride, + How Ahab grieved to be denied; + And thus accosted him with scorn: + "Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn? + A king, and weep! The ground's your own; + I'll vest the garden in the crown." + With that she hatch'd a plot, and made + Poor Naboth answer with his head; + And when his harmless blood was spilt, + The ground became his forfeit guilt. + + [Footnote 1: This seems to allude to some oppressive procedure by the + Earl of Wharton in relation to Swift's garden, which he called "Naboth's + Vineyard," meaning a possession coveted by another person able to possess + himself of it (i Kings, chap, xxi, verses 1-10). For some particulars of + the garden, see "Prose Works," xi, 415.—<i>W. E. B.</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> + SID HAMET'S ROD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair, + Whose hands, perhaps, were not so fair, + Yet had a Jezebel as near; + Hall, of small scripture conversation, + Yet, howe'er Hungerford's[1] quotation, + By some strange accident had got + The story of this garden-plot;—Wisely + foresaw he might have reason + To dread a modern bill of treason, + If Jezebel should please to want + His small addition to her grant: + Therefore resolved, in humble sort, + To begin first, and make his court; + And, seeing nothing else would do, + Gave a third part, to save the other two. + + [Footnote 1: Probably John Hungerford, a member of the October Club. + "Prose Works," v, 209.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + THE VIRTUES OF SID HAMET[1] THE MAGICIAN'S ROD. 1710[2] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The rod was but a harmless wand, + While Moses held it in his hand; + But, soon as e'er he laid it down, + Twas a devouring serpent grown. + Our great magician, Hamet Sid, + Reverses what the prophet did: + His rod was honest English wood, + That senseless in a corner stood, + Till metamorphos'd by his grasp, + It grew an all-devouring asp; + Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist. + By the mere virtue of his fist: + But, when he laid it down, as quick + Resum'd the figure of a stick. + So, to her midnight feasts, the hag + Rides on a broomstick for a nag, + That, rais'd by magic of her breech, + O'er sea and land conveys the witch; + But with the morning dawn resumes + The peaceful state of common brooms. + They tell us something strange and odd, + About a certain magic rod,[3] + That, bending down its top, divines + Whene'er the soil has golden mines; + Where there are none, it stands erect, + Scorning to show the least respect: + As ready was the wand of Sid + To bend where golden mines were hid: + In Scottish hills found precious ore,[4] + Where none e'er look'd for it before; + And by a gentle bow divine + How well a cully's purse was lined; + To a forlorn and broken rake, + Stood without motion like a stake. + The rod of Hermes [5] was renown'd + For charms above and under ground; + To sleep could mortal eyelids fix, + And drive departed souls to Styx. + That rod was a just type of Sid's, + Which o'er a British senate's lids + Could scatter opium full as well, + And drive as many souls to hell. + Sid's rod was slender, white, and tall, + Which oft he used to fish withal; + A PLACE was fasten'd to the hook, + And many score of <i>gudgeons</i> took; + Yet still so happy was his fate, + He caught his fish and sav'd his bait. + Sid's brethren of the conj'ring tribe, + A circle with their rod describe, + Which proves a magical redoubt, + To keep mischievous spirits out. + Sid's rod was of a larger stride, + And made a circle thrice as wide, + Where spirits throng'd with hideous din, + And he stood there to take them in; + But when th'enchanted rod was broke, + They vanish'd in a stinking smoke. + Achilles' sceptre was of wood, + Like Sid's, but nothing near so good; + Though down from ancestors divine + Transmitted to the heroes line; + Thence, thro' a long descent of kings, + Came an HEIRLOOM,[6] as Homer sings. + Though this description looks so big, + That sceptre was a sapless twig, + Which, from the fatal day, when first + It left the forest where 'twas nurs'd, + As Homer tells us o'er and o'er, + Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom bore. + Sid's sceptre, full of juice, did shoot + In golden boughs, and golden fruit; + And he, the dragon never sleeping, + Guarded each fair Hesperian Pippin. + No hobby-horse, with gorgeous top, + The dearest in Charles Mather's[7] shop, + Or glittering tinsel of May Fair, + Could with this rod of Sid compare.[8] + Dear Sid, then why wert thou so mad + To break thy rod like naughty lad?[9] + You should have kiss'd it in your distress, + And then return'd it to your mistress; + Or made it a Newmarket switch,[10] + And not a rod for thine own breech. + But since old Sid has broken this, + His next may be a rod in piss. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Cid Hamet Ben Eng'li, the supposed inspirer of Cervantes. + See "Don Quixote," last chapter.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: When Swift came to London, in 1710, about the time the + ministry was changed, his reception from Lord Treasurer Godolphin was, as + he wrote to Archbishop King, 9th Sept., "altogether different from what + he ever received from any great man in his life, altogether short, dry, + and morose." To Stella he writes that this coldness had "enraged him so + that he was almost vowing revenge." On the Treasurer's enforced + retirement, Swift's resentment took effect in the above "lampoon" which + was read at Harley's, on the 15th October, 1710, and "ran prodigiously," + but was not then "suspected for Swift's." See Journal to Stella, Sept. 9 + and Oct. 15.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The <i>virgula divina</i>, said to be attracted by + minerals.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Supposed to allude to the Union.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: Mercury's Caduceus, by which he could settle all disputes + and differences.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Godolphin's favour arose from his connexion with the family + of Marlborough by the marriage of his son to the Duke's daughter, + Henrietta Churchill.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: An eminent toyman in Fleet Street.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: The allusion is to Godolphin's name, Sidney, and to his + staff of office.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: A letter was sent him by the groom of the Queen's stables to + desire he would break his staff, which would be the easiest way both to + her Majesty and him. Mr. Smith, Chancellor of the Exchequer, happening to + come in a little after, my lord broke his staff, and flung the pieces in + the chimney, desiring Mr. Smith to witness that he had obeyed the Queen's + commands. Swift to Archbishop King, Sept. 9, 1710.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 10: Lord Godolphin is satirized by Pope for a strong attachment + to the turf. See his "Moral Essays," Epist. I, 81-5. + "Who would not praise Patritio's high desert, + His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart," + "He thanks you not, his pride is in piquet, + Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet."] +</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> + THE FAMOUS SPEECH-MAKER OF ENGLAND, OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE + AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 1710 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Risum teneatis?—HORAT., <i>Ars Poetica</i>, 5. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From London to Exon, + By special direction, + Came down the world's wonder, + Sir Salathiel Blunder, + With a quoif on his head + As heavy as lead; + And thus opened and said: + + Gentlemen of the Grand Inquest, + + Her majesty, mark it, + Appointed this circuit + For me and my brother, + Before any other; + To execute laws, + As you may suppose, + Upon such as offenders have been. + So then, not to scatter + More words on the matter, + We're beginning just now to begin. + But hold—first and foremost, I must enter a clause, + As touching and concerning our excellent laws; + Which here I aver, + Are better by far + Than them all put together abroad and beyond sea; + For I ne'er read the like, nor e'er shall, I fancy + The laws of our land + Don't abet, but withstand, + Inquisition and thrall, + And whatever may gall, + And fire withal; + And sword that devours + Wherever it scowers: + They preserve liberty and property, for which men pull and haul so, + And they are made for the support of good government also. + Her majesty, knowing + The best way of going + To work for the weal of the nation, + Builds on that rock, + Which all storms will mock, + Since Religion is made the foundation. + And, I tell you to boot, she + Resolves resolutely, + No promotion to give + To the best man alive, + In church or in state, + (I'm an instance of that,) + But only to such of a good reputation + For temper, morality, and moderation. + Fire! fire! a wild-fire, + Which greatly disturbs the queen's peace + Lies running about; + And if you don't put it out, + ( That's positive) will increase: + And any may spy, + With half of an eye, + That it comes from our priests and Papistical fry. + Ye have one of these fellows, + With fiery bellows, + Come hither to blow and to puff here; + Who having been toss'd + From pillar to post, + At last vents his rascally stuff here: + Which to such as are honest must sound very oddly, + When they ought to preach nothing but what's very godly; + As here from this place we charge you to do, + As ye'll answer to man, besides ye know who. + Ye have a Diocesan,—[l] + But I don't know the man;— + The man's a good liver, + They tell me, however, + And fiery never! + Now, ye under-pullers, + That wear such black colours, + How well would it look, + If his measures ye took, + Thus for head and for rump + Together to jump; + For there's none deserve places, + I speak't to their faces, + But men of such graces, + And I hope he will never prefer any asses; + Especially when I'm so confident on't, + For reasons of state, that her majesty won't + Know, I myself I + Was present and by, + At the great trial, where there was a great company, + Of a turbulent preacher, who, cursedly hot, + Turn'd the fifth of November, even the gun-powder plot, + Into impudent railing, and the devil knows what: + Exclaiming like fury—it was at Paul's, London— + How church was in danger, and like to be undone, + And so gave the lie to gracious Queen Anne; + And, which is far worse, to our parliament-men: + And then printed a book, + Into which men did look: + True, he made a good text; + But what follow'd next + Was nought but a dunghill of sordid abuses, + Instead of sound doctrine, with proofs to't, and uses. + It was high time of day + That such inflammation + should be extinguish'd without more delay: + But there was no engine could possibly do't, + Till the commons play'd theirs, and so quite put it out. + So the man was tried for't, + Before highest court: + Now it's plain to be seen, + It's his principles I mean, + Where they suffer'd this noisy and his lawyers to bellow: + Which over, the blade + A poor punishment had + For that racket he made. + By which ye may know + They thought as I do, + That he is but at best an inconsiderable fellow. + Upon this I find here, + And everywhere, + That the country rides rusty, and is all out of gear: + And for what? + May I not + In opinion vary, + And think the contrary, + But it must create + Unfriendly debate, + And disunion straight; + When no reason in nature + Can be given of the matter, + Any more than for shapes or for different stature? + If you love your dear selves, your religion or queen, + Ye ought in good manners to be peaceable men: + For nothing disgusts her + Like making a bluster: + And your making this riot, + Is what she could cry at, + Since all her concern's for our welfare and quiet. + I would ask any man + Of them all that maintain + Their passive obedience + With such mighty vehemence, + That damn'd doctrine, I trow! + What he means by it, ho', + To trump it up now? + Or to tell me in short, + What need there is for't? + Ye may say, I am hot; + I say I am not; + Only warm, as the subject on which I am got. + There are those alive yet, + If they do not forget, + May remember what mischiefs it did church and state: + Or at least must have heard + The deplorable calamities + It drew upon families, + About sixty years ago and upward. + And now, do ye see, + Whoever they be, + That make such an oration + In our Protestant nation, + As though church was all on a fire,— + With whatever cloak + They may cover their talk, + And wheedle the folk, + That the oaths they have took, + As our governors strictly require;— + I say they are men—(and I'm a judge, ye all know,) + That would our most excellent laws overthrow; + For the greater part of them to church never go; + Or, what's much the same, it by very great chance is, + If e'er they partake of her wise ordinances. + Their aim is, no doubt, + Were they made to speak out, + To pluck down the queen, that they make all this rout; + And to set up, moreover, + A bastardly brother; + Or at least to prevent the House of Hanover. + Ye gentlemen of the jury, + What means all this fury, + Of which I'm inform'd by good hands, I assure ye; + This insulting of persons by blows and rude speeches, + And breaking of windows, which, you know, maketh breaches? + Ye ought to resent it, + And in duty present it, + For the law is against it; + Not only the actors engaged in this job, + But those that encourage and set on the mob: + The mob,[2] a paw word, and which I ne'er mention, + But must in this place, for the sake of distinction. + I hear that some bailiffs and some justices + Have strove what they could, all this rage to suppress; + And I hope many more + Will exert the like power, + Since none will, depend on't, + Get a jot of preferment. + But men of this kidney, as I told you before.— + I'll tell you a story: Once upon a time, + Some hot-headed fellows must needs take a whim, + And so were so weak + (Twas a mighty mistake) + To pull down and abuse + Bawdy-houses and stews; + Who, tried by the laws of the realm for high-treason, + Were hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd for that very reason. + When the time came about + For us all to set out, + We went to take leave of the queen; + Where were great men of worth, + Great heads and so forth, + The greatest that ever were seen: + And she gave us a large + And particular charge;— + Good part on't indeed + Is quite out of my head;— + But I remember she said, + We should recommend peace and good neighbourhood, wheresoever we came; + and so I do here; + For that every one, not only men and their wives, + Should do all that they can to lead peaceable lives; + And told us withal, that she fully expected + A special account how ye all stood affected; + When we've been at St. James's, you'll hear of the matter. + Again then I charge ye, + Ye men of the clergy, + That ye follow the track all + Of your own Bishop Blackall, + And preach, as ye should, + What's savoury and good; + And together all cling, + As it were, in a string; + Not falling out, quarrelling one with another, + Now we're treating with Monsieur,—that son of his mother. + + Then proceeded on the common matters of the law; and concluded: + + Once more, and no more, since few words are best, + I charge you all present, by way of request, + If ye honour, as I do, + Our dear royal widow, + Or have any compassion + For church or the nation; + And would live a long while + In continual smile, + And eat roast and boil, + And not be forgotten, + When ye are dead and rotten; + That ye would be quiet, and peaceably dwell, + And never fall out, but p—s all in a quill. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Offspring Blackall. He was made Bishop of Exeter in + 1707, and died in 1716.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Swift hated the word "mob," and insisted that the proper + word to use was "rabble." See "Letters of Swift," edit. Birkbeck Hill, p. + 55; and "Prose Works," ix, p. 35, n.—<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> + PARODY ON THE RECORDER'S SPEECH TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, + 1711 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This city can omit no opportunity of expressing their hearty affection + for her majesty's person and government; and their regard for your grace, + who has the honour of representing her in this kingdom. + + We retain, my lord, a grateful remembrance of the mild and just + Administration of the government of this kingdom by your noble ancestors; + and, when we consider the share your grace had in the happy Revolution, + in 1688, and the many good laws you have procured us since, particularly + that for preventing the farther growth of Popery, we are assured that + that liberty and property, that happy constitution in church and state, + to which we were restored by King William of glorious memory, will + be inviolably preserved under your grace's administration. And we are + persuaded that we cannot more effectually recommend ourselves to your + grace's favour and protection, than by assuring you that we will, to the + utmost of our power, contribute to the honour and safety of her majesty's + government, the maintenance of the succession in the illustrious house + of Hanover, and that we shall at all times oppose the secret and open + attempts of the Pretender, and all his abettors. +</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 RECORDER'S SPEECH EXPLAINED BY THE TORIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An ancient metropolis, famous of late + For opposing the Church, and for nosing the State, + For protecting sedition and rejecting order, + Made the following speech by their mouth, the Recorder: + First, to tell you the name of this place of renown, + Some still call it Dublin, but most Forster's town. +</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> + THE SPEECH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May it please your Grace, + We cannot omit this occasion to tell, + That we love the Queen's person and government well; + Then next, to your Grace we this compliment make, + That our worships regard you, but 'tis for her sake: + Though our mouth be a Whig, and our head a Dissenter, + Yet salute you we must, 'cause you represent her: + Nor can we forget, sir, that some of your line + Did with mildness and peace in this government shine. + But of all your exploits, we'll allow but one fact, + That your Grace has procured us a Popery Act. + By this you may see that the least of your actions + Does conduce still the most to our satisfactions. + And lastly, because in the year eighty-eight + You did early appear in defence of our right, + We give no other proof of your zeal to your Prince; + So we freely forget all your services since. + It's then only we hope, that whilst you rule o'er us, + You'll tread in the steps of King William the glorious, + Whom we're always adoring, tho' hand over head, + For we owe him allegiance, although he be dead; + Which shows that good zeal may be founded in spleen, + Since a dead Prince we worship, to lessen the Queen. + And as for her Majesty, we will defend her + Against our hobgoblin, the Popish Pretender. + Our valiant militia will stoutly stand by her, + Against the sly Jack, and the sturdy High-flier. + She is safe when thus guarded, if Providence bless her, + And Hanover's sure to be next her successor. + Thus ended the speech, but what heart would not pity + His Grace, almost choked with the breath of the City! +</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> + BALLAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the tune of "Commons and Peers." + + A WONDERFUL age + Is now on the stage: + I'll sing you a song, if I can, + How modern Whigs, + Dance forty-one jigs,[1] + But God bless our gracious Queen Anne. + + The kirk with applause + Is established by laws + As the orthodox church of the nation. + The bishops do own + It's as good as their own. + And this, Sir, is call'd moderation. + + It's no riddle now + To let you see how + A church by oppression may speed; + Nor is't banter or jest, + That the kirk faith is best + On the other side of the Tweed. + + For no soil can suit + With every fruit, + Even so, Sir, it is with religion; + The best church by far + Is what grows where you are, + Were it Mahomet's ass or his pigeon. + + Another strange story + That vexes the Tory, + But sure there's no mystery in it, + That a pension and place + Give communicants grace, + Who design to turn tail the next minute. + + For if it be not strange, + That religion should change, + As often as climates and fashions; + Then sure there's no harm, + That one should conform. + To serve their own private occasions. + + Another new dance, + Which of late they advance, + Is to cry up the birth of Pretender, + And those that dare own + The queen heir to the crown, + Are traitors, not fit to defend her. + + The subject's most loyal + That hates the blood royal, + And they for employments have merit, + Who swear queen and steeple + Were made by the people, + And neither have right to inherit. + + The monarchy's fixt, + By making on't mixt, + And by non-resistance o'erthrown; + And preaching obedience + Destroys our allegiance, + And thus the Whigs prop up the throne. + + That viceroy [2] is best, + That would take off the test, + And made a sham speech to attempt it; + But being true blue, + When he found 'twould not do, + Swore, damn him, if ever he meant it. + + 'Tis no news that Tom Double + The nation should bubble, + Nor is't any wonder or riddle, + That a parliament rump + Should play hop, step, and jump, + And dance any jig to his fiddle. + + But now, sir, they tell, + How Sacheverell, + By bringing old doctrines in fashion, + Hath, like a damn'd rogue, + Brought religion in vogue, + And so open'd the eyes of the nation. + + Then let's pray without spleen, + May God bless the queen, + And her fellow-monarchs the people; + May they prosper and thrive, + Whilst I am alive, + And so may the church with the steeple. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Alluding to the year 1641, when the great rebellion broke + out. <i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Lord Wharton.] +</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> + ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE[1] TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD, 1710 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Atlas, we read in ancient song, + Was so exceeding tall and strong, + He bore the skies upon his back, + Just as the pedler does his pack; + But, as the pedler overpress'd + Unloads upon a stall to rest, + Or, when he can no longer stand + Desires a friend to lend a hand; + So Atlas, lest the ponderous spheres + Should sink, and fall about his ears, + Got Hercules to bear the pile, + That he might sit and rest awhile. + Yet Hercules was not so strong, + Nor could have borne it half so long. + Great statesmen are in this condition; + And Atlas is a politician, + A premier minister of state; + Alcides one of second rate. + Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise; + Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies + Too long upon his single shoulders, + Sink down he must, or find upholders. + + [Footnote 1: In these free, and yet complimentary verses, Swift cautions + Oxford against his greatest political error, that affectation of mystery, + and wish of engrossing the whole management of public affairs, which + first disgusted, and then alienated, Harcourt and Bolingbroke. On this + point our author has spoken very fully in the "Free Thoughts upon. The + present State of Affairs."—<i>Scott</i>. See "Prose Works," v, + 391.—<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> + LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY'S BEING STABBED,mAND ADDRESSED TO + HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Britain Europe's safety lies, + Britain is lost if Harley dies: + Harley depends upon your skill: + Think what you save, or what you kill. + + [Footnote 1: For details of Guiscard's murderous attack on Harley, see + Journal to Stella, March 8, 1710-11, "Prose Works," ii.—<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> + AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST + PEACE. 1711 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An orator <i>dismal</i> of <i>Nottinghamshire,</i> + Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire, + Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place, + Is come up, <i>vi et armis</i>, to break the queen's peace. + He has vamp'd an old speech, and the court, to their sorrow, + Shall hear him harangue against Prior to-morrow. + When once he begins, he never will flinch, + But repeats the same note a whole day like a Finch.[1] + I have heard all the speech repeated by Hoppy,' + And, "mistakes to prevent, I've obtained a copy." +</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 SPEECH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain, + To hear we are making a peace without Spain; + But, most noble senators, 'tis a great shame, + There should be a peace, while I'm <i>Not-in-game.</i> + The duke show'd me all his fine house; and the duchess + From her closet brought out a full purse in her clutches: + I talk'd of a peace, and they both gave a start, + His grace swore by G—d, and her grace let a f—t: + My long old-fashion'd pocket was presently cramm'd; + And sooner than vote for a peace I'll be damn'd. + But some will cry turn-coat, and rip up old stories, + How I always pretended to be for the Tories: + I answer; the Tories were in my good graces, + Till all my relations were put into places. + But still I'm in principle ever the same, + And will quit my best friends, while I'm <i>Not-in-game.</i> + When I and some others subscribed our names + To a plot for expelling my master King James, + I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot, + And so might discover or gain by the plot: + I had my advantage, and stood at defiance, + For Daniel[2] was got from the den of the lions: + I came in without danger, and was I to blame? + For, rather than hang, I would be <i>Not-in-game.</i> + I swore to the queen, that the Prince of Hanover + During her sacred life would never come over: + I made use of a trope; that "an heir to invite, + Was like keeping her monument always in sight." + But, when I thought proper, I alter'd my note; + And in her own hearing I boldly did vote, + That her Majesty stood in great need of a tutor, + And must have an old or a young coadjutor: + For why; I would fain have put all in a flame, + Because, for some reasons, I was <i>Not-in-game.</i> + Now my new benefactors have brought me about, + And I'll vote against peace, with Spain or without: + Though the court gives my nephews, and brothers, and cousins, + And all my whole family, places by dozens; + Yet, since I know where a full purse may be found, + And hardly pay eighteen-pence tax in the pound: + Since the Tories have thus disappointed my hopes, + And will neither regard my figures nor tropes, + I'll speech against peace while <i>Dismal's</i> my name, + And be a true Whig, while I'm <i>Not-in-game.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham's family name.] + + [Footnote 2: This was the Earl's Christian name.] +</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> + THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in + the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small + leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The + poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some + difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put + into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St. + George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment + was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following + lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of + the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to + obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts + altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed, + is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I + suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it. + + "The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old + prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their + meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader + can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion + that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the + genius of a former age, and may be an amusement to the + present."—<i>Swift</i>. + + The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy, + daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in + 1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish, + Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man + of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of + Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." A few months afterwards, in February + 1681-2, Thynne was assassinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were + devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his + direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle's + marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the + day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the + principals as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the + murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of + Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and + friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence + Swift's "Prophecy." See "State Trials," vol. ix, and "Notes and + Queries," 1st S., v. 269.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,[2] + With a saint[3] at his chin and a seal at his fob, + Shall not see one[4] New-Years-day in that year, + Then let old England make good cheer: + Windsor[5] and Bristol[5] then shall be + Joined together in the Low-countree.[5] + Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird[6] + Speak against peace right many a word; + And some shall admire his coneying wit, + For many good groats his tongue shall slit. + But spight of the Harpy[7] that crawls on all four, + There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more + But England must cry alack and well-a-day, + If the stick be taken from the dead sea.[8] + And, dear Englond, if ought I understond, + Beware of Carrots[9] from Northumberlond. + Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get, + If so be they are in Somer set: + Their Conyngs[10] mark thou; for I have been told, + They assassine when younge, and poison when old. + Root out these Carrots, O thou,[11] whose name + is backwards and forwards always the same; + And keep thee close to thee always that name + Which backwards and forwards is [12] almost the same. + And, England, wouldst thou be happy still, + Burn those Carrots under a Hill.[13] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Although Swift was advised by Mrs. Masham "not to let the + Prophecy be published," and he acted on her advice, many copies were + "printed and given about, but not sold." To Stella, Swift writes: "I + doubt not but you will have the Prophecy in Ireland although it is not + published here, only printed copies given to friends." See Journal to + Stella, 26, 27 Dec. 1711, and Jan. 4, 1711-12.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the + plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: He was Dean of Windsor, and lord privy seal.] + + [Footnote 4: The New Style, which was not adopted in Great Britain and + Ireland till it was brought in by Lord Chesterfield in 1752, was then + Observed in most parts of Europe. The bishop set out from England the + Latter end of December, O. S.; and on his arrival at Utrecht, by the + Variation of the style, he found January somewhat advanced.] + + [Footnote 5: Alluding to the deanery and bishopric being possessed by the + same person, then at Utrecht.] + + [Footnote 6: Earl of Nottingham.] + + [Footnote 7: Duke of Marlborough.] + + [Footnote 8: The treasurer's wand, taken from Harley, whose second title + was Lord <i>Mortimer</i>.] + + [Footnote 9: The Duchess of Somerset.[1]] + + [Footnote 10: Count Konigsmark.[2]] + + [Footnote 11: ANNA.] + + [Footnote 12: MASHAM.] + + [Footnote 13: Lady Masham's maiden name.] + + [embedded footnote 1: She had red hair, <i>post</i>, 165. ] + + [embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.] +</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> + CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD, 1711-12 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This day (the year I dare not tell) + Apollo play'd the midwife's part; + Into the world Corinna fell, + And he endued her with his art. + + But Cupid with a Satyr comes; + Both softly to the cradle creep; + Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums, + While the poor child lay fast asleep. + + Then Cupid thus: "This little maid + Of love shall always speak and write;" + "And I pronounce," the Satyr said, + "The world shall feel her scratch and bite." + + Her talent she display'd betimes; + For in a few revolving moons, + She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes, + And all her gestures were lampoons. + + At six years old, the subtle jade + Stole to the pantry-door, and found + The butler with my lady's maid: + And you may swear the tale went round. + + She made a song, how little miss + Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad: + And how, when master went to p—, + Miss came, and peep'd at all he had. + + At twelve, a wit and a coquette; + Marries for love, half whore, half wife; + Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt; + Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life. + + Her common-place book all gallant is, + Of scandal now a cornucopia; + She pours it out in Atalantis + Or memoirs of the New Utopia. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la + Rivihre Manley, a political writer, who was born about 1672, and died in + July, 1724. The work by which she became famous was "Secret memoirs and + manners of several persons of quality of both sexes, from the New + Atalantis." She was Swift's amanuensis and assistant in "The Examiner," + and succeeded him as Editor. In his Journal to Stella, Jan. 26, 1711-12, + he writes: "Poor Mrs. Manley, the author, is very ill of a dropsy and + sore leg; the printer tells me he is afraid she cannot live long. I am + heartily sorry for her. She has very generous principles for one of her + sort; and a great deal of good sense and invention: She is about forty, + very homely and very fat." Swift's subsequent severe attack upon her in + these verses can only be accounted for, but cannot be excused by, some + change in his political views. See "The Tatler," Nos. 35, 63, <i>edit. + 1786.—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> + THE FABLE OF MIDAS.[1] 1711-12 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Collated with Stella's copy.—<i>Forster</i>. + + Midas, we are in story told,[2] + Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold: + He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round + Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: + A codling, ere it went his lip in, + Would straight become a golden pippin. + He call'd for drink; you saw him sup + Potable gold in golden cup: + His empty paunch that he might fill, + He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill. + Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, + Or't had been happy for gold-finders: + He cock'd his hat, you would have said + Mambrino's[3] helm adorn'd his head; + Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay + On magazines of corn or hay, + Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead + Of paltry provender and bread; + Hence, we are by wise farmers told[4] + Old hay is equal to old gold:[5] + And hence a critic deep maintains + We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains. + This fool had got a lucky hit; + And people fancied he had wit, + Two gods their skill in music tried + And both chose Midas to decide: + He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed, + And gave it for Pan's oaten reed: + The god of wit, to show his grudge, + Clapt asses' ears upon the judge, + A goodly pair, erect and wide, + Which he could neither gild nor hide. + And now the virtue of his hands + Was lost among Pactolus' sands, + Against whose torrent while he swims + The golden scurf peels off his limbs: + Fame spreads the news, and people travel + From far, to gather golden gravel; + Midas, exposed to all their jeers, + Had lost his art, and kept his ears. + This tale inclines the gentle reader + To think upon a certain leader; + To whom, from Midas down, descends + That virtue in the fingers' ends. + What else by perquisites are meant, + By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.? + By places and commissions sold, + And turning dung itself to gold? + By starving in the midst of store, + As t'other Midas did before? + None e'er did modern Midas chuse + Subject or patron of his muse, + But found him thus their merit scan, + That Phoebus must give place to Pan: + He values not the poet's praise, + Nor will exchange his plums [6] for bays. + To Pan alone rich misers call; + And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL. + Here English wits will be to seek, + Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek. + Besides, it plainly now appears + Our Midas, too, has ass's ears: + Where every fool his mouth applies, + And whispers in a thousand lies; + Such gross delusions could not pass + Thro' any ears but of an ass. + But gold defiles with frequent touch, + There's nothing fouls the hand so much; + And scholars give it for the cause + Of British Midas' dirty paws; + Which, while the senate strove to scour, + They wash'd away the chemic power.[7] + While he his utmost strength applied, + To swim against this popular tide, + The golden spoils flew off apace, + Here fell a pension, there a place: + The torrent merciless imbibes + Commissions, perquisites, and bribes, + By their own weight sunk to the bottom; + Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em! + And Midas now neglected stands, + With ass's ears, and dirty hands. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This cutting satire upon the Duke of Marlborough was written + about the time when he was deprived of his employments. See Journal to + Stella, Feb. 14, 1711-12, "Prose Works," ii, 337.] + + [Footnote 2: Ovid, "Met.," lib. xi; Hyginus, "Fab." 191.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Almonte and Mambrino, two Saracens of great valour, had each + a golden helmet. Orlando Furioso took Almonte's, and his friend Rinaldo + that of Mambrino. "Orlando Furioso," Canto I, St. 28. And readers of "Don + Quixote" may remember how the knight argued with Sancho Panza that the + barber's bason was the helmet of Mambrino.—"Don Quixote," pt. I, book 3, + ch. 7.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Stella.] + + [Footnote 5: The Duke of Marlborough was accused of having received large + sums, as perquisites, from the contractors, who furnished bread, forage, + etc., to the army.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Scott prints this word "plumes," substituting a false + meaning for the real point of the poem.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: The result of the investigations of the House of Commons was + the removal of the Duke of Marlborough from his command, and all his + employments.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</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> + TOLAND'S INVITATION TO DISMAL[1] TO DINE WITH THE CALVES HEAD CLUB + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Written A.D. 1712.—<i>Stella.</i> + Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5. + + Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf + of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and + another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged + Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of + Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy + complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to + support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their + consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so + distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe + "The sober Earl of Nottingham, + Of sober sire descended."—HOR., <i>Odes</i>, ii, 4. + From these points of his character, we may estimate the severity of + the following satire, which represents this pillar of High-Church + principles as invited by the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th + January, by attending the Calves' Head Club.—<i>Scott</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine + Upon a single dish, and tavern wine, + Toland to you this invitation sends, + To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends. + Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes, + Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes. + To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare, + Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share: + When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell, + How by brave hands the royal traitor fell; + The meat shall represent the tyrant's head, + The wine, his blood our predecessors shed; + Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings, + We toast, Confusion to the race of kings! + At monarchy we nobly show our spight, + And talk, what fools call treason, all the night. + Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk, + Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk? + Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face, + And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place: + By force of wine, ev'n Scarborough is brave, + Hal[2] grows more pert, and Somers not so grave: + Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense, + Montague learning, Bolton eloquence: + Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand; + And Lincoln then imagines he has land. + My province is, to see that all be right, + Glasses and linen clean, and pewter bright; + From our mysterious club to keep out spies, + And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise. + You shall be coupled as you best approve, + Seated at table next the man you love. + Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace + Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place; + Wharton, unless prevented by a whore, + Will hardly fail; and there is room for more; + But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink; + And honest Harry is too apt to stink. + Let no pretence of bus'ness make you stay; + Yet take one word of counsel[3] by the way. + If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad; + He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud, + Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers; + But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs, + Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there; + Then order Squash to call a hackney chair. + + [Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.—<i>Forster</i>. See Journal to + Stella, July 1, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, 375; and ix, 256, + 287.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Scott prints "comfort."—<i>Forster</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> + PEACE AND DUNKIRK, BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF + DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL, 1712 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again." + + Spite of Dutch friends and English foes, + Poor Britain shall have peace at last: + Holland got towns, and we got blows; + But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast. + We have got it in a string, + And the Whigs may all go swing, + For among good friends I love to be plain; + All their false deluded hopes + Will, or ought to end in ropes; + "But the Queen shall enjoy her own again." + + Sunderlands run out of his wits, + And Dismal double Dismal looks; + Wharton can only swear by fits, + And strutting Hal is off the hooks; + Old Godolphin, full of spleen, + Made false moves, and lost his Queen: + Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane: + But a Prince of high renown + Swore he'd rather lose a crown, + "Than the Queen should enjoy her own again." + + Our merchant-ships may cut the line, + And not be snapt by privateers. + And commoners who love good wine + Will drink it now as well as peers: + Landed men shall have their rent, + Yet our stocks rise <i>cent, per cent.</i> + The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: + We'll bring on us no more debts, + Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes; + "And the Queen shall enjoy her own again." + + The towns we took ne'er did us good: + What signified the French to beat? + We spent our money and our blood, + To make the Dutchmen proud and great: + But the Lord of Oxford swears, + Dunkirk never shall be theirs. + The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; + But true Englishmen may fill + A good health to General Hill: + "For the Queen now enjoys her own again." +</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> + HORACE, EPIST. I, VII, IMITATION OF HORACE, TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Harley, the nation's great support, + Returning home one day from court, + His mind with public cares possest, + All Europe's business in his breast, + Observed a parson near Whitehall, + Cheap'ning old authors on a stall. + The priest was pretty well in case, + And show'd some humour in his face; + Look'd with an easy, careless mien, + A perfect stranger to the spleen; + Of size that might a pulpit fill, + But more inclining to sit still. + My lord, (who, if a man may say't, + Loves mischief better than his meat), + Was now disposed to crack a jest + And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest. + (This Lewis was a cunning shaver, + And very much in Harley's favour)— + In quest who might this parson be, + What was his name, of what degree; + If possible, to learn his story, + And whether he were Whig or Tory. + Lewis his patron's humour knows; + Away upon his errand goes, + And quickly did the matter sift; + Found out that it was Doctor Swift, + A clergyman of special note + For shunning those of his own coat; + Which made his brethren of the gown + Take care betimes [3] to run him down: + No libertine, nor over nice, + Addicted to no sort of vice; + Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought; + Not rich, but owed no man a groat; + In state opinions ` la mode, + He hated Wharton like a toad; + Had given the faction many a wound, + And libell'd all the junto round; + Kept company with men of wit, + Who often father'd what he writ: + His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street, + But seldom rose above a sheet: + Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp + Did very much his genius cramp; + And, since he could not spend his fire, + He now intended[4] to retire. + Said Harley, "I desire to know + From his own mouth, if this be so: + Step to the doctor straight, and say, + I'd have him dine with me to-day." + Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant, + Nor could believe my lord had sent; + So never offer'd once to stir, + But coldly said, "Your servant, sir!" + "Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd: + "He does; with insolence and pride." + Some few days after, Harley spies + The doctor fasten'd by the eyes + At Charing-cross, among the rout, + Where painted monsters are hung out: + He pull'd the string, and stopt his[5] coach, + Beck'ning the doctor to approach. + Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide, + Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side, + And offer'd many a lame excuse: + He never meant the least abuse— + "My lord—the honour you design'd— + Extremely proud—but I had dined— + I am sure I never should neglect— + No man alive has more respect"— + Well, I shall think of that no more, + If you'll be sure to come at four." + The doctor now obeys the summons, + Likes both his company and commons; + Displays his talent, sits till ten; + Next day invited, comes again; + Soon grows domestic, seldom fails, + Either at morning or at meals; + Came early, and departed late; + In short, the gudgeon took the bait. + My lord would carry on the jest, + And down to Windsor takes his guest. + Swift much admires the place and air, + And longs to be a Canon there; + In summer round the Park to ride, + In winter—never to reside. + A Canon!—that's a place too mean: + No, doctor, you shall be a Dean; + Two dozen canons round your stall, + And you the tyrant o'er them all: + You need but cross the Irish seas, + To live in plenty, power, and ease. + Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse, + With borrow'd money in his purse, + Travels at least a hundred leagues, + And suffers numberless fatigues. + Suppose him now a dean complete, + Demurely[8] lolling in his seat, + And silver verge, with decent pride, + Stuck underneath his cushion side. + Suppose him gone through all vexations, + Patents, instalments, abjurations, + First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats; + Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats. + (The wicked laitys contriving + To hinder clergymen from thriving.) + Now all the doctor's moneys spent, + His tenants wrong him in his rent, + The farmers spitefully combine, + Force him to take his tithes in kine, + And Parvisol[9] discounts arrears + By bills, for taxes and repairs. + Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd, + Not knowing where to turn him next, + Above a thousand pounds in debt, + Takes horse, and in a mighty fret + Rides day and night at such a rate, + He soon arrives at Harley's gate; + But was so dirty, pale, and thin, + Old Read[10] would hardly let him in. + Said Harley, "Welcome, rev'rend dean! + What makes your worship look so lean? + Why, sure you won't appear in town + In that old wig and rusty gown? + I doubt your heart is set on pelf + So much that you neglect yourself. + What! I suppose, now stocks are high, + You've some good purchase in your eye? + Or is your money out at use?"— + "Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!" + The doctor in a passion cry'd, + "Your raillery is misapply'd; + Experience I have[11] dearly bought; + You know I am not worth a groat: + But you resolved to have your jest, + And 'twas a folly to contest; + Then, since you now have done your worst, + Pray leave me where you found me first." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer's secretary.] + + [Footnote 3: By time.—<i>Stella</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Is now contented,—<i>Stella.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The.—<i>Stella.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Would.—<i>Stella.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: By.—<i>Stella.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: "Devoutly" is the word in Stella's transcript: but it must + be admitted that "demurely" is more in keeping.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 9: The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.] + + [Footnote 10: The lord treasurer's porter.] + + [Footnote 11: I have experience.—<i>Stella</i>.] +</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> + THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF, 1713 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of + the Author's from London.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * By an old —— pursued, + A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2] + By dull divines, who look with envious eyes + On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise; + And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod, + Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God. + So clowns on scholars as on wizards look, + And take a folio for a conj'ring book. + Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime: + Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme; + Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; + He reconcil'd divinity and wit: + He moved and bow'd, and talk'd with too much grace; + Nor show'd the parson in his gait or face; + Despised luxurious wines and costly meat; + Yet still was at the tables of the great; + Frequented lords; saw those that saw the queen; + At Child's or Truby's,[3] never once had been; + Where town and country vicars flock in tribes, + Secured by numbers from the laymen's gibes; + And deal in vices of the graver sort, + Tobacco, censure, coffee, pride, and port. + But, after sage monitions from his friends, + His talents to employ for nobler ends; + To better judgments willing to submit, + He turns to politics his dang'rous wit. + And now, the public Int'rest to support, + By Harley Swift invited, comes to court; + In favour grows with ministers of state; + Admitted private, when superiors wait: + And Harley, not ashamed his choice to own, + Takes him to Windsor in his coach alone. + At Windsor Swift no sooner can appear, + But St. John comes, and whispers in his ear: + The waiters stand in ranks: the yeomen cry, + <i>Make room</i>, as if a duke were passing by. + Now Finch[4] alarms the lords: he hears for certain + This dang'rous priest is got behind the curtain. + Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves + That Swift oils many a spring which Harley moves. + Walpole and Aislaby,[5] to clear the doubt, + Inform the Commons, that the secret's out: + "A certain doctor is observed of late + To haunt a certain minister of state: + From whence with half an eye we may discover + The peace is made, and Perkin must come over." + York is from Lambeth sent, to show the queen + A dang'rous treatise[6] writ against the spleen; + Which, by the style, the matter, and the drift, + 'Tis thought could be the work of none but Swift. + Poor York! the harmless tool of others' hate; + He sues for pardon,[7] and repents too late. + Now angry Somerset her vengeance vows + On Swift's reproaches for her ******* spouse:[8] + From her red locks her mouth with venom fills, + And thence into the royal ear instils. + The queen incensed, his services forgot, + Leaves him a victim to the vengeful Scot.[9] + Now through the realm a proclamation spread, + To fix a price on his devoted head.[10] + While innocent, he scorns ignoble flight; + His watchful friends preserve him by a sleight. + By Harley's favour once again he shines; + Is now caress'd by candidate divines, + Who change opinions with the changing scene: + Lord! how were they mistaken in the dean! + Now Delawar[11] again familiar grows; + And in Swift's ear thrusts half his powder'd nose. + The Scottish nation, whom he durst offend, + Again apply that Swift would be their friend.[12] + By faction tired, with grief he waits awhile, + His great contending friends to reconcile; + Performs what friendship, justice, truth require: + What could he more, but decently retire? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his + sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the Deanery of + Canterbury, to the Archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February + 2, 1712-13. According to Dr. Swift's account, the archbishop had + represented him to the queen as a person that was not a Christian; the + great lady [the Duchess of Somerset] had supported the aspersion; and the + queen, upon such assurances, had given away the bishopric contrary to her + majesty's first intentions [which were in favour of Swift]. See Orrery's + "Remarks on the Life of Swift," p. 48.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Queen Anne.] + + [Footnote 3: Coffeehouses frequented by the clergy. In the preceding + poem, Swift gives the same trait of his own character: + "A clergyman of special note + For shunning those of his own coat." + His feeling towards his order was exactly the reverse of his celebrated + misanthropical expression of hating mankind, but loving individuals. On + the contrary, he loved the church, but disliked associating with + individual clergymen.—<i>Scott.</i> See his letter to Pope, Sept. 29, 1725, + in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 53, and the unjust + remarks of the commentators.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Daniel Finch, Earl of Nottingham, who made a speech in the + House of Lords against the author.] + + [Footnote 5: John Aislaby, then M.P. for Ripon. They both spoke against + him in the House of Commons.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: The Tale of a Tub.] + + [Footnote 7: He sent a message to the author to desire his pardon, and + that he was very sorry for what he had said and done.] + + [Footnote 8: Insert <i>murder'd</i>. The duchess's first husband, Thomas + Thynne, Esq., was assassinated in Pall Mall by banditti, the emissaries + of Count Kvnigsmark. As the motive of this crime was the count's love to + the lady, with whom Thynne had never cohabited, Swift seems to throw upon + her the imputation of being privy to the crime. See the "Windsor + Prophecy," <i>ante</i>, p. 150.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 9: The Duke of Argyle.] + + [Footnote 10: For writing "The Public Spirit of the Whigs."] + + [Footnote 11: Then lord-treasurer of the household, who cautiously + avoided Swift while the proclamation was impending.] + + [Footnote 12: He was visited by the Scots lords more than ever.] +</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> + THE FAGOT[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Written in the year 1713, when the Queen's ministers were quarrelling + among themselves. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Observe the dying father speak: + Try, lads, can you this bundle break? + Then bids the youngest of the six + Take up a well-bound heap of sticks. + They thought it was an old man's maggot; + And strove, by turns, to break the fagot: + In vain: the complicated wands + Were much too strong for all their hands. + See, said the sire, how soon 'tis done: + Then took and broke them one by one. + So strong you'll be, in friendship ty'd; + So quickly broke, if you divide. + Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel: + Here ends the fable, and the moral. + This tale may be applied in few words, + To treasurers, comptrollers, stewards; + And others, who, in solemn sort, + Appear with slender wands at court; + Not firmly join'd to keep their ground, + But lashing one another round: + While wise men think they ought to fight + With quarterstaffs instead of white; + Or constable, with staff of peace, + Should come and make the clatt'ring cease; + Which now disturbs the queen and court, + And gives the Whigs and rabble sport. + In history we never found + The consul's fasces[2] were unbound: + Those Romans were too wise to think on't, + Except to lash some grand delinquent, + How would they blush to hear it said, + The praetor broke the consul's head! + Or consul in his purple gown, + Came up and knock'd the praetor down! + Come, courtiers: every man his stick! + Lord treasurer,[3] for once be quick: + And that they may the closer cling, + Take your blue ribbon for a string. + Come, trimming Harcourt,[4] bring your mace; + And squeeze it in, or quit your place: + Dispatch, or else that rascal Northey[5] + Will undertake to do it for thee: + And be assured, the court will find him + Prepared to leap o'er sticks, or bind them. + To make the bundle strong and safe, + Great Ormond, lend thy general's staff: + And, if the crosier could be cramm'd in + A fig for Lechmere, King, and Hambden! + You'll then defy the strongest Whig + With both his hands to bend a twig; + Though with united strength they all pull, + From Somers,[6] down to Craggs[7] and Walpole. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This fable is one of the vain remonstrances by which Swift + strove to close the breach between Oxford and Bolingbroke, in the last + period of their administration, which, to use Swift's own words, was + "nothing else but a scene of murmuring and discontent, quarrel and + misunderstanding, animosity and hatred;" so that these two great men had + scarcely a common friend left, except the author himself, who laboured + with unavailing zeal to reconcile their dissensions.—<i>Scott.</i> With this + exception, the notes are from the Dublin Edition.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The bundle of rods carried before the Consuls at Rome.] + + [Footnote 3: The dilatory Earl of Oxford.] + + [Footnote 4: Lord Chancellor.] + + [Footnote 5: Sir Edward Northey, attorney-general, brought in by Lord + Harcourt; yet very desirous of the Great Seal.] + + [Footnote 6: Who had been at different times Lord Chancellor and + President of the Council.] + + [Footnote 7: Afterwards Secretary of State]. +</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> + IMITATION OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] + 1714 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I often wish'd that I had clear, + For life, six hundred pounds a-year, + A handsome house to lodge a friend, + A river at my garden's end, + A terrace walk, and half a rood + Of land, set out to plant a wood. + Well, now I have all this and more, + I ask not to increase my store;[2] + But should be perfectly content, + Could I but live on this side Trent;[3] + Nor cross the channel twice a-year, + To spend six months with statesmen here. + I must by all means come to town, + 'Tis for the service of the crown. + "Lewis, the Dean will be of use; + Send for him up, take no excuse." + The toil, the danger of the seas, + Great ministers ne'er think of these; + Or let it cost a hundred pound, + No matter where the money's found, + It is but so much more in debt, + And that they ne'er consider'd yet. + "Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, + Let my lord know you're come to town." + I hurry me in haste away, + Not thinking it is levee-day; + And find his honour in a pound, + Hemm'd by a triple circle round, + Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green: + How should I thrust myself between? + Some wag observes me thus perplex'd, + And, smiling, whispers to the next, + "I thought the Dean had been too proud, + To justle here among a crowd!" + Another, in a surly fit, + Tells me I have more zeal than wit. + "So eager to express your love, + You ne'er consider whom you shove, + But rudely press before a duke." + I own I'm pleased with this rebuke, + And take it kindly meant, to show + What I desire the world should know. + I get a whisper, and withdraw; + When twenty fools I never saw + Come with petitions fairly penn'd, + Desiring I would stand their friend. + This humbly offers me his case; + That begs my interest for a place; + A hundred other men's affairs, + Like bees, are humming in my ears. + "To-morrow my appeal comes on; + Without your help, the cause is gone—" + "The duke expects my lord and you, + About some great affair, at two—" + "Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind, + To get my warrant quickly sign'd: + Consider, 'tis my first request."— + Be satisfied I'll do my best: + Then presently he falls to tease, + "You may for certain, if you please; + I doubt not if his lordship knew—- + And Mr. Dean, one word from you[4]——" + 'Tis (let me see) three years and more, + (October next it will be four,) + Since Harley bid me first attend,[5] + And chose me for an humble friend; + Would take me in his coach to chat, + And question me of this and that; + As "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the wind?" + "Whose chariot's that we left behind?" + Or gravely try to read the lines + Writ underneath the country signs;[6] + And mark at Brentford how they spell + Hear is good Eal and Bear to cell. + Or, "Have you nothing new to-day + To shew from Parnell, Pope and Gay?" + Such tattle often entertains + My lord and me as far as Staines, + As once a-week we travel down + To Windsor, and again to town; + Where all that passes <i>inter nos</i> + Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross. + Yet some I know with envy swell, + Because they see me used so well: + "How think you of our friend the Dean? + I wonder what some people mean! + My lord and he are grown so great, + Always together, <i>tjte-`-tjte</i>; + What! they admire him for his jokes?— + See but the fortune of some folks!" + There flies about a strange report + Of mighty news arrived at court: + I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet, + And catechised in every street. + "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great: + Inform us, will the emperor treat? + Or do the prints and papers lie?" + Faith, sir, you know as much as I. + "Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! + 'Tis now no secret"—I protest + It's one to me—"Then tell us, pray, + When are the troops to have their pay?" + And, though I solemnly declare + I know no more than my lord mayor, + They stand amazed, and think me grown + The closest mortal ever known. + Thus in a sea of folly toss'd, + My choicest[7] hours of life are lost: + Yet always wishing to retreat, + O, could I see my country-seat! + There leaning near a gentle brook, + Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; + And there in sweet oblivion drown + Those cares that haunt the court and town.[8] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's + volume.—<i>Forster.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Here followed twenty lines inserted by Pope when he + published the Miscellanies. The version is here printed as written by + Swift.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Swift was perpetually expressing his deep discontent at his + Irish preferment, and forming schemes for exchanging it for a smaller in + England, and courted Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole to effect such + a change. A negotiation had nearly taken place between the Dean and Mr. + Talbot for the living of Burfield, in Berkshire. Mr. Talbot himself + informed me of this negotiation. Burfield is in the neighbourhood of + Bucklebury, Lord Bolingbroke's seat.—<i>Warton.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Very happily turned from "Si vis, potes——."—<i>Warton.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The rise and progress of Swift's intimacy with Lord Oxford + is minutely detailed in his Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man, + that served the ministry so effectually, was so tardily, and so + difficultly, and so poorly rewarded, are explained in Sheridan's Life of + Swift. See also Coxe's "Memoirs of Walpole." Both Gay and Swift conceived + every thing was to be gained by the interest of Mrs. Howard, to whom they + paid incessant court.—<i>Bowles.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Another of their amusements in these excursions consisted in + Lord Oxford and Swift's counting the poultry on the road, and whichever + reckoned thirty-one first, or saw a cat, or an old woman, won the game. + Bolingbroke, overtaking them one day in their road to Windsor, got into + Lord Oxford's coach, and began some political conversation; Lord Oxford + said, "Swift, I am up; there is a cat." Bolingbroke was disgusted with + this levity, and went again into his own carriage. This was + "Nugari et discincti ludere," [HORAT., <i>Sat.</i>, ii, I, 73] + with a witness.—<i>Warton.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: Stella's transcript, "sweetest."—<i>Forster.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: Thus far was translated by Dr. Swift in 1714. The remaining + part of the satire was afterwards added by Pope, in whose works the whole + is printed. See Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope.—<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> + HORACE, BOOK II, ODE I, PARAPHRASED, ADDRESSED TO RICHARD STEELE, ESQ. + 1714 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told, + Some strange arcana to unfold, + And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen, + To vamp the good old cause again: + Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is) + Must furbish up, and nickname Crisis. + Thou pompously wilt let us know + What all the world knew long ago, + (E'er since Sir William Gore was mayor, + And Harley fill'd the commons' chair,) + That we a German prince must own, + When Anne for Heaven resigns her throne. + But, more than that, thou'lt keep a rout, + With—who is in—and who is out; + Thou'lt rail devoutly at the peace, + And all its secret causes trace, + The bucket-play 'twixt Whigs and Tories, + Their ups and downs, with fifty stories + Of tricks the Lord of Oxford knows, + And errors of our plenipoes. + Thou'lt tell of leagues among the great, + Portending ruin to our state: + And of that dreadful <i>coup d'iclat</i>, + Which has afforded thee much chat. + The queen, forsooth! (despotic,) gave + Twelve coronets without thy leave! + A breach of liberty, 'tis own'd, + For which no heads have yet atoned! + Believe me, what thou'st undertaken + May bring in jeopardy thy bacon; + For madmen, children, wits, and fools, + Should never meddle with edged tools. + But, since thou'st got into the fire, + And canst not easily retire, + Thou must no longer deal in farce, + Nor pump to cobble wicked verse; + Until thou shall have eased thy conscience, + Of spleen, of politics, and nonsense; + And, when thou'st bid adieu to cares, + And settled Europe's grand affairs, + 'Twill then, perhaps, be worth thy while + For Drury Lane to shape thy style: + "To make a pair of jolly fellows, + The son and father, join to tell us, + How sons may safely disobey, + And fathers never should say nay; + By which wise conduct they grow friends + At last—and so the story ends."[2] + When first I knew thee, Dick, thou wert + Renown'd for skill in Faustus' art;[3] + Which made thy closet much frequented + By buxom lasses—some repented + Their luckless choice of husbands—others + Impatient to be like their mothers, + Received from thee profound directions + How best to settle their affections. + Thus thou, a friend to the distress'd, + Didst in thy calling do thy best. + But now the senate (if things hit, + And thou at Stockbridge[4] wert not bit) + Must feel thy eloquence and fire, + Approve thy schemes, thy wit admire, + Thee with immortal honours crown, + While, patriot-like, thou'lt strut and frown. + What though by enemies 'tis said, + The laurel, which adorns thy head, + Must one day come in competition, + By virtue of some sly petition: + Yet mum for that; hope still the best, + Nor let such cares disturb thy rest. + Methinks I hear thee loud as trumpet, + As bagpipe shrill or oyster-strumpet; + Methinks I see thee, spruce and fine, + With coat embroider'd richly shine, + And dazzle all the idol faces, + As through the hall thy worship paces; + (Though this I speak but at a venture, + Supposing thou hast tick with Hunter,) + Methinks I see a blackguard rout + Attend thy coach, and hear them shout + In approbation of thy tongue, + Which (in their style) is purely hung. + Now! now you carry all before you! + Nor dares one Jacobite or Tory + Pretend to answer one syl-lable, + Except the matchless hero Abel.[5] + What though her highness and her spouse, + In Antwerp[6] keep a frugal house, + Yet, not forgetful of a friend, + They'll soon enable thee to spend, + If to Macartney[7] thou wilt toast, + And to his pious patron's ghost. + Now, manfully thou'lt run a tilt + "On popes, for all the blood they've spilt, + For massacres, and racks, and flames, + For lands enrich'd by crimson streams, + For inquisitions taught by Spain, + Of which the Christian world complain." + Dick, we agree—all's true thou'st said, + As that my Muse is yet a maid. + But, if I may with freedom talk, + All this is foreign to thy walk: + Thy genius has perhaps a knack + At trudging in a beaten track, + But is for state affairs as fit + As mine for politics and wit. + Then let us both in time grow wise, + Nor higher than our talents rise; + To some snug cellar let's repair, + From duns and debts, and drown our care; + Now quaff of honest ale a quart, + Now venture at a pint of port; + With which inspired, we'll club each night + Some tender sonnet to indite, + And with Tom D'Urfey, Phillips, Dennis, + Immortalize our Dolls and Jennys. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Samuel Buckley, publisher of "The Crisis."] + + [Footnote 2: This is said to be a plot of a comedy with which Mr. Steele + has long threatened the town.—<i>Swift.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Alluding to Steele's advice in "The Tatler" to distressed + females, in his character of Bickerstaff.] + + [Footnote 4: The borough which, for a very short time, Steele represented + in Parliament.] + + [Footnote 5: Abel Roper, the printer and publisher of a Tory newspaper + called "The Post Boy," often mentioned by Swift, who contributed news to + it. See "Prose Works," ii, 420; v, 290; ix, 183.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough then resided at + Antwerp.] + + [Footnote 7: General Macartney, second to Lord Mohun, in the fatal duel + with the Duke of Hamilton. For an account of the duel, see Journal to + Stella of Nov. 15, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, and x, xxii, and + 178.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + DENNIS INVITATION TO STEELE, HORACE, BOOK I, EP. V + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JOHN DENNIS, THE SHELTERING POET'S INVITATION TO RICHARD STEELE, + THE SECLUDED PARTY-WRITER AND MEMBER, + TO COME AND LIVE WITH HIM, IN THE MINT 1714 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fit to be bound up with "The Crisis" + + If thou canst lay aside a spendthrift's air, + And condescend to feed on homely fare, + Such as we minters, with ragouts unstored, + Will, in defiance of the law, afford: + Quit thy patrols with Toby's Christmas box,[1] + And come to me at The Two Fighting Cocks; + Since printing by subscription now is grown + The stalest, idlest cheat about the town; + And ev'n Charles Gildon, who, a Papist bred, + Has an alarm against that worship spread, + Is practising those beaten paths of cruising, + And for new levies on proposals musing. + 'Tis true, that Bloomsbury-squares a noble place: + But what are lofty buildings in thy case? + What's a fine house embellish'd to profusion, + Where shoulder dabbers are in execution? + Or whence its timorous tenant seldom sallies, + But apprehensive of insulting bailiffs? + This once be mindful of a friend's advice, + And cease to be improvidently nice; + Exchange the prospects that delude thy sight, + From Highgate's steep ascent and Hampstead's height, + With verdant scenes, that, from St. George's Field, + More durable and safe enjoyments yield. + Here I, even I, that ne'er till now could find + Ease to my troubled and suspicious mind, + But ever was with jealousies possess'd, + Am in a state of indolence and rest; + Fearful no more of Frenchmen in disguise, + Nor looking upon strangers as on spies,[2] + But quite divested of my former spleen, + Am unprovoked without, and calm within: + And here I'll wait thy coming, till the sun + Shall its diurnal course completely run. + Think not that thou of sturdy bub shalt fail, + My landlord's cellar stock'd with beer and ale, + With every sort of malt that is in use, + And every country's generous produce. + The ready (for here Christian faith is sick, + Which makes us seldom trespass upon tick) + Instantly brings the choicest liquors out, + Whether we ask for home-brew'd or for stout, + For mead or cider, or, with dainties fed, + Ring for a flask or two of white or red, + Such as the drawer will not fail to swear + Was drunk by Pilkington[3]when third time mayor. + That name, methinks, so popularly known + For opposition to the church and crown, + Might make the Lusitanian grape to pass, + And almost give a sanction to the glass; + Especially with thee, whose hasty zeal + Against the late rejected commerce bill + Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf, + To do the speaker honour, not thyself. + But if thou soar'st above the common prices, + By virtue of subscription to thy Crisis, + And nothing can go down with thee but wines + Press'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines, + Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French, + I love their liquors, as thou lovest a wench; + Else thou must humble thy expensive taste, + And, with us, hold contentment for a feast. + The fire's already lighted; and the maid + Has a clean cloth upon the table laid, + Who never on a Saturday had struck, + But for thy entertainment, up a buck. + Think of this act of grace, which by your leave + Susan would not have done on Easter Eve, + Had she not been inform'd over and over, + 'Twas for th'ingenious author of The Lover.[4] + Cease, therefore, to beguile thyself with hopes, + Which is no more than making sandy ropes, + And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause, + That must bewilder thee in faction's cause. + Pr'ythee what is't to thee who guides the state? + Why Dunkirk's demolition is so late? + Or why her majesty thinks fit to cease + The din of war, and hush the world to peace? + The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell + What texts to choose, and on what topics dwell; + And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach + Their flocks celestial happiness to reach. + Rather let such poor souls as you and I, + Say that the holidays are drawing nigh, + And that to-morrow's sun begins the week, + Which will abound with store of ale and cake, + With hams of bacon, and with powder'd beef, + Stuff d to give field-itinerants relief. + Then I, who have within these precincts kept, + And ne'er beyond the chimney-sweeper's stept, + Will take a loose, and venture to be seen, + Since 'twill be Sunday, upon Shanks's green; + There, with erected looks and phrase sublime, + To talk of unity of place and time, + And with much malice, mix'd with little satire, + Explode the wits on t'other side o' th' water. + Why has my Lord Godolphin's special grace + Invested me with a queen's waiter's place, + If I, debarr'd of festival delights, + Am not allow'd to spend the perquisites? + He's but a short remove from being mad, + Who at a time of jubilee is sad, + And, like a griping usurer, does spare + His money to be squander'd by his heir; + Flutter'd away in liveries and in coaches, + And washy sorts of feminine debauches. + As for my part, whate'er the world may think, + I'll bid adieu to gravity, and drink; + And, though I can't put off a woful mien, + Will be all mirth and cheerfulness within: + As, in despight of a censorious race, + I most incontinently suck my face. + What mighty projects does not he design, + Whose stomach flows, and brain turns round with wine? + Wine, powerful wine, can thaw the frozen cit, + And fashion him to humour and to wit; + Makes even Somers to disclose his art + By racking every secret from his heart, + As he flings off the statesman's sly disguise, + To name the cuckold's wife with whom he lies.[5] + Ev'n Sarum, when he quaffs itstead of tea, + Fancies himself in Canterbury's see, + And S****, when he carousing reels, + Imagines that he has regain'd the seals: + W****, by virtue of his juice, can fight, + And Stanhope of commissioners make light. + Wine gives Lord Wingham aptitude of parts, + And swells him with his family's deserts: + Whom can it not make eloquent of speech; + Whom in extremest poverty not rich? + Since, by the means of the prevailing grape, + Th***n can Lechmere's warmth not only ape, + But, half seas o'er, by its inspiring bounties, + Can qualify himself in several counties. + What I have promised, thou may'st rest assured + Shall faithfully and gladly be procured. + Nay, I'm already better than my word, + New plates and knives adorn the jovial board: + And, lest you at their sight shouldst make wry faces + The girl has scour'd the pots, and wash'd the glasses + Ta'en care so excellently well to clean 'em, + That thou may'st see thine own dear picture in 'em. + Moreover, due provision has been made, + That conversation may not be betray'd; + I have no company but what is proper + To sit with the most flagrant Whig at supper. + There's not a man among them but must please, + Since they're as like each other as are pease. + Toland and Hare have jointly sent me word + They'll come; and Kennet thinks to make a third, + Provided he's no other invitation + From men of greater quality and station. + Room will for Oldmixon and J—s be left: + But their discourses smell so much of theft, + There would be no abiding in the room, + Should two such ignorant pretenders come. + However, by this trusty bearer write, + If I should any other scabs invite; + Though, if I may my serious judgment give, + I'm wholly for King Charles's number five: + That was the stint in which that monarch fix'd, + Who would not be with noisiness perplex'd: + And that, if thou'lt agree to think it best, + Shall be our tale of heads, without one other guest. + I've nothing more, now this is said, to say, + But to request thou'lt instantly away, + And leave the duties of thy present post, + To some well-skill'd retainer in a host: + Doubtless he'll carefully thy place supply, + And o'er his grace's horses have an eye. + While thou, who slunk thro' postern more than once, + Dost by that means avoid a crowd of duns, + And, crossing o'er the Thames at Temple Stairs, + Leav'st Phillips with good words to cheat their ears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Allusion to a pamphlet written against Steele, under the + name of Toby (Edward King), Abel Roper's kinsman and shopman.] + + [Footnote 2: Dennis had a notion, that he was much dreaded by the French + for his writings, and actually fled from the coast, on hearing that some + unknown strangers had approached the town, where he was residing, never + doubting that they were the messengers of Gallic vengeance. At the time + of the peace of Utrecht, he was anxious for the introduction of a clause + for his special protection, and was hardly consoled by the Duke of + Marlborough's assurances, that he did not think such a precaution + necessary in his own case, although he had been almost as obnoxious to + France as Mr. Dennis.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Sir Thomas Pilkington, a leading member of the Skinners' + Company, and a staunch Whig. He was elected Lord Mayor for the third time + In 1690, and died in 1691.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: A comedy by Steele.] + + [Footnote 5: See the Examiner, "Prose Works," ix, 171 <i>n.</i>, for the + grounds of this charge.—<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> + IN SICKNESS, WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Soon after the author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's + death.[1]—<i>Swift</i>. + + 'Tis true—then why should I repine + To see my life so fast decline? + But why obscurely here alone, + Where I am neither loved nor known? + My state of health none care to learn; + My life is here no soul's concern: + And those with whom I now converse + Without a tear will tend my hearse. + Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid, + Who knows his art, but not his trade, + Preferring his regard for me + Before his credit, or his fee. + Some formal visits, looks, and words, + What mere humanity affords, + I meet perhaps from three or four, + From whom I once expected more; + Which those who tend the sick for pay, + Can act as decently as they: + But no obliging, tender friend, + To help at my approaching end. + My life is now a burthen grown + To others, ere it be my own. + Ye formal weepers for the sick, + In your last offices be quick; + And spare my absent friends the grief + To hear, yet give me no relief; + Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow, + When known, will save a double sorrow. + + [Footnote 1: Queen Anne died 1st August, 1714.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES[1], WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO + REPEAL THE TEST ACT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bitch, that was full pregnant grown + By all the dogs and curs in town, + Finding her ripen'd time was come, + Her litter teeming from her womb, + Went here, and there, and everywhere, + To find an easy place to lay her. + At length to Music's house[2] she came, + And begg'd like one both blind and lame; + "My only friend, my dear," said she, + "You see 'tis mere necessity + Hath sent me to your house to whelp: + I die if you refuse your help." + With fawning whine, and rueful tone, + With artful sigh, and feigned groan, + With couchant cringe, and flattering tale, + Smooth Bawty[3] did so far prevail, + That Music gave her leave to litter; + (But mark what follow'd—faith! she bit her;) + Whole baskets full of bits and scraps, + And broth enough to fill her paps; + For well she knew, her numerous brood, + For want of milk, would suck her blood. + But when she thought her pains were done, + And now 'twas high time to be gone, + In civil terms, "My friend," said she, + "My house you've had on courtesy; + And now I earnestly desire, + That you would with your cubs retire; + For, should you stay but one week longer, + I shall be starved with cold and hunger." + The guest replied—"My friend, your leave + I must a little longer crave; + Stay till my tender cubs can find + Their way—for now, you see, they're blind; + But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear, + We'll to our barn again repair." + The time pass'd on; and Music came + Her kennel once again to claim, + But Bawty, lost to shame and honour, + Set all her cubs at once upon her; + Made her retire, and quit her right, + And loudly cried—"A bite! bite!" +</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 MORAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thus did the Grecian wooden horse + Conceal a fatal armed force: + No sooner brought within the walls, + But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: <i>See post</i>, "A Tale of a Nettle."] + + [Footnote 2: The Church of England.] + + [Footnote 3: A Scotch name for bitch, alluding to the kirk.] +</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> + HORACE, BOOK III, ODE II, TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER. SENT + TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of + those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, + evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal + attachment.—<i>Scott.</i> See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit. + Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How blest is he who for his country dies, + Since death pursues the coward as he flies! + The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack; + With trembling knees, and Terror at his back; + Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, + Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind. + Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine; + But shall with unattainted honour shine; + Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, + Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. + Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try + Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; + Where Jove a seat among the gods will give + To those who die, for meriting to live. + Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; + Within our breast be every secret barr'd! + He who betrays his friend, shall never be + Under one roof, or in one ship, with me: + For who with traitors would his safety trust, + Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? + And though the villainscape a while, he feels + Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels. +</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> + ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, + The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. + In those we love not, we no danger see, + And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. + But we must silent be, amidst our fears, + And not believe our senses, but the Peers. + So ravishers, that know no sense of shame, + First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame. +</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> + A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + High Church is undone, + As sure as a gun, + For old Peter Patch is departed; + And Eyres and Delaune, + And the rest of that spawn, + Are tacking about broken-hearted. + + For strong Gill of Sarum, + That <i>decoctum amarum</i>, + Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail; + Which will make them resign + Their flasks of French wine, + And spice up their Nottingham ale. + + It purges the spleen + Of dislike to the queen, + And has one effect that is odder; + When easement they use, + They always will chuse + The Conformity Bill for bumfodder. +</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> + A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE + STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not asking or expecting aught, + One day I went to view the court, + Unbent and free from care or thought, + Though thither fears and hopes resort. + + A piece of tapestry took my eye, + The faded colours spoke it old; + But wrought with curious imagery, + The figures lively seem'd and bold. + + Here you might see the youth prevail, + (In vain are eloquence and wit,) + The boy persists, Apollo's frail; + Wisdom to nature does submit. + + There mounts the eager charioteer; + Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd; + Here Jove in anger doth appear, + There all, beneath, the flaming world. + + What does this idle fiction mean? + Is truth at court in such disgrace, + It may not on the walls be seen, + Nor e'en in picture show its face? + + No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale, + By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;[1] + It does important truths conceal, + And here was placed by wise design. + + A lesson deep with learning fraught, + Worthy the cabinet of kings; + Fit subject of their constant thought, + In matchless verse the poet sings. + + Well should he weigh, who does aspire + To empire, whether truly great, + His head, his heart, his hand, conspire + To make him equal to that seat. + + If only fond desire of sway, + By avarice or ambition fed, + Make him affect to guide the day, + Alas! what strange confusion's bred! + + If, either void of princely care, + Remiss he holds the slacken'd rein; + If rising heats or mad career, + Unskill'd, he knows not to restrain: + + Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose, + In wanton pride to show his skill, + How easily he can reduce + And curb the people's rage at will; + + In wild uproar they hurry on;— + The great, the good, the just, the wise, + (Law and religion overthrown,) + Are first mark'd out for sacrifice. + + When, to a height their fury grown, + Finding, too late, he can't retire, + He proves the real Phaethon, + And truly sets the world on fire. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "Metamorphoseon," lib. ii.] +</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 TALE OF A NETTLE[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A man with expense and infinite toil, + By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil; + There fruits of the best your taste did invite, + And uniform order still courted the sight. + No degenerate weeds the rich ground did produce, + But all things afforded both beauty and use: + Till from dunghill transplanted, while yet but a seed, + A nettle rear'd up his inglorious head. + The gard'ner would wisely have rooted him up, + To stop the increase of a barbarous crop; + But the master forbid him, and after the fashion + Of foolish good nature, and blind moderation, + Forbore him through pity, and chose as much rather, + To ask him some questions first, how he came thither. + Kind sir, quoth the nettle, a stranger I come, + For conscience compell'd to relinquish my home, + 'Cause I wouldn't subscribe to a mystery dark, + That the prince of all trees is the Jesuit's bark,[2] + An erroneous tenet I know, sir, that you, + No more than myself, will allow to be true. + To you, I for refuge and sanctuary sue, + There's none so renown'd for compassion as you; + And, though in some things I may differ from these, + The rest of your fruitful and beautiful trees; + Though your digging and dunging, my nature much harms, + And I cannot comply with your garden in forms: + Yet I and my family, after our fashion, + Will peaceably stick to our own education. + Be pleased to allow them a place for to rest 'em, + For the rest of your trees we will never molest 'em; + A kind shelter to us and protection afford, + We'll do you no harm, sir, I'll give you my word. + The good man was soon won by this plausible tale, + So fraud on good-nature doth often prevail. + He welcomes his guest, gives him free toleration + In the midst of his garden to take up his station, + And into his breast doth his enemy bring, + He little suspected the nettle could sting. + 'Till flush'd with success, and of strength to be fear'd, + Around him a numerous offspring he rear'd. + Then the master grew sensible what he had done, + And fain he would have his new guest to be gone; + But now 'twas too late to bid him turn out, + A well rooted possession already was got. + The old trees decay'd, and in their room grew + A stubborn, pestilent, poisonous crew. + The master, who first the young brood had admitted, + They stung like ingrates, and left him unpitied. + No help from manuring or planting was found, + The ill weeds had eat out the heart of the ground. + All weeds they let in, and none they refuse + That would join to oppose the good man of the house. + Thus one nettle uncropp'd, increased to such store, + That 'twas nothing but weeds what was garden before. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test Act, + and may be compared with the "Fable of the Bitches," <i>ante</i>, p.181.] + + [Footnote 2: In allusion to the supremacy of Rome.—<i>Scott</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> + A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His Grace! impossible! what, dead! + Of old age too, and in his bed! + And could that mighty warrior fall, + And so inglorious, after all? + Well, since he's gone, no matter how, + The last loud trump must wake him now; + And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger, + He'd wish to sleep a little longer. + And could he be indeed so old + As by the newspapers we're told? + Threescore, I think, is pretty high; + 'Twas time in conscience he should die! + This world he cumber'd long enough; + He burnt his candle to the snuff; + And that's the reason, some folks think, + He left behind so great a stink. + Behold his funeral appears, + Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears, + Wont at such times each heart to pierce, + Attend the progress of his hearse. + But what of that? his friends may say, + He had those honours in his day. + True to his profit and his pride, + He made them weep before he died. + Come hither, all ye empty things! + Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings! + Who float upon the tide of state; + Come hither, and behold your fate! + Let Pride be taught by this rebuke, + How very mean a thing's a duke; + From all his ill-got honours flung, + Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.[2] + + [Footnote 1: The Duke of Marlborough died on the 16th June, + 1722.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: See the "Fable of Midas," <i>ante</i>, p. 150; and The Examiner, + "Prose Works," ix, 95.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + POEMS CHIEFLY RELATING TO IRISH POLITICS + </h2> + <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> + PARODY ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,[1] PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE + TO THE PRINCE OF WALES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Illustrious prince, we're come before ye, + Who, more than in our founders, glory + To be by you protected; + Deign to descend and give us laws, + For we are converts to your cause, + From this day well-affected.[2] + + The noble view of your high merits + Has charm'd our thoughts and fix'd our spirits, + With zeal so warm and hearty; + That we resolved to be devoted, + At least until we be promoted, + By your just power and party. + + Urged by a passionate desire + Of being raised a little higher, + From lazy cloister'd life; + We cannot flatter you nor fawn, + But fain would honour'd be with lawn, + And settled by a wife.[3] + + For this we have before resorted, + Paid levees[4] punctually, and courted, + Our charge at home long quitting, + But now we're come just in the nick, + Upon a vacant[5] bishopric, + This bait can't fail of hitting. + + Thus, sir, you see how much affection, + Not interest, sways in this election, + But sense of loyal duty. + For you surpass all princes far, + As glow-worms do exceed a star, + In goodness, wit, and beauty. + + To you our Irish Commons owe + That wisdom which their actions show, + Their principles from ours springs, + Taught, ere the deel himself could dream on't, + That of their illustrious house a stem on't, + Should rise the best of kings. + + The glad presages with our eyes + Behold a king, chaste, vigilant, and wise, + In foreign fields victorious, + Who in his youth the Turks attacks, + And [made] them still to turn their backs; + Was ever king so glorious? + + Since Ormonds like a traitor gone, + We scorn to do what some have done, + For learning much more famous;[6] + Fools may pursue their adverse fate, + And stick to the unfortunate; + We laugh while they condemn us. + + For, being of that gen'rous mind, + To success we are still inclined, + And quit the suffering side, + If on our friends cross planets frown, + We join the cry, and hunt them down, + And sail with wind and tide. + + Hence 'twas this choice we long delay'd, + Till our rash foes the rebels fled, + Whilst fortune held the scale; + But [since] they're driven like mist before you, + Our rising sun, we now adore you, + Because you now prevail. + + Descend then from your lofty seat, + Behold th' attending Muses wait + With us to sing your praises; + Calliope now strings up her lyre, + And Clio[7] Phoebus does inspire, + The theme their fancy raises. + + If then our nursery you will nourish, + We and our Muses too will flourish, + Encouraged by your favour; + We'll doctrines teach the times to serve, + And more five thousand pounds deserve, + By future good behaviour. + + Now take our harp into your hand, + The joyful strings, at your command, + In doleful sounds no more shall mourn. + We, with sincerity of heart, + To all your tunes shall bear a part, + Unless we see the tables turn. + + If so, great sir, you will excuse us, + For we and our attending Muses + May live to change our strain; + And turn, with merry hearts, our tune, + Upon some happy tenth of June, + To "the king enjoys his own again." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Dr. Pratt's speech, which is here parodied, was made when + the Duke of Ormond, Swift's valued friend, was attainted, and superseded + in the office of chancellor of Trinity College, which he had held from + 1688-9, by the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II. + + There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift, + whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent. Of this it may be + worth while to mention a trifling instance. The duke had presented to + the cathedral of St. Patrick's a superb organ, surmounted by his own + armorial bearings. It was placed facing the nave of the church. But after + Ormond's attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick's, received orders from + government to remove the scutcheon from the church. He obeyed, but + he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie + buried, and where the arms still remain. The verses have suffered much + by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler. + + The original speech will be found in the London Gazette of Tuesday, + April 17, 1716, and Scott's edition of Swift, vol. xii, p. 352. The + Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr. Howard, and Mr. George + Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them fellows of Trinity + College, Dublin. The speech was praised by Addison, in the Freeholder, + No. 33.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The Rev. Dr. Pratt had been formerly of the Tory party; to + which circumstance the phrase, "from this day well-affected," + alludes.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The statutes of the university enjoin celibacy.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: The provost was a most constant attendant at the levees at + St. James's palace.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric + the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons, + was nominated, by letters-patent.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the + accession.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, + many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of + the transcriber.—<i>Scott.</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> + AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720-21 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the tune of "Packington's Pound." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes, + Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over, + With forty things more: now hear what the law says, + Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover. + Though a printer and Dean, + Seditiously mean, + Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean, + We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, + In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters. + + In England the dead in woollen are clad, + The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on; + To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad, + Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. + Our wives they grow sullen + At wearing of woollen, + And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in. + Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, + In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters. + + Whoever our trading with England would hinder, + To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire, + Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder, + And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire. + Therefore, I assure ye, + Our noble grand jury, + When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury; + They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters, + In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters. + + This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning, + And before <i>coram nobis</i> so oft has been call'd, + Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen, + And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly maul'd: + And as for the Dean, + You know whom I mean, + If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean. + Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, + In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This ballad alludes to the Dean's "Proposal for the use of + Irish Manufactures," for which the printer was prosecuted with great + violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of + court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict. See Swift's + Letter to Pope, Jan. 1721, and "Prose Works," vii, 13.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The bold encroachers on the deep + Gain by degrees huge tracts of land, + Till Neptune, with one general sweep, + Turns all again to barren strand. + + The multitude's capricious pranks + Are said to represent the seas, + Breaking the bankers and the banks, + Resume their own whene'er they please. + + Money, the life-blood of the nation, + Corrupts and stagnates in the veins, + Unless a proper circulation + Its motion and its heat maintains. + + Because 'tis lordly not to pay, + Quakers and aldermen in state, + Like peers, have levees every day + Of duns attending at their gate. + + We want our money on the nail; + The banker's ruin'd if he pays: + They seem to act an ancient tale; + The birds are met to strip the jays. + + "Riches," the wisest monarch sings, + "Make pinions for themselves to fly;"[2] + They fly like bats on parchment wings, + And geese their silver plumes supply. + + No money left for squandering heirs! + Bills turn the lenders into debtors: + The wish of Nero[3] now is theirs, + "That they had never known their letters." + + Conceive the works of midnight hags, + Tormenting fools behind their backs: + Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags, + Sit squeezing images of wax. + + Conceive the whole enchantment broke; + The witches left in open air, + With power no more than other folk, + Exposed with all their magic ware. + + So powerful are a banker's bills, + Where creditors demand their due; + They break up counters, doors, and tills, + And leave the empty chests in view. + + Thus when an earthquake lets in light + Upon the god of gold and hell, + Unable to endure the sight, + He hides within his darkest cell. + + As when a conjurer takes a lease + From Satan for a term of years, + The tenant's in a dismal case, + Whene'er the bloody bond appears. + + A baited banker thus desponds, + From his own hand foresees his fall, + They have his soul, who have his bonds; + 'Tis like the writing on the wall.[4] + + How will the caitiff wretch be scared, + When first he finds himself awake + At the last trumpet, unprepared, + And all his grand account to make! + + For in that universal call, + Few bankers will to heaven be mounters; + They'll cry, "Ye shops, upon us fall! + Conceal and cover us, ye counters!" + + When other hands the scales shall hold, + And they, in men's and angels' sight + Produced with all their bills and gold, + "Weigh'd in the balance and found light!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by + the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was + therefore thought fit to be reprinted.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>, 1734.] + + [Footnote 2: Solomon, Proverbs, ch. xxiii, v. 5.] + + [Footnote 3: Who, in his early days of empire, having to sign the + sentence of a condemned criminal, exclaimed: "Quam vellem nescire + litteras!" Suetonius, 10; and Seneca, "De Clementia,", cited by + Montaigne, "De l'inconstance de nos actions."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Daniel, ch. v, verses 25, 26, 27, 28.—<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> + UPON THE HORRID PLOT DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S + FRENCH DOG,[1] IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I ask'd a Whig the other night, + How came this wicked plot to light? + He answer'd, that a dog of late + Inform'd a minister of state. + Said I, from thence I nothing know; + For are not all informers so? + A villain who his friend betrays, + We style him by no other phrase; + And so a perjured dog denotes + Porter, and Pendergast, and Oates, + And forty others I could name. + WHIG. But you must know this dog was lame. + TORY. A weighty argument indeed! + Your evidence was lame:—proceed: + Come, help your lame dog o'er the stile. + WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this while: + I mean a dog (without a joke) + Can howl, and bark, but never spoke. + TORY. I'm still to seek, which dog you mean; + Whether cur Plunkett, or whelp Skean,[2] + An English or an Irish hound; + Or t'other puppy, that was drown'd; + Or Mason, that abandon'd bitch: + Then pray be free, and tell me which: + For every stander-by was marking, + That all the noise they made was barking. + You pay them well, the dogs have got + Their dogs-head in a porridge-pot: + And 'twas but just; for wise men say, + That every dog must have his day. + Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't, + He'd either make a hog or dog on't; + And look'd, since he has got his wish, + As if he had thrown down a dish, + Yet this I dare foretell you from it, + He'll soon return to his own vomit. + WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found + By Neynoe, after he was drown'd. + TORY. Why then the proverb is not right, + Since you can teach dead dogs to bite. + WHIG. I proved my proposition full: + But Jacobites are strangely dull. + Now, let me tell you plainly, sir, + Our witness is a real cur, + A dog of spirit for his years; + Has twice two legs, two hanging ears; + His name is Harlequin, I wot, + And that's a name in every plot: + Resolved to save the British nation, + Though French by birth and education; + His correspondence plainly dated, + Was all decipher'd and translated: + His answers were exceeding pretty, + Before the secret wise committee; + Confest as plain as he could bark: + Then with his fore-foot set his mark. + TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled, + I thought it was a dog in doublet: + The matter now no longer sticks: + For statesmen never want dog-tricks. + But since it was a real cur, + And not a dog in metaphor, + I give you joy of the report, + That he's to have a place at court. + WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in; + A turnspit in the royal kitchen. + Sir, to be plain, I tell you what, + We had occasion for a plot; + And when we found the dog begin it, + We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it. + TORY. I own it was a dangerous project, + And you have proved it by dog-logic. + Sure such intelligence between + A dog and bishop ne'er was seen, + Till you began to change the breed; + Your bishops are all dogs indeed! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In Atterbury's trial a good deal of stress was laid upon the + circumstance of a "spotted little dog" called Harlequin being mentioned + in the intercepted correspondence. The dog was sent in a present to the + bishop from Paris, and its leg was broken by the way. See "State Trials," + xvi, 320 and 376-7.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: John Kelly, and Skin, or Skinner, were persons engaged in + the plot. Neynoe, whose declaration was taken before the lords of + council, and used in evidence against the bishop, is "t'other puppy that + was drown'd," which was his fate in attempting to escape from the + messengers.] +</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> + A QUIBBLING ELEGY ON JUDGE BOAT, 1723 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note, + Since cruel fate has sunk our Justice Boat; + Why should he sink, where nothing seem'd to press + His lading little, and his ballast less? + Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world, + At length, his anchor fix'd and canvass furl'd, + To Lazy-hill[1] retiring from his court, + At his Ring's end[2] he founders in the port. + With water[3] fill'd, he could no longer float, + The common death of many a stronger boat. + A post so fill'd on nature's laws entrenches: + Benches on boats are placed, not boats on benches. + And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?) + Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot. + With every wind he sail'd, and well could tack: + Had many pendants, but abhorr'd a Jack.[4] + He's gone, although his friends began to hope, + That he might yet be lifted by a rope. + Behold the awful bench, on which he sat! + He was as hard and ponderous wood as that: + Yet when his sand was out, we find at last, + That death has overset him with a blast. + Our Boat is now sail'd to the Stygian ferry, + There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry; + Charon in him will ferry souls to Hell; + A trade our Boat[5] has practised here so well: + And Cerberus has ready in his paws + Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws. + Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain + We may place Boat in his old post again. + The way is thus: and well deserves your thanks: + Take the three strongest of his broken planks, + Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen, + Form'd like the triple tree near Stephen's Green:[6] + And, when we view it thus with thief at end on't, + We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the pendant. +</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 EPITAPH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin: + Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing. + A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder? + A wooden judge is no such wonder. + And in his robes you must agree, + No boat was better deckt than he. + 'Tis needless to describe him fuller; + In short, he was an able sculler.[7] + + [Footnote 1: A street in Dublin, leading to the harbour.] + + [Footnote 2: A village near the sea.] + + [Footnote 3: It was said he died of a dropsy.] + + [Footnote 4: A cant word for a Jacobite.] + + [Footnote 5: In condemning malefactors, as a judge.] + + [Footnote 6: Where the Dublin gallows stands.] + + [Footnote 7: Query, whether the author meant scholar, and wilfully + mistook?—<i>Dublin Edition.</i>] +</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> + VERSES OCCASIONED BY WHITSHED'S [1] MOTTO ON HIS COACH. 1724 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Libertas <i>et natale solum:</i> [2] + Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em. + Could nothing but thy chief reproach + Serve for a motto on thy coach? + But let me now the words translate: + <i>Natale solum</i>, my estate; + My dear estate, how well I love it, + My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it, + They swear I am so kind and good, + I hug them till I squeeze their blood. + <i>Libertas</i> bears a large import: + First, how to swagger in a court; + And, secondly, to show my fury + Against an uncomplying jury; + And, thirdly, 'tis a new invention, + To favour Wood, and keep my pension; + And, fourthly, 'tis to play an odd trick, + Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;[3] + And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,) + To humble that vexatious Dean: + And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it + For fifty times its worth to Carteret.[4] + Now since your motto thus you construe, + I must confess you've spoken once true. + <i>Libertas et natale solum:</i> + You had good reason when you stole 'em. + + [Footnote 1: That noted chief-justice who twice prosecuted the Drapier, + and dissolved the grand jury for not finding the bill against him.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: This motto is repeatedly mentioned in the Drapier's + Letters.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Allan Broderick, Lord Middleton, was then lord-chancellor of + Ireland. See the Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vi, 135.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.] +</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> + PROMETHEUS[1] ON WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH HALFPENCE[2], 1724 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When first the squire and tinker Wood + Gravely consulting Ireland's good, + Together mingled in a mass + Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass; + The mixture thus by chemic art + United close in ev'ry part, + In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces, + Appear'd like one continued species; + And, by the forming engine struck, + On all the same impression took. + So, to confound this hated coin, + All parties and religions join; + Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians, + Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians, + Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite, + With equal interest, equal spite + Together mingled in a lump, + Do all in one opinion jump; + And ev'ry one begins to find + The same impression on his mind. + A strange event! whom gold incites + To blood and quarrels, brass unites; + So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff + Will serve for solder well enough: + So by the kettle's loud alarms + The bees are gather'd into swarms, + So by the brazen trumpet's bluster + Troops of all tongues and nations muster; + And so the harp of Ireland brings + Whole crowds about its brazen strings. + There is a chain let down from Jove, + But fasten'd to his throne above, + So strong that from the lower end, + They say all human things depend. + This chain, as ancient poets hold, + When Jove was young, was made of gold, + Prometheus once this chain purloin'd, + Dissolved, and into money coin'd; + Then whips me on a chain of brass; + (Venus[3] was bribed to let it pass.) + Now while this brazen chain prevail'd, + Jove saw that all devotion fail'd; + No temple to his godship raised; + No sacrifice on altars blazed; + In short, such dire confusion follow'd, + Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd. + Jove stood amazed; but looking round, + With much ado the cheat he found; + 'Twas plain he could no longer hold + The world in any chain but gold; + And to the god of wealth, his brother, + Sent Mercury to get another. + Prometheus on a rock is laid, + Tied with the chain himself had made, + On icy Caucasus to shiver, + While vultures eat his growing liver. + + Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me able + Discreetly to apply this fable; + Say, who is to be understood + By that old thief Prometheus?—Wood. + For Jove, it is not hard to guess him; + I mean his majesty, God bless him. + This thief and blacksmith was so bold, + He strove to steal that chain of gold, + Which links the subject to the king, + And change it for a brazen string. + But sure, if nothing else must pass + Betwixt the king and us but brass, + Although the chain will never crack, + Yet our devotion may grow slack. + But Jove will soon convert, I hope, + This brazen chain into a rope; + With which Prometheus shall be tied, + And high in air for ever ride; + Where, if we find his liver grows, + For want of vultures, we have crows. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Corrected from Swift's own MS. notes.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: To understand this and the following poems on Wood and his + halfpence, they must be read in connexion with The Drapier's Letters, + "Prose Works," vol. vi.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Duchess of Kendal.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</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> + VERSES ON THE REVIVAL OF THE ORDER OF THE BATH,[1] DURING WALPOLE'S + ADMINISTRATION, A. D. 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too few + Of St. Andrew's the green, and St. George's the blue. + I must find out another of colour more gay, + That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey. + Though the exchequer be drain'd by prodigal donors, + Yet the king ne'er exhausted his fountain of honours. + Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit, + And this will fit men of more money than wit. + Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands, + Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as Sandes + And he who'll leap over a stick for the king, + Is qualified best for a dog in a string. + + [Footnote 1: See Gulliver's Travels, "Prose Works," ii, 40. Also my "Wit + and Wisdom of Lord Chesterfield" and "Life of Lord Chesterfield" + for a ballad on the order.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + EPIGRAM ON WOOD'S BRASS MONEY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Carteret was welcomed to the shore + First with the brazen cannon's roar; + To meet him next the soldier comes, + With brazen trumps and brazen drums; + Approaching near the town he hears + The brazen bells salute his ears: + But when Wood's brass began to sound, + Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd. +</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> + A SIMILE ON OUR WANT OF SILVER, AND THE ONLY WAY TO REMEDY IT. 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As when of old some sorceress threw + O'er the moon's face a sable hue, + To drive unseen her magic chair, + At midnight, through the darken'd air; + Wise people, who believed with reason + That this eclipse was out of season, + Affirm'd the moon was sick, and fell + To cure her by a counter spell. + Ten thousand cymbals now begin, + To rend the skies with brazen din; + The cymbals' rattling sounds dispel + The cloud, and drive the hag to hell. + The moon, deliver'd from her pain, + Displays her silver face again. + Note here, that in the chemic style, + The moon is silver all this while. + So (if my simile you minded, + Which I confess is too long-winded) + When late a feminine magician,[1] + Join'd with a brazen politician,[2] + Exposed, to blind the nation's eyes, + A parchment[3] of prodigious size; + Conceal'd behind that ample screen, + There was no silver to be seen. + But to this parchment let the Drapier + Oppose his counter-charm of paper, + And ring Wood's copper in our ears + So loud till all the nation hears; + That sound will make the parchment shrivel + And drive the conjurors to the Devil; + And when the sky is grown serene, + Our silver will appear again. + + [Footnote 1: The Duchess of Kendal, who was to have a share of Wood's + profits.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, nicknamed Sir Robert Brass, vol. i, p. + 219.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The patent for coining halfpence.] +</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> + WOOD AN INSECT. 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By long observation I have understood, + That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood. + The first is an insect they call a wood-louse, + That folds up itself in itself for a house, + As round as a ball, without head, without tail, + Enclosed <i>cap ` pie</i>, in a strong coat of mail. + And thus William Wood to my fancy appears + In fillets of brass roll'd up to his ears; + And over these fillets he wisely has thrown, + To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone.[1] + The louse of the wood for a medicine is used + Or swallow'd alive, or skilfully bruised. + And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive + To swallow Will Wood, either bruised or alive, + She need be no more with the jaundice possest, + Or sick of obstructions, and pains in her chest. + The next is an insect we call a wood-worm, + That lies in old wood like a hare in her form; + With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch, + And chambermaids christen this worm a death-watch; + Because like a watch it always cries click; + Then woe be to those in the house who are sick: + For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost, + If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post; + But a kettle of scalding hot-water injected + Infallibly cures the timber affected; + The omen is broken, the danger is over; + The maggot will die, and the sick will recover. + Such a worm was Will Wood, when he scratch'd at the door + Of a governing statesman or favourite whore; + The death of our nation he seem'd to foretell, + And the sound of his brass we took for our knell. + But now, since the Drapier has heartily maul'd him, + I think the best thing we can do is to scald him; + For which operation there's nothing more proper + Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted copper; + Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil + This coiner of raps[2] in a caldron of oil. + Then choose which you please, and let each bring a fagot, + For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot. + + [Footnote 1: He was in jail for debt.] + + [Footnote 2: Counterfeit halfpence.] +</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> + ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Salmoneus,[1] as the Grecian tale is, + Was a mad coppersmith of Elis: + Up at his forge by morning peep, + No creature in the lane could sleep; + Among a crew of roystering fellows + Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse; + His wife and children wanted bread, + While he went always drunk to bed. + This vapouring scab must needs devise + To ape the thunder of the skies: + With brass two fiery steeds he shod, + To make a clattering as they trod, + Of polish'd brass his flaming car + Like lightning dazzled from afar; + And up he mounts into the box, + And he must thunder, with a pox. + Then furious he begins his march, + Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch; + With squibs and crackers arm'd to throw + Among the trembling crowd below. + All ran to prayers, both priests and laity, + To pacify this angry deity; + When Jove, in pity to the town, + With real thunder knock'd him down. + Then what a huge delight were all in, + To see the wicked varlet sprawling; + They search'd his pockets on the place, + And found his copper all was base; + They laugh'd at such an Irish blunder, + To take the noise of brass for thunder. + The moral of this tale is proper, + Applied to Wood's adulterate copper: + Which, as he scatter'd, we, like dolts, + Mistook at first for thunderbolts, + Before the Drapier shot a letter, + (Nor Jove himself could do it better) + Which lighting on the impostor's crown, + Like real thunder knock'd him down. + + [Footnote 1: Who imitated lightning with burning torches and was hurled + into Tartarus by a thunderbolt from Jupiter.—Hyginus, "Fab." + "Vidi et crudelis dantem Salmonea poenas + Dum flammas louis et sonitus imitatur Olympi." + + VIRG., <i>Aen</i>., vi, 585. + And see the Excursus of Heyne on the passage.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + WILL WOOD'S PETITION TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND, BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW + SONG, + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SUPPOSED TO BE MADE, AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN, + BY WILLIAM WOOD, IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNY-MONGER. 1725 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My dear Irish folks, + Come leave off your jokes, + And buy up my halfpence so fine; + So fair and so bright + They'll give you delight; + Observe how they glisten and shine! + + They'll sell to my grief + As cheap as neck-beef, + For counters at cards to your wife; + And every day + Your children may play + Span-farthing or toss on the knife. + + Come hither and try, + I'll teach you to buy + A pot of good ale for a farthing; + Come, threepence a score, + I ask you no more, + And a fig for the Drapier and Harding.[1] + + When tradesmen have gold, + The thief will be bold, + By day and by night for to rob him: + My copper is such, + No robber will touch, + And so you may daintily bob him. + + The little blackguard + Who gets very hard + His halfpence for cleaning your shoes: + When his pockets are cramm'd + With mine, and be d—d, + He may swear he has nothing to lose. + + Here's halfpence in plenty, + For one you'll have twenty, + Though thousands are not worth a pudden. + Your neighbours will think, + When your pocket cries chink. + You are grown plaguy rich on a sudden. + + You will be my thankers, + I'll make you my bankers, + As good as Ben Burton or Fade;[2] + For nothing shall pass + But my pretty brass, + And then you'll be all of a trade. + + I'm a son of a whore + If I have a word more + To say in this wretched condition. + If my coin will not pass, + I must die like an ass; + And so I conclude my petition. + + [Footnote 1: The Drapier's printer.] + + [Footnote 2: Two famous bankers.] +</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> + A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye people of Ireland, both country and city, + Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty: + At this time I'll choose to be wiser than witty. + Which nobody can deny. + + The halfpence are coming, the nation's undoing, + There's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and brewing; + In short, you must all go to wreck and to ruin. + Which, &c. + + Both high men and low men, and thick men and tall men, + And rich men and poor men, and free men and thrall men, + Will suffer; and this man, and that man, and all men. + Which, &c. + + The soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay; + His fivepence will prove but a farthing a-day, + For meat, or for drink; or he must run away. + Which, &c. + + When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not, + That ten times as much he must pay for his shot; + And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot. + Which, &c. + + If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff, + And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf, + Then dog, rogue, and rascal, and so kick and cuff. + Which, &c. + + Again, to the market whenever he goes, + The butcher and soldier must be mortal foes, + One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose. + Which, &c. + + The butcher is stout, and he values no swagger; + A cleaver's a match any time for a dagger, + And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger. + Which, &c. + + The beggars themselves will be broke in a trice, + When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price; + When nothing is left they must live on their lice. + Which, &c. + + The squire who has got him twelve thousand a-year, + O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear! + Should he take them, he would not have house-room, I fear. + Which, &c. + + Though at present he lives in a very large house, + There would then not be room in it left for a mouse; + But the squire is too wise, he will not take a souse. + Which, &c. + + The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash, + For taking these counters and being so rash, + Will be kick'd out of doors, both himself and his trash. + Which, &c. + + For, in all the leases that ever we hold, + We must pay our rent in good silver and gold, + And not in brass tokens of such a base mould. + Which, &c. + + The wisest of lawyers all swear, they will warrant + No money but silver and gold can be current; + And, since they will swear it, we all may be sure on't. + Which, &c. + + And I think, after all, it would be very strange, + To give current money for base in exchange, + Like a fine lady swapping her moles for the mange. + Which, &c. + + But read the king's patent, and there you will find, + That no man need take them, but who has a mind, + For which we must say that his Majesty's kind. + Which, &c. + + Now God bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes! + I'm sure, by his book, that the writer is wise: + He shows us the cheat, from the end to the rise. + Which, &c. + + Nay, farther, he shows it a very hard case, + That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race, + Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place. + Which, &c. + + That he and his halfpence should come to weigh down + Our subjects so loyal and true to the crown: + But I hope, after all, that they will be his own. + Which, &c. + + This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods, + And a very good book 'tis against Mr. Wood's, + If you stand true together, he's left in the suds. + Which, &c. + + Ye shopmen, and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it, + For I think in my soul at this time that you need it; + Or, egad, if you don't, there's an end of your credit. + Which nobody can deny. +</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> + A SERIOUS POEM UPON WILLIAM WOOD, BRAZIER, TINKER, HARD-WAREMAN, COINER, + FOUNDER, AND ESQUIRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from slaughter, + To be hewers of wood, and drawers of water. + Now, although to draw water is not very good, + Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood. + I own it has often provoked me to mutter, + That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter; + But ancient philosophers wisely remark, + That old rotten wood will shine in the dark. + The Heathens, we read, had gods made of wood, + Who could do them no harm, if they did them no good; + But this idol Wood may do us great evil, + Their gods were of wood, but our Wood is the devil. + To cut down fine wood is a very bad thing; + And yet we all know much gold it will bring: + Then, if cutting down wood brings money good store + Our money to keep, let us cut down one more. + Now hear an old tale. There anciently stood + (I forget in what church) an image of wood; + Concerning this image, there went a prediction, + It would burn a whole forest; nor was it a fiction. + 'Twas cut into fagots and put to the flame, + To burn an old friar, one Forest by name, + My tale is a wise one, if well understood: + Find you but the Friar; and I'll find the Wood. + I hear, among scholars there is a great doubt, + From what kind of tree this Wood was hewn out, + Teague made a good pun by a brogue in his speech: + And said, "By my shoul, he's the son of a BEECH." + Some call him a thorn, the curse of the nation, + As thorns were design'd to be from the creation. + Some think him cut out from the poisonous yew, + Beneath whose ill shade no plant ever grew. + Some say hes a birch, a thought very odd; + For none but a dunce would come under his rod. + But I'll tell the secret; and pray do not blab: + He is an old stump, cut out of a crab; + And England has put this crab to a hard use, + To cudgel our bones, and for drink give us ver-juice; + And therefore his witnesses justly may boast, + That none are more properly knights of the post, + But here Mr. Wood complains that we mock, + Though he may be a blockhead, he's no real block. + He can eat, drink, and sleep; now and then for a friend + He'll not be too proud an old kettle to mend; + He can lie like a courtier, and think it no scorn, + When golds to be got, to forswear and suborn. + He can rap his own raps[1] and has the true sapience, + To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence. + Then in spite of your sophistry, honest Will Wood + Is a man of this world, all true flesh and blood; + So you are but in jest, and you will not, I hope, + Unman the poor knave for the sake of a trope. + 'Tis a metaphor known to every plain thinker, + Just as when we say, the devil's a tinker, + Which cannot, in literal sense be made good, + Unless by the devil we mean Mr. Wood. + But some will object that the devil oft spoke, + In heathenish times, from the trunk of an oak; + And since we must grant there never were known + More heathenish times, than those of our own; + Perhaps you will say, 'tis the devil that puts + The words in Wood's mouth, or speaks from his guts: + And then your old arguments still will return; + Howe'er, let us try him, and see how he'll burn: + You'll pardon me, sir, your cunning I smoke, + But Wood, I assure you, is no heart of oak; + And, instead of the devil, this son of perdition + Hath join'd with himself two hags in commission. + I ne'er could endure my talent to smother: + I told you one tale, and I'll tell you another. + A joiner to fasten a saint in a niche, + Bored a large auger-hole in the image's breech; + But, finding the statue to make no complaint, + He would ne'er be convinced it was a true saint. + When the true Wood arrives, as he soon will, no doubt, + (For that's but a sham Wood they carry about;[2]) + What stuff he is made of you quickly may find + If you make the same trial and bore him behind. + I'll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum, + He'll bellow as loud as the de'il in a drum. + From me, I declare you shall have no denial; + And there can be no harm in making a trial: + And when to the joy of your hearts he has roar'd, + You may show him about for a new groaning board. + Now ask me a question. How came it to pass + Wood got so much copper? He got it by brass; + This brass was a dragon, (observe what I tell ye,) + This dragon had gotten two sows in his belly; + I know you will say this is all heathen Greek. + I own it, and therefore I leave you to seek. + I often have seen two plays very good, + Call'd Love in a Tub, and Love in a Wood; + These comedies twain friend Wood will contrive + On the scene of this land very soon to revive. + First, Love in a Tub: Squire Wood has in store + Strong tubs for his raps, two thousand and more; + These raps he will honestly dig out with shovels, + And sell them for gold, or he can't show his love else. + Wood swears he will do it for Ireland's good, + Then can you deny it is Love in a Wood? + However, if critics find fault with the phrase, + I hope you will own it is Love in a Maze: + For when to express a friend's love you are willing, + We never say more than your love is a million; + But with honest Wood's love there is no contending, + 'Tis fifty round millions of love and a mending. + Then in his first love why should he be crost? + I hope he will find that no love is lost. + Hear one story more, and then I will stop. + I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop: + So methought he resolved no liquor to taste, + For fear the first drop might as well be his last. + But dreams are like oracles; 'tis hard to explain 'em; + For it proved that he died of a drop at Kilmainham.[3] + I waked with delight; and not without hope, + Very soon to see Wood drop down from a rope. + How he, and how we at each other should grin! + 'Tis kindness to hold a friend up by the chin. + But soft! says the herald, I cannot agree; + For metal on metal is false heraldry. + Why that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood, + I'll maintain with my life, is heraldry good. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Forge his own bad halfpence.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: He was burnt in effigy.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: The place of execution near Dublin.—<i>Scott</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> + AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS + OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the tune of "London is a fine town," &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Dublin is a fine town + And a gallant city, + For Wood's trash is tumbled down, + Come listen to my ditty, + O Dublin is a fine town, &c. + + In full assembly all did meet + Of every corporation, + From every lane and every street, + To save the sinking nation. + O Dublin, &c. + + The bankers would not let it pass + For to be Wood's tellers, + Instead of gold to count his brass, + And fill their small-beer cellars. + O Dublin, &c. + + And next to them, to take his coin + The Gild would not submit, + They all did go, and all did join, + And so their names they writ. + O Dublin, &c. + + The brewers met within their hall, + And spoke in lofty strains, + These halfpence shall not pass at all, + They want so many grains. + O Dublin, &c. + + The tailors came upon this pinch, + And wish'd the dog in hell, + Should we give this same Wood an inch, + We know he'd take an ell. + O Dublin, &c. + + But now the noble clothiers + Of honour and renown, + If they take Wood's halfpence + They will be all cast down. + O Dublin, &c. + + The shoemakers came on the next, + And said they would much rather, + Than be by Wood's copper vext, + Take money stampt on leather. + O Dublin, &c. + + The chandlers next in order came, + And what they said was right, + They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme + Would soon be brought to light. + O Dublin, &c. + + And that if Wood were now withstood, + To his eternal scandal, + That twenty of these halfpence should + Not buy a farthing candle. + O Dublin, &c. + + The butchers then, those men so brave, + Spoke thus, and with a frown; + Should Wood, that cunning scoundrel knave, + Come here, we'd knock him down. + O Dublin, &c. + + For any rogue that comes to truck + And trick away our trade, + Deserves not only to be stuck, + But also to be flay'd. + O Dublin, &c. + + The bakers in a ferment were, + And wisely shook their head; + Should these brass tokens once come here + We'd all have lost our bread. + O Dublin, &c. + + It set the very tinkers mad, + The baseness of the metal, + Because, they said, it was so bad + It would not mend a kettle. + O Dublin, &c. + + The carpenters and joiners stood + Confounded in a maze, + They seem'd to be all in a wood, + And so they went their ways. + O Dublin, &c. + + This coin how well could we employ it + In raising of a statue, + To those brave men that would destroy it, + And then, old Wood, have at you. + O Dublin, &c. + + God prosper long our tradesmen then, + And so he will I hope, + May they be still such honest men, + When Wood has got a rope. + O Dublin is a fine town, &c. +</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> + VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE, WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER'S PRINTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The church I hate, and have good reason, + For there my grandsire cut his weasand: + He cut his weasand at the altar; + I keep my gullet for the halter. +</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 THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In church your grandsire cut his throat; + To do the job too long he tarried: + He should have had my hearty vote + To cut his throat before he married. +</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> + ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE JUDGE SPEAKS + + I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin;[1] + Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin. + My grandame had gallants by twenties, + And bore my mother by a 'prentice. + This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he + In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy. + And, since the alderman was mad you say, + Then I must be so too, <i>ex traduce</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Alderman Quin, the judge's maternal grandfather, who cut his + throat in church.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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 IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN'S VERSES ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS [1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What though the Dean hears not the knell + Of the next church's passing bell; + What though the thunder from a cloud, + Or that from female tongue more loud, + Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear, + Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear. + + [Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 284.] +</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> + HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XIV PARAPHRASED AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE INSCRIPTION + + Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, + Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; + Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand; + Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land! + Although the metaphor be worn and stale, + Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail; + Let me suppose thee for a ship a while, + And thus address thee in the sailor style. + + Unhappy ship, thou art return'd in vain; + New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.[1] + Look to thyself, and be no more the sport + Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port. + Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide, + Like faithful counsellors, on either side. + Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood, + The single pillar for his country's good, + To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind, + Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind; + Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel + The waves impetuous enter at your keel; + Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke, + When the strong cords of union once are broke. + Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail, + Expanded to invite a milder gale. + As when some writer in a public cause + His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws, + While all is calm, his arguments prevail; + The people's voice expands his paper sail; + Till power, discharging all her stormy bags, + Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags, + The nation scared, the author doom'd to death, + Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath. + A larger sacrifice in vain you vow; + There's not a power above will help you now; + A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects, + In vain from injured Heaven relief expects. + 'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke + That thy descent is from the British oak; + Or, when your name and family you boast, + From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast. + Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine, + Her sons descended from the British line; + Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains + On French records for twenty long campaigns; + Yet, from an empress now a captive grown, + She saved Britannia's rights, and lost her own. + In ships decay'd no mariner confides, + Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides: + Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight + In the gay trappings of a birth-day night: + They on the gold brocades and satins raved, + And quite forgot their country was enslaved. + Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just, + Nor change thy course with every sudden gust; + Like supple patriots of the modern sort, + Who turn with every gale that blows from court. + Weary and sea-sick, when in thee confined, + Now for thy safety cares distract my mind; + As those who long have stood the storms of state + Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate. + Beware, and when you hear the surges roar, + Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore. + They lie, alas! too easy to be found; + For thee alone they lie the island round. + + [Footnote 1: + "O navis, referent in mare te novi + Fluctus! O quid agis?"] +</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> + VERSES ON THE SUDDEN DRYING UP OF ST. PATRICK'S WELL NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, + DUBLIN. 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame, + To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came; + What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun, + Had my own native Italy[1] o'errun. + Ierne, to the world's remotest parts, + Renown'd for valour, policy, and arts. + Hither from Colchos,[2] with the fleecy ore, + Jason arrived two thousand years before. + Thee, happy island, Pallas call'd her own, + When haughty Britain was a land unknown:[3] + From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace[4] + The glorious founder of their kingly race: + Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise, + Did once their land subdue and civilize; + Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name, + Confess the soil from whence the victors came. + Well may they boast that ancient blood which runs + Within their veins, who are thy younger sons. + A conquest and a colony from thee, + The mother-kingdom left her children free; + From thee no mark of slavery they felt: + Not so with thee thy base invaders dealt; + Invited here to vengeful Morrough's aid,[5] + Those whom they could not conquer they betray'd. + Britain, by thee we fell, ungrateful isle! + Not by thy valour, but superior guile: + Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine + First taught thee human knowledge and divine; + My prelates and my students, sent from hence, + Made your sons converts both to God and sense: + Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed, + Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed. + Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see + The fatal changes time has made in thee! + The Christian rites I introduced in vain: + Lo! infidelity return'd again! + Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found, + Who now in vice and slavery are drown'd. + By faith and prayer, this crosier in my hand, + I drove the venom'd serpent from thy land: + The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing,[6] + Nor dread the adder's tooth, nor scorpion's sting. + With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains, + Omens, the types of thy impending chains. + I sent the magpie from the British soil, + With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil; + To din thine ears with unharmonious clack, + And haunt thy holy walls in white and black. + What else are those thou seest in bishop's gear, + Who crop the nurseries of learning here; + Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate, + Devour the church, and chatter to the state? + As you grew more degenerate and base, + I sent you millions of the croaking race; + Emblems of insects vile, who spread their spawn + Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn; + A nauseous brood, that fills your senate walls, + And in the chambers of your viceroy crawls! + See, where that new devouring vermin runs, + Sent in my anger from the land of Huns! + With harpy-claws it undermines the ground, + And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round. + Th' amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band, + Drains all thy lakes of fish, of fruits thy land. + Where is the holy well that bore my name? + Fled to the fountain back, from whence it came! + Fair Freedom's emblem once, which smoothly flows, + And blessings equally on all bestows. + Here, from the neighbouring nursery of arts,[7] + The students, drinking, raised their wit and parts; + Here, for an age and more, improved their vein, + Their Phoebus I, my spring their Hippocrene. + Discouraged youths! now all their hopes must fail, + Condemn'd to country cottages and ale; + To foreign prelates make a slavish court, + And by their sweat procure a mean support; + Or, for the classics, read "The Attorney's Guide;" + Collect excise, or wait upon the tide. + Oh! had I been apostle to the Swiss, + Or hardy Scot, or any land but this; + Combined in arms, they had their foes defied, + And kept their liberty, or bravely died; + Thou still with tyrants in succession curst, + The last invaders trampling on the first; + Nor fondly hope for some reverse of fate, + Virtue herself would now return too late. + Not half thy course of misery is run, + Thy greatest evils yet are scarce begun. + Soon shall thy sons (the time is just at hand) + Be all made captives in their native land; + When for the use of no Hibernian born, + Shall rise one blade of grass, one ear of corn; + When shells and leather shall for money pass, + Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass,[8] + But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed,[9] + Who, from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed; + Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear, + And waste in luxury thy harvest there; + For pride and ignorance a proverb grown, + The jest of wits, and to the court unknown. + I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line, + And from this hour my patronage resign. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Italy was not properly the native place of St. Patrick, but + the place of his education, and whence he received his mission; and + because he had his new birth there, by poetical license, and by scripture + figure, our author calls that country his native Italy.—<i>Dublin + Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Orpheus, or the ancient author of the Greek poem on the + Argonautic expedition, whoever he be, says, that Jason, who manned the + ship Argos at Thessaly, sailed to Ireland. And Adrianus Junius says the + same thing, in these lines: + "Ilia ego sum Graiis, olim glacialis Ierne + Dicta, et Jasoniae puppis bene cognita nautis."—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Tacitus, comparing Ireland to Britain, says of the former: + "Melius aditus portusque per commercia et negotiatores + cogniti."—<i>Agricola,</i> xxiv.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Fordun, in his Scoti-Chronicon, Hector Boethius, Buchanan, + and all the Scottish historians, agree that Fergus, son of Ferquard, King + of Ireland, was the first King of Scotland, which country he + subdued.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: In the reign of Henry II, 1172, Dermot Macmorrogh, King of + Leinster, having been expelled from his kingdom by Roderick, King of + Connaught, sought and obtained the assistance of the English for the + recovery of his dominions. See Hume's "History of England," vol. i, + p. 380.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: There are no snakes, vipers, or toads in Ireland; and even + frogs were not known here till about the year 1700. The magpies came a + short time before; and the Norway rats since.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>. These + plagues are all alluded to in this and the subsequent stanzas.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: The University of Dublin, called Trinity College, was + founded by Queen Elizabeth in 1591.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: Wood's ruinous project against the people of Ireland was + supported by Sir Robert Walpole in 1724.—<i>Dublin Edition</i>.] + + [Footnote 9: The absentees, who spent the income of their Irish estates, + places, and pensions, in England.—<i>Dublin Edition</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> + ON READING DR. YOUNG'S SATIRE, CALLED THE UNIVERSAL PASSION, 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If there be truth in what you sing, + Such godlike virtues in the king; + A minister[1] so fill'd with zeal + And wisdom for the commonweal; + If he[2] who in the chair presides, + So steadily the senate guides; + If others, whom you make your theme, + Are seconds in the glorious scheme; + If every peer whom you commend, + To worth and learning be a friend; + If this be truth, as you attest, + What land was ever half so blest! + No falsehood now among the great, + And tradesmen now no longer cheat: + Now on the bench fair Justice shines; + Her scale to neither side inclines: + Now Pride and Cruelty are flown, + And Mercy here exalts her throne; + For such is good example's power, + It does its office every hour, + Where governors are good and wise; + Or else the truest maxim lies: + For so we find all ancient sages + Decree, that, <i>ad exemplum regis</i>, + Through all the realm his virtues run, + Ripening and kindling like the sun. + If this be true, then how much more + When you have named at least a score + Of courtiers, each in their degree, + If possible, as good as he? + Or take it in a different view. + I ask (if what you say be true) + If you affirm the present age + Deserves your satire's keenest rage; + If that same universal passion + With every vice has fill'd the nation: + If virtue dares not venture down + A single step beneath the crown: + If clergymen, to show their wit, + Praise classics more than holy writ: + If bankrupts, when they are undone, + Into the senate-house can run, + And sell their votes at such a rate, + As will retrieve a lost estate: + If law be such a partial whore, + To spare the rich, and plague the poor: + If these be of all crimes the worst, + What land was ever half so curst? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford. Young's + seventh satire is inscribed to him.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Spencer Compton, then Speaker, afterwards Earl of + Wilmington, to whom the eighth satire is dedicated. See vol. i, + 219.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + THE DOG AND THIEF. 1726 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Quoth the thief to the dog, let me into your door + And I'll give you these delicate bits. + Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you're, + And besides must be out of my wits. + + Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal, + But my master each day gives me bread; + You'll fly, when you get what you came here to steal, + And I must be hang'd in your stead. + + The stockjobber thus from 'Change Alley goes down, + And tips you the freeman a wink; + Let me have but your vote to serve for the town, + And here is a guinea to drink. + + Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent! + Your offers of bribery cease: + I'll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent, + Or else I may forfeit my lease. + + From London they come, silly people to chouse, + Their lands and their faces unknown: + Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament-house, + That would turn a man out of his own? +</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> + A DIALOGUE[1] BETWEEN MAD MULLINIX AND TIMOTHY, 1728 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>M</i>. + I own, 'tis not my bread and butter, + But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter? + Why ever in these raging fits, + Damning to hell the Jacobites? + When if you search the kingdom round, + There's hardly twenty to be found; + No, not among the priests and friars—— + <i>T</i>. 'Twixt you and me, G—d d—n the liars! + <i>M</i>. The Tories are gone every man over + To our illustrious house of Hanover; + From all their conduct this is plain; + And then—— + <i>T</i>. G—d d—n the liars again! + Did not an earl but lately vote, + To bring in (I could cut his throat) + Our whole accounts of public debts? + <i>M</i>. Lord, how this frothy coxcomb frets! [<i>Aside.</i> + <i>T</i>. Did not an able statesman bishop + This dangerous horrid motion dish up + As Popish craft? did he not rail on't? + Show fire and fagot in the tail on't? + Proving the earl a grand offender; + And in a plot for the Pretender; + Whose fleet, 'tis all our friends' opinion, + Was then embarking at Avignon? + <i>M</i>. These wrangling jars of Whig and Tory, + Are stale and worn as Troy-town story: + The wrong, 'tis certain, you were both in, + And now you find you fought for nothing. + Your faction, when their game was new, + Might want such noisy fools as you; + But you, when all the show is past, + Resolve to stand it out the last; + Like Martin Marall,[2] gaping on, + Not minding when the song is done. + When all the bees are gone to settle, + You clatter still your brazen kettle. + The leaders whom you listed under, + Have dropt their arms, and seized the plunder; + And when the war is past, you come + To rattle in their ears your drum: + And as that hateful hideous Grecian, + Thersites,[3] (he was your relation,) + Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those + With whom he served, than by his foes; + So thou art grown the detestation + Of all thy party through the nation: + Thy peevish and perpetual teasing + With plots, and Jacobites, and treason, + Thy busy never-meaning face, + Thy screw'd-up front, thy state grimace, + Thy formal nods, important sneers, + Thy whisperings foisted in all ears, + (Which are, whatever you may think, + But nonsense wrapt up in a stink,) + Have made thy presence, in a true sense, + To thy own side, so d—n'd a nuisance, + That, when they have you in their eye, + As if the devil drove, they fly. + <i>T</i>. My good friend Mullinix, forbear; + I vow to G—, you're too severe: + If it could ever yet be known + I took advice, except my own, + It should be yours; but, d—n my blood! + I must pursue the public good: + The faction (is it not notorious?) + [4]Keck at the memory of Glorious:[5] + 'Tis true; nor need I to be told, + My <i>quondam</i> friends are grown so cold, + That scarce a creature can be found + To prance with me his statue round. + The public safety, I foresee, + Henceforth depends alone on me; + And while this vital breath I blow, + Or from above or from below, + I'll sputter, swagger, curse, and rail, + The Tories' terror, scourge, and flail. + <i>M</i>. Tim, you mistake the matter quite; + The Tories! you are their delight; + And should you act a different part, + Be grave and wise, 'twould break their heart. + Why, Tim, you have a taste you know, + And often see a puppet-show: + Observe the audience is in pain, + While Punch is hid behind the scene: + But, when they hear his rusty voice, + With what impatience they rejoice! + And then they value not two straws, + How Solomon decides the cause, + Which the true mother, which pretender + Nor listen to the witch of Endor. + Should Faustus with the devil behind him + Enter the stage, they never mind him: + If Punch, to stir their fancy, shows + In at the door his monstrous nose, + Then sudden draws it back again; + O what a pleasure mixt with pain! + You every moment think an age, + Till he appears upon the stage: + And first his bum you see him clap + Upon the Queen of Sheba's lap: + The Duke of Lorraine drew his sword; + Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd, + Reviled all people in his jargon, + And sold the King of Spain a bargain; + St. George himself he plays the wag on, + And mounts astride upon the dragon; + He gets a thousand thumps and kicks, + Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks; + In every action thrusts his nose; + The reason why, no mortal knows: + In doleful scenes that break our heart, + Punch comes like you, and lets a fart. + There's not a puppet made of wood, + But what would hang him if they could; + While, teasing all, by all he's teased, + How well are the spectators pleased! + Who in the motion[6] have no share, + But purely come to hear and stare; + Have no concern for Sabra's sake, + Which gets the better, saint or snake, + Provided Punch (for there's the jest) + Be soundly maul'd, and plague the rest. + Thus, Tim, philosophers suppose, + The world consists of puppet-shows; + Where petulant conceited fellows + Perform the part of Punchinelloes: + So at this booth which we call Dublin, + Tim, thou'rt the Punch to stir up trouble in: + You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout, + Put all your brother puppets out, + Run on in a perpetual round, + To tease, perplex, disturb, confound: + Intrude with monkey grin and clatter + To interrupt all serious matter; + Are grown the nuisance of your clan, + Who hate and scorn you to a man: + But then the lookers-on, the Tories, + You still divert with merry stories, + They would consent that all the crew + Were hang'd before they'd part with you. + But tell me, Tim, upon the spot, + By all this toil what hast thou got? + If Tories must have all the sport, + I fear you'll be disgraced at court. + <i>T</i>. Got? D—n my blood! I frank my letters, + Walk to my place before my betters; + And, simple as I now stand here, + Expect in time to be a peer— + Got? D—n me! why I got my will! + Ne'er hold my peace, and ne'er stand still: + I fart with twenty ladies by; + They call me beast; and what care I? + I bravely call the Tories Jacks, + And sons of whores—behind their backs. + But could you bring me once to think, + That when I strut, and stare, and stink, + Revile and slander, fume and storm, + Betray, make oath, impeach, inform, + With such a constant loyal zeal + To serve myself and commonweal, + And fret the Tories' souls to death, + I did but lose my precious breath; + And, when I damn my soul to plague 'em, + Am, as you tell me, but their May-game; + Consume my vitals! they shall know, + I am not to be treated so; + I'd rather hang myself by half, + Than give those rascals cause to laugh. + But how, my friend, can I endure, + Once so renown'd, to live obscure? + No little boys and girls to cry, + "There's nimble Tim a-passing by!" + No more my dear delightful way tread + Of keeping up a party hatred? + Will none the Tory dogs pursue, + When through the streets I cry halloo? + Must all my d—n me's! bloods and wounds! + Pass only now for empty sounds? + Shall Tory rascals be elected, + Although I swear them disaffected? + And when I roar, "a plot, a plot!" + Will our own party mind me not? + So qualified to swear and lie, + Will they not trust me for a spy? + Dear Mullinix, your good advice + I beg; you see the case is nice: + O! were I equal in renown, + Like thee to please this thankless town! + Or blest with such engaging parts + To win the truant schoolboys' hearts! + Thy virtues meet their just reward, + Attended by the sable guard. + Charm'd by thy voice, the 'prentice drops + The snow-ball destined at thy chops; + Thy graceful steps, and colonel's air, + Allure the cinder-picking fair. + <i>M</i>. No more—in mark of true affection, + I take thee under my protection; + Your parts are good, 'tis not denied; + I wish they had been well applied. + But now observe my counsel, <i>(viz.)</i> + Adapt your habit to your phiz; + You must no longer thus equip ye, + As Horace says <i>optat ephippia;</i> + (There's Latin, too, that you may see + How much improved by Dr.—) + I have a coat at home, that you may try: + 'Tis just like this, which hangs by geometry; + My hat has much the nicer air; + Your block will fit it to a hair; + That wig, I would not for the world + Have it so formal, and so curl'd; + 'Twill be so oily and so sleek, + When I have lain in it a week, + You'll find it well prepared to take + The figure of toupee and snake. + Thus dress'd alike from top to toe, + That which is which 'tis hard to know, + When first in public we appear, + I'll lead the van, keep you the rear: + Be careful, as you walk behind; + Use all the talents of your mind; + Be studious well to imitate + My portly motion, mien, and gait; + Mark my address, and learn my style, + When to look scornful, when to smile; + Nor sputter out your oaths so fast, + But keep your swearing to the last. + Then at our leisure we'll be witty, + And in the streets divert the city; + The ladies from the windows gaping, + The children all our motions aping. + Your conversation to refine, + I'll take you to some friends of mine, + Choice spirits, who employ their parts + To mend the world by useful arts; + Some cleansing hollow tubes, to spy + Direct the zenith of the sky; + Some have the city in their care, + From noxious steams to purge the air; + Some teach us in these dangerous days + How to walk upright in our ways; + Some whose reforming hands engage + To lash the lewdness of the age; + Some for the public service go + Perpetual envoys to and fro: + Whose able heads support the weight + Of twenty ministers of state. + We scorn, for want of talk, to jabber + Of parties o'er our bonnyclabber; + Nor are we studious to inquire, + Who votes for manors, who for hire: + Our care is, to improve the mind + With what concerns all human kind; + The various scenes of mortal life; + Who beats her husband, who his wife; + Or how the bully at a stroke + Knock'd down the boy, the lantern broke. + One tells the rise of cheese and oatmeal; + Another when he got a hot-meal; + One gives advice in proverbs old, + Instructs us how to tame a scold; + One shows how bravely Audouin died, + And at the gallows all denied; + How by the almanack 'tis clear, + That herrings will be cheap this year. + <i>T</i>. Dear Mullinix, I now lament + My precious time so long mispent, + By nature meant for nobler ends: + O, introduce me to your friends! + For whom by birth I was design'd, + Till politics debased my mind; + I give myself entire to you; + G—-d d—n the Whigs and Tories too! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is a severe satire upon Richard Tighe, Esq., whom the + Dean regarded as the officious informer against Sheridan, in the matter + of the choice of a text for the accession of George I, Swift had + faithfully promised to revenge the cause of his friend, and has certainly + fully redeemed his pledge, in this and the following pasquinades. Mad + Mullinix, or Molyneux, was a sort of crazy beggar, a Tory politician in + His madness, who haunted the streets of Dublin about this time. In a + paper subscribed Dr. Anthony, apparently a mountebank of somewhat the + same description, the doctor is made to vindicate his loyalty and regard + for the present constitution in church and state, by declaring that he + always acted contrary to the politics of Captain John Molyneux. The + immediate occasion for publication is assigned in the Intelligencer, in + which paper the dialogue first appeared.—<i>Scott</i>. + + "Having lately had an account, that a certain person of some distinction + swore in a public coffee-house, that party should never die while he + lived, (although it has been the endeavour of the best and wisest among + us, to abolish the ridiculous appellations of Whig and Tory, and entirely + to turn our thoughts to the good of our prince and constitution in church + and state,) I hope those who are well-wishers to our country, will think + my labour not ill-bestowed, in giving this gentleman's principles the + proper embellishments which they deserve; and since Mad Mullinix is the + only Tory now remaining, who dares own himself to be so, I hope I may not + be censured by those of his party, for making him hold a dialogue with + one of less consequence on the other side. I shall not venture so far as + to give the Christian nick-name of the person chiefly concerned, lest I + should give offence, for which reason I shall call him Timothy, and leave + the rest to the conjecture of the world."—<i>Intelligencer</i>, No. viii. See + an account of this paper in "Prose Works," ix, 311.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: "Sir Martin Marall," one of Dryden's most successful + comedies. See Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 93.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: "Ilias," lib. ii, 211, <i>seq.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: To reach at vomiting.] + + [Footnote 5: King William III.] + + [Footnote 6: Old word for a puppet-show.—<i>Scott</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> + TIM AND THE FABLES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MY meaning will be best unravell'd, + When I premise that Tim has travell'd. + In Lucas's by chance there lay + The Fables writ by Mr. Gay. + Tim set the volume on a table, + Read over here and there a fable: + And found, as he the pages twirl'd, + The monkey who had seen the world; + (For Tonson had, to help the sale, + Prefix'd a cut to every tale.) + The monkey was completely drest, + The beau in all his airs exprest. + Tim, with surprise and pleasure staring, + Ran to the glass, and then comparing + His own sweet figure with the print, + Distinguish'd every feature in't, + The twist, the squeeze, the rump, the fidge in all, + Just as they look'd in the original. + "By —," says Tim, and let a f—t, + "This graver understood his art. + 'Tis a true copy, I'll say that for't; + I well remember when I sat for't. + My very face, at first I knew it; + Just in this dress the painter drew it." + Tim, with his likeness deeply smitten, + Would read what underneath was written, + The merry tale, with moral grave; + He now began to storm and rave: + "The cursed villain! now I see + This was a libel meant at me: + These scribblers grow so bold of late + Against us ministers of state! + Such Jacobites as he deserve— + D—n me! I say they ought to starve." +</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> + TOM AND DICK[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tim[2] and Dick had equal fame, + And both had equal knowledge; + Tom could write and spell his name, + But Dick had seen the college. + + Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad, + And both alike diverting; + Tom was held the merrier lad, + But Dick the best at farting. + + Dick would cock his nose in scorn, + But Tom was kind and loving; + Tom a footboy bred and born, + But Dick was from an oven.[3] + + Dick could neatly dance a jig, + But Tom was best at borees; + Tom would pray for every Whig, + And Dick curse all the Tories. + + Dick would make a woful noise, + And scold at an election; + Tom huzza'd the blackguard boys, + And held them in subjection. + + Tom could move with lordly grace, + Dick nimbly skipt the gutter; + Tom could talk with solemn face, + But Dick could better sputter. + + Dick was come to high renown + Since he commenced physician; + Tom was held by all the town + The deeper politician. + + Tom had the genteeler swing, + His hat could nicely put on; + Dick knew better how to swing + His cane upon a button. + + Dick for repartee was fit, + And Tom for deep discerning; + Dick was thought the brighter wit, + But Tom had better learning. + + Dick with zealous noes and ayes + Could roar as loud as Stentor, + In the house 'tis all he says; + But Tom is eloquenter. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This satire is a parody on a song then + fashionable.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See <i>post</i>, "The Legion Club."] + + [Footnote 3: Tighe's ancestor was a contractor for furnishing the + Parliament forces with bread during the civil wars. Hence Swift calls him + Elsewhere Pistorides. See "Prose Works," vii, 233; and in "The Legion + Club," Dick Fitzbaker.—<i>W.E.B</i>.] +</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> + DICK, A MAGGOT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As when, from rooting in a bin, + All powder'd o'er from tail to chin, + A lively maggot sallies out, + You know him by his hazel snout: + So when the grandson of his grandsire + Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir, + With powder'd rump and back and side, + You cannot blanch his tawny hide; + For 'tis beyond the power of meal + The gipsy visage to conceal; + For as he shakes his wainscot chops, + Down every mealy atom drops, + And leaves the tartar phiz in show, + Like a fresh t—d just dropp'd on snow. +</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> + CLAD ALL IN BROWN, TO DICK[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Foulest brute that stinks below, + Why in this brown dost thou appear? + For wouldst thou make a fouler show, + Thou must go naked all the year. + Fresh from the mud, a wallowing sow + Would then be not so brown as thou. + + 'Tis not the coat that looks so dun, + His hide emits a foulness out; + Not one jot better looks the sun + Seen from behind a dirty clout. + So t—ds within a glass enclose, + The glass will seem as brown as those. + + Thou now one heap of foulness art, + All outward and within is foul; + Condensed filth in every part, + Thy body's clothed like thy soul: + Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff + Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff. + + Old carted bawds such garments wear, + When pelted all with dirt they shine; + Such their exalted bodies are, + As shrivell'd and as black as thine. + If thou wert in a cart, I fear + Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they're. + + Yet, when we see thee thus array'd, + The neighbours think it is but just, + That thou shouldst take an honest trade, + And weekly carry out the dust. + Of cleanly houses who will doubt, + When Dick cries "Dust to carry out!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is a parody on the tenth poem of Cowley's "Mistress," + entitled, "Clad all in White."—<i>Scott</i>.] +</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> + DICK'S VARIETY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dull uniformity in fools + I hate, who gape and sneer by rules; + You, Mullinix, and slobbering C—— + Who every day and hour the same are + That vulgar talent I despise + Of pissing in the rabble's eyes. + And when I listen to the noise + Of idiots roaring to the boys; + To better judgment still submitting, + I own I see but little wit in: + Such pastimes, when our taste is nice, + Can please at most but once or twice. + But then consider Dick, you'll find + His genius of superior kind; + He never muddles in the dirt, + Nor scours the streets without a shirt; + Though Dick, I dare presume to say, + Could do such feats as well as they. + Dick I could venture everywhere, + Let the boys pelt him if they dare, + He'd have them tried at the assizes + For priests and jesuits in disguises; + Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender, + And listing troops for the Pretender. + But Dick can f—t, and dance, and frisk, + No other monkey half so brisk; + Now has the speaker by his ears, + Next moment in the House of Peers; + Now scolding at my Lady Eustace, + Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.[1] + Presto! begone; with t'other hop + He's powdering in a barber's shop; + Now at the antichamber thrusting + His nose, to get the circle just in; + And damns his blood that in the rear + He sees a single Tory there: + Then woe be to my lord-lieutenant, + Again he'll tell him, and again on't[2] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: "Dick Tighe and his wife lodged over against us; and he has + been seen, out of our upper windows, beating her two or three times; ... + I am told she is the most urging, provoking devil that ever was born; and + he a hot whiffling puppy, very apt to resent."—Journal to Stella, "Prose + Works," ii, 229.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Farquhar, who inscribed his play of the "Inconstant" to + Richard Tighe, has painted him in very different colours from those of + the Dean's satirical pencil. Yet there may be discerned, even in that + dedication, the oulines of a light mercurial character, capable of being + represented as a coxcomb or fine gentleman, as should suit the purpose of + the writer who was disposed to immortalize him.—<i>Scott</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> + TRAULUS. PART I, A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN[1], 1730 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Tom</i>. + Say, Robin, what can Traulus[2] mean + By bellowing thus against the Dean? + Why does he call him paltry scribbler, + Papist, and Jacobite, and libeller, + Yet cannot prove a single fact? + + <i>Robin</i>. Forgive him, Tom: his head is crackt. + + <i>T</i>. What mischief can the Dean have done him, + That Traulus calls for vengeance on him? + Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it + In vain against the people's favourite? + Revile that nation-saving paper, + Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier? + + <i>R</i>. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain; + Party and spleen have turn'd his brain. + + <i>T</i>. Such friendship never man profess'd, + The Dean was never so caress'd; + For Traulus long his rancour nursed, + Till, God knows why, at last it burst. + That clumsy outside of a porter, + How could it thus conceal a courtier? + + <i>R</i>. I own, appearances are bad; + Yet still insist the man is mad. + + <i>T</i>. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows + How to distinguish friends from foes; + And though perhaps among the rout + He wildly flings his filth about, + He still has gratitude and sap'ence, + To spare the folks that give him ha'pence; + Nor in their eyes at random pisses, + But turns aside, like mad Ulysses; + While Traulus all his ordure scatters + To foul the man he chiefly flatters. + Whence comes these inconsistent fits? + + <i>R</i>. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits. + + <i>T</i>, Agreed: and yet, when Towzer snaps + At people's heels, with frothy chaps, + Hangs down his head, and drops his tail, + To say he's mad will not avail; + The neighbours all cry, "Shoot him dead, + Hang, drown, or knock him on the head." + So Traulus, when he first harangued, + I wonder why he was not hang'd; + For of the two, without dispute, + Towzer's the less offensive brute. + + <i>R</i>, Tom, you mistake the matter quite; + Your barking curs will seldom bite + And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter, + He barks as fast as he can utter. + He prates in spite of all impediment, + While none believes that what he said he meant; + Puts in his finger and his thumb + To grope for words, and out they come. + He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it, + He fawns upon you in a minute: + "Begs leave to rail, but, d—n his blood! + He only meant it for your good: + His friendship was exactly timed, + He shot before your foes were primed: + By this contrivance, Mr. Dean, + By G—! I'll bring you off as clean—"[3] + Then let him use you e'er so rough, + "'Twas all for love," and that's enough. + But, though he sputter through a session, + It never makes the least impression: + Whate'er he speaks for madness goes, + With no effect on friends or foes. + + <i>T</i>. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack + Can set the mastiff on your back. + I own, his madness is a jest, + If that were all. But he's possest + Incarnate with a thousand imps, + To work whose ends his madness pimps; + Who o'er each string and wire preside, + Fill every pipe, each motion guide; + Directing every vice we find + In Scripture to the devil assign'd; + Sent from the dark infernal region, + In him they lodge, and make him legion. + Of brethren he's a false accuser; + A slanderer, traitor, and seducer; + A fawning, base, trepanning liar; + The marks peculiar of his sire. + Or, grant him but a drone at best; + A drone can raise a hornet's nest. + The Dean had felt their stings before; + And must their malice ne'er give o'er? + Still swarm and buzz about his nose? + But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes. + A patriot is a dangerous post, + When wanted by his country most; + Perversely comes in evil times, + Where virtues are imputed crimes. + His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant; + A traitor to the vices regnant. + What spirit, since the world began, + Could always bear to strive with man? + Which God pronounced he never would, + And soon convinced them by a flood. + Yet still the Dean on freedom raves; + His spirit always strives with slaves. + 'Tis time at last to spare his ink, + And let them rot, or hang, or sink. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Son of Dr. Charles Leslie.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: Joshua, Lord Allen. For particulars of the satire upon this + individual, see "Advertisement by Swift in his defence against Joshua, + Lord Allen," "Prose Works," vii, 168-175, and notes.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: This is the usual excuse of Traulus, when he abuses you to + others without provocation.—<i>Swift</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> + TRAULUS. PART II + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TRAULUS, of amphibious breed, + Motley fruit of mongrel seed; + By the dam from lordlings sprung. + By the sire exhaled from dung: + Think on every vice in both, + Look on him, and see their growth. + View him on the mother's side,[2] + Fill'd with falsehood, spleen, and pride; + Positive and overbearing, + Changing still, and still adhering; + Spiteful, peevish, rude, untoward, + Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward; + When his friends he most is hard on, + Cringing comes to beg their pardon; + Reputation ever tearing, + Ever dearest friendship swearing; + Judgment weak, and passion strong, + Always various, always wrong; + Provocation never waits, + Where he loves, or where he hates; + Talks whate'er comes in his head; + Wishes it were all unsaid. + Let me now the vices trace, + From the father's scoundrel race. + Who could give the looby such airs? + Were they masons, were they butchers? + Herald, lend the Muse an answer + From his <i>atavus</i> and grandsire:[1] + This was dexterous at his trowel, + That was bred to kill a cow well: + Hence the greasy clumsy mien + In his dress and figure seen; + Hence the mean and sordid soul, + Like his body, rank and foul; + Hence that wild suspicious peep, + Like a rogue that steals a sheep; + Hence he learnt the butcher's guile, + How to cut your throat and smile; + Like a butcher, doom'd for life + In his mouth to wear a knife: + Hence he draws his daily food + From his tenants' vital blood. + Lastly, let his gifts be tried, + Borrow'd from the mason's side: + Some perhaps may think him able + In the state to build a Babel; + Could we place him in a station + To destroy the old foundation. + True indeed I should be gladder + Could he learn to mount a ladder: + May he at his latter end + Mount alive and dead descend! + In him tell me which prevail, + Female vices most, or male? + What produced him, can you tell? + Human race, or imps of Hell? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The mother of Lord Alen was sister to Robert, Earl of + Kildare.—<i>Scott</i>] + + [Footnote 2: John, Lord Allen, father of Joshua, the Traulus of the + satire, was son of Sir Joshua Allen, Lord Mayor of Dublin in 1673, and + grandson of John Allen, an architect in great esteem in the reign of + Queen Elizabeth.<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> + A FABLE OF THE LION AND OTHER BEASTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One time a mighty plague did pester + All beasts domestic and sylvester, + The doctors all in concert join'd, + To see if they the cause could find; + And tried a world of remedies, + But none could conquer the disease. + The lion in this consternation. + Sends out his royal proclamation, + To all his loving subjects greeting, + Appointing them a solemn meeting: + And when they're gather'd round his den, + He spoke,—My lords and gentlemen, + I hope you're met full of the sense + Of this devouring pestilence; + For sure such heavy punishment, + On common crimes is rarely sent; + It must be some important cause, + Some great infraction of the laws. + Then let us search our consciences, + And every one his faults confess: + Let's judge from biggest to the least + That he that is the foulest beast, + May for a sacrifice be given + To stop the wrath of angry Heaven. + And since no one is free from sin, + I with myself will first begin. + I have done many a thing that's ill + From a propensity to kill, + Slain many an ox, and, what is worse, + Have murder'd many a gallant horse; + Robb'd woods and fens, and, like a glutton, + Devour'd whole flocks of lamb and mutton; + Nay sometimes, for I dare not lie, + The shepherd went for company.— + He had gone on, but Chancellor Fox + Stands up——What signifies an ox? + What signifies a horse? Such things + Are honour'd when made sport for kings. + Then for the sheep, those foolish cattle, + Not fit for courage, or for battle; + And being tolerable meat, + They're good for nothing but to eat. + The shepherd too, young enemy, + Deserves no better destiny. + Sir, sir, your conscience is too nice, + Hunting's a princely exercise: + And those being all your subjects born, + Just when you please are to be torn. + And, sir, if this will not content ye, + We'll vote it nemine contradicente. + Thus after him they all confess, + They had been rogues, some more some less; + And yet by little slight excuses, + They all get clear of great abuses. + The Bear, the Tiger, beasts of flight, + And all that could but scratch and bite, + Nay e'en the Cat, of wicked nature, + That kills in sport her fellow-creature, + Went scot-free; but his gravity, + An ass of stupid memory, + Confess'd, as he went to a fair, + His back half broke with wooden-ware, + Chancing unluckily to pass + By a church-yard full of good grass, + Finding they'd open left the gate, + He ventured in, stoop'd down and ate + Hold, says Judge Wolf, such are the crimes + Have brought upon us these sad times, + 'Twas sacrilege, and this vile ass + Shall die for eating holy grass. +</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 THE IRISH BISHOPS.[1] 1731 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe + A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe; + And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell? + Why truly 'tis Satan, Archbishop of Hell. + And He was a primate, and He wore a mitre, + Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre. + How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles! + But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles, + Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny, + You'd swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:[2] + Poor Satan will think the comparison odious, + I wish I could find him out one more commodious; + But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon + Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan; + And all men believe he resides there incog, + To give them by turns an invisible jog. + Our bishops, puft up with wealth and with pride, + To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride. + They mounted and labour'd with whip and with spur + In vain—for the devil a parson would stir. + So the commons unhors'd them; and this was their doom, + On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom. + Though they gallop'd so fast, on the road you may find 'em, + And have left us but three out of twenty behind 'em. + Lord Bolton's good grace, Lord Carr and Lord Howard,[3] + In spite of the devil would still be untoward: + They came of good kindred, and could not endure + Their former companions should beg at their door. + When Christ was betray'd to Pilate the pretor + Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor: + One traitor alone, and faithful eleven; + But we can afford you six traitors in seven. + What a clutter with clippings, dividings, and cleavings! + And the clergy forsooth must take up with their leavings; + If making divisions was all their intent, + They've done it, we thank them, but not as they meant; + And so may such bishops for ever divide, + That no honest heathen would be on their side. + How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first, + Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst! + Now hear an allusion:—A mitre, you know, + Is divided above, but united below. + If this you consider our emblem is right; + The bishops divide, but the clergy unite. + Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread + That the mitre would never stick fast on their head: + And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign, + As Machiavel taught them, "divide and ye govern." + But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said + That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head; + I'll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see't) + If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet. + But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play; + Before you condemn us, hear what we can say. + What truer affections could ever be shown, + Than saving your souls by damning our own? + And have we not practised all methods to gain you; + With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain you; + Provided a fund for building you spittals! + You are only to live four years without victuals. + Content, my good lords; but let us change hands; + First take you our tithes, and give us your lands. + So God bless the Church and three of our mitres; + And God bless the Commons, for biting the biters. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Occasioned by two bills; a Bill of Residence to compel the + clergy to reside on their livings, and a Bill of Division, to divide the + church livings. See Considerations upon two Bills, "Prose Works," iii, + and Swift's letter to the Bishop of Clogher, July, 1733, in which he + describes "those two abominable bills for enslaving and beggaring the + clergy." Edit. Scott, xviii, p. 147. The bills were passed by the House + of Lords, but rejected by the Commons. See note, next page.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, who promoted the Bills. See + "Prose Works," xii, p.26.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Theophilus Bolton, Archbishop of Cashel from 1729 to 1744; + Charles Carr, Bishop of Killaloe from 1716 to 1739; and Robert Howard, + Bishop of Elphin from 1729 to 1740, who voted against the bills on a + division.—<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> + HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX., ADDRESSED TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ.[1] LATE LORD + MAYOR OF DUBLIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PATRON of the tuneful throng, + O! too nice, and too severe! + Think not, that my country song + Shall displease thy honest ear. + Chosen strains I proudly bring, + Which the Muses' sacred choir, + When they gods and heroes sing, + Dictate to th' harmonious lyre. + Ancient Homer, princely bard! + Just precedence still maintains, + With sacred rapture still are heard + Theban Pindar's lofty strains. + Still the old triumphant song, + Which, when hated tyrants fell, + Great Alcfus boldly sung, + Warns, instructs, and pleases well. + Nor has Time's all-darkening shade + In obscure oblivion press'd + What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd; + Gay Anacreon, drunken priest! + Gentle Sappho, love-sick muse, + Warms the heart with amorous fire; + Still her tenderest notes infuse + Melting rapture, soft desire. + Beauteous Helen, young and gay, + By a painted fopling won, + Went not first, fair nymph, astray, + Fondly pleased to be undone. + Nor young Teucer's slaughtering bow, + Nor bold Hector's dreadful sword, + Alone the terrors of the foe, + Sow'd the field with hostile blood. + Many valiant chiefs of old + Greatly lived and died before + Agamemnon, Grecian bold, + Waged the ten years' famous war. + But their names, unsung, unwept, + Unrecorded, lost and gone, + Long in endless night have slept, + And shall now no more be known. + Virtue, which the poet's care + Has not well consign'd to fame, + Lies, as in the sepulchre + Some old king, without a name. + But, O Humphry, great and free, + While my tuneful songs are read, + Old forgetful Time on thee + Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread. + When the deep cut notes shall fade + On the mouldering Parian stone, + On the brass no more be read + The perishing inscription; + Forgotten all the enemies, + Envious G——n's cursed spite, + And P——l's derogating lies, + Lost and sunk in Stygian night; + Still thy labour and thy care, + What for Dublin thou hast done, + In full lustre shall appear, + And outshine th' unclouded sun. + Large thy mind, and not untried, + For Hibernia now doth stand, + Through the calm, or raging tide, + Safe conducts the ship to land. + Falsely we call the rich man great, + He is only so that knows + His plentiful or small estate + Wisely to enjoy and use. + He in wealth or poverty, + Fortune's power alike defies; + And falsehood and dishonesty + More than death abhors and flies: + Flies from death!—no, meets it brave, + When the suffering so severe + May from dreadful bondage save + Clients, friends, or country dear. + This the sovereign man, complete; + Hero; patriot; glorious; free; + Rich and wise; and good and great; + Generous Humphry, thou art he. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Elected M. P. for Dublin, by the interest of Swift, in the + name of the Drapier. See Advice to the Freemen of the City of Dublin, + etc., "Prose Works," vii, 310.—<i>W. E. B.</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> + ON MR. PULTENEY'S[1] BEING PUT OUT OF THE COUNCIL. 1731 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SIR ROBERT,[2] wearied by Will Pulteney's teasings, + Who interrupted him in all his leasings, + Resolved that Will and he should meet no more, + Full in his face Bob shuts the council door; + Nor lets him sit as justice on the bench, + To punish thieves, or lash a suburb wench. + Yet still St. Stephen's chapel open lies + For Will to enter—What shall I advise? + Ev'n quit the house, for thou too long hast sat in't, + Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent; + There near thy master's throne in shelter placed, + Let Will, unheard by thee, his thunder waste; + Yet still I fear your work is done but half, + For while he keeps his pen you are not safe. + Hear an old fable, and a dull one too; + It bears a moral when applied to you. + + A hare had long escaped pursuing hounds, + By often shifting into distant grounds; + Till, finding all his artifices vain, + To save his life he leap'd into the main. + But there, alas! he could no safety find, + A pack of dogfish had him in the wind. + He scours away; and, to avoid the foe, + Descends for shelter to the shades below: + There Cerberus lay watching in his den, + (He had not seen a hare the lord knows when.) + Out bounced the mastiff of the triple head; + Away the hare with double swiftness fled; + Hunted from earth, and sea, and hell, he flies + (Fear lent him wings) for safety to the skies. + How was the fearful animal distrest! + Behold a foe more fierce than all the rest: + Sirius, the swiftest of the heavenly pack, + Fail'd but an inch to seize him by the back. + He fled to earth, but first it cost him dear; + He left his scut behind, and half an ear. + Thus was the hare pursued, though free from guilt; + Thus, Bob, shall thou be maul'd, fly where thou wilt. + Then, honest Robin, of thy corpse beware; + Thou art not half so nimble as a hare: + Too ponderous is thy bulk to mount the sky; + Nor can you go to Hell before you die. + So keen thy hunters, and thy scent so strong, + Thy turns and doublings cannot save thee long.[3] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Right Honourable William Pulteney, afterwards Earl of Bath.] + + [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, at that time Prime Minister, afterwards + first Earl of Orford.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: This hunting ended in the promotion of Will and Bob. Bob was + no longer first minister, but Earl of Orford; and Will was no longer his + opponent, but Earl of Bath.—<i>H</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> + ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS AND FELLOW CHRISTIANS, SO FAMILIARLY USED + BY THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REPEAL OF THE TEST-ACT IN IRELAND, 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AN inundation, says the fable, + Overflow'd a farmer's barn and stable; + Whole ricks of hay and stacks of corn + Were down the sudden current borne; + While things of heterogeneous kind + Together float with tide and wind. + The generous wheat forgot its pride, + And sail'd with litter side by side; + Uniting all, to show their amity, + As in a general calamity. + A ball of new-dropp'd horse's dung, + Mingling with apples in the throng, + Said to the pippin plump and prim, + "See, brother, how we apples swim." + Thus Lamb, renown'd for cutting corns, + An offer'd fee from Radcliff scorns, + "Not for the world—we doctors, brother, + Must take no fees of one another." + Thus to a dean some curate sloven + Subscribes, "Dear sir, your brother loving." + Thus all the footmen, shoeboys, porters, + About St. James's, cry, "We courtiers." + Thus Horace in the house will prate, + "Sir, we, the ministers of state." + Thus at the bar the booby Bettesworth,[1] + Though half a crown o'erpays his sweat's worth; + Who knows in law nor text nor margent, + Calls Singleton[2] his brother sergeant. + And thus fanatic saints, though neither in + Doctrine nor discipline our brethren, + Are brother Protestants and Christians, + As much as Hebrews and Philistines: + But in no other sense, than nature + Has made a rat our fellow-creature. + Lice from your body suck their food; + But is a louse your flesh and blood? + Though born of human filth and sweat, it + As well may say man did beget it. + And maggots in your nose and chin + As well may claim you for their kin. + Yet critics may object, why not? + Since lice are brethren to a Scot: + Which made our swarm of sects determine + Employments for their brother vermin. + But be they English, Irish, Scottish, + What Protestant can be so sottish, + While o'er the church these clouds are gathering + To call a swarm of lice his brethren? + As Moses, by divine advice, + In Egypt turn'd the dust to lice; + And as our sects, by all descriptions, + Have hearts more harden'd than Egyptians + As from the trodden dust they spring, + And, turn'd to lice, infest the king: + For pity's sake, it would be just, + A rod should turn them back to dust. + Let folks in high or holy stations + Be proud of owning such relations; + Let courtiers hug them in their bosom, + As if they were afraid to lose 'em: + While I, with humble Job, had rather + Say to corruption—"Thou'rt my father." + For he that has so little wit + To nourish vermin, may be bit. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: These lines were the cause of the personal attack upon + the Dean. See "Prose Works," iv, pp. 27,261. <i>—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Henry Singleton, Esq., then prime sergeant, afterwards + lord-chief-justice of the common pleas, which he resigned, and was some + time after made master of the rolls.—<i>F</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> + BETTESWORTH'S EXULTATION UPON HEARING THAT HIS NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED + TO POSTERITY IN DR. SWIFT'S WORKS. BY WILLIAM DUNKIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well! now, since the heat of my passion's abated, + That the Dean hath lampoon'd me, my mind is elated:— + Lampoon'd did I call it?—No—what was it then? + What was it?—'Twas fame to be lash'd by his pen: + For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till + E'en doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile; + Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious, + Obscure, and unheard of—but now I'm notorious: + Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one; + The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one: + If the end be obtain'd 'tis equal what portal + I enter, since I'm to be render'd immortal: + So clysters applied to the anus, 'tis said, + By skilful physicians, give ease to the head— + Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard, + A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. + Why sure 'tis some comfort that heroes should slay us, + If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Fneas; + And who by the Drapier would not rather damn'd be, + Than demigoddized by madrigal Namby?[1] + A man is no more who has once lost his breath; + But poets convince us theres life after death. + They call from their graves the king, or the peasant; + Re-act our old deeds, and make what's past present: + And when they would study to set forth alike, + So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike, + Whatever the subject be, coward or hero, + A tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero; + To a judge 'tis all one which he fixes his eye on, + And a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. + + [Footnote 1: Ambrose Philips. See <i>ante</i>, vol. i, p. 288.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</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> + AN EPIGRAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth, + For indeed I ne'er read them, to speak for once truth) + That death is the wages of sin, but the just + Shall die not, although they be laid in the dust. + They say so; so be it, I care not a straw, + Although I be dead both in gospel and law; + In verse I shall live, and be read in each climate; + What more can be said of prime sergeant or primate? + While Carter and Prendergast both may be rotten, + And damn'd to the bargain, and yet be forgotten. +</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> + AN EPIGRAM INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE SERGEANT KITE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In your indignation what mercy appears, + While Jonathan's threaten'd with loss of his ears; + For who would not think it a much better choice, + By your knife to be mangled than rack'd with your voice. + If truly you [would] be revenged on the parson, + Command his attendance while you act your farce on; + Instead of your maiming, your shooting, or banging, + Bid Povey[1] secure him while you are haranguing. + Had this been your method to torture him, long since, + He had cut his own ears to be deaf to your nonsense. + + [Footnote 1: Povey was sergeant-at-arms to the House of + Commons.—<i>Scott</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> + THE YAHOO'S OVERTHROW, OR, THE KEVAN BAYL'S NEW BALLAD, UPON SERGEANT + KITE'S INSULTING THE DEAN [1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the Tune of "Derry Down." + + Jolly boys of St. Kevan's,[2] St. Patrick's, Donore + And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before, + How Bettesworth, that booby, and scoundrel in grain, + Has insulted us all by insulting the Dean. + Knock him down, down, down, knock him down. + + The Dean and his merits we every one know, + But this skip of a lawyer, where the de'il did he grow? + How greater his merit at Four Courts or House, + Than the barking of Towzer, or leap of a louse! + Knock him down, etc. + + That he came from the Temple, his morals do show; + But where his deep law is, few mortals yet know: + His rhetoric, bombast, silly jests, are by far + More like to lampooning, than pleading at bar. + Knock him down, etc. + + This pedler, at speaking and making of laws, + Has met with returns of all sorts but applause; + Has, with noise and odd gestures, been prating some years, + What honester folk never durst for their ears. + Knock him down, etc. + + Of all sizes and sorts, the fanatical crew + Are his brother Protestants, good men and true; + Red hat, and blue bonnet, and turban's the same, + What the de'il is't to him whence the devil they came. + Knock him down, etc. + + Hobbes, Tindal, and Woolston, and Collins, and Nayler, + And Muggleton, Toland, and Bradley the tailor, + Are Christians alike; and it may be averr'd, + He's a Christian as good as the rest of the herd. + Knock him down, etc. + + He only the rights of the clergy debates; + Their rights! their importance! We'll set on new rates + On their tithes at half-nothing, their priesthood at less; + What's next to be voted with ease you may guess. + Knock him down, etc. + + At length his old master, (I need not him name,) + To this damnable speaker had long owed a shame; + When his speech came abroad, he paid him off clean, + By leaving him under the pen of the Dean. + Knock him down, etc. + + He kindled, as if the whole satire had been + The oppression of virtue, not wages of sin: + He began, as he bragg'd, with a rant and a roar; + He bragg'd how he bounced, and he swore how he swore.[3] + Knock him down, etc. + + Though he cringed to his deanship in very low strains, + To others he boasted of knocking out brains, + And slitting of noses, and cropping of ears, + While his own ass's zags were more fit for the shears. + Knock him down, etc. + + On this worrier of deans whene'er we can hit, + We'll show him the way how to crop and to slit; + We'll teach him some better address to afford + To the dean of all deans, though he wears not a sword. + Knock him down, etc. + + We'll colt him through Kevan, St. Patrick's, Donore, + And Smithfield, as rap was ne'er colted before; + We'll oil him with kennel, and powder him with grains, + A modus right fit for insulters of deans. + Knock him down, etc. + + And, when this is over, we'll make him amends, + To the Dean he shall go; they shall kiss and be friends: + But how? Why, the Dean shall to him disclose + A face for to kiss, without eyes, ears, or nose. + Knock him down, etc. + + If you say this is hard on a man that is reckon'd + That sergeant-at-law whom we call Kite the Second, + You mistake; for a slave, who will coax his superiors, + May be proud to be licking a great man's posteriors. + Knock him down, etc. + + What care we how high runs his passion or pride? + Though his soul he despises, he values his hide; + Then fear not his tongue, or his sword, or his knife; + He'll take his revenge on his innocent wife. + Knock him down, down, down, keep him down. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: GRUB STREET JOURNAL, No. 189, August 9,1734.—"In December + last, Mr. Bettesworth, of the city of Dublin, serjeant-at-law, and member + of parliament, openly swore, before many hundreds of people, that, upon + the first opportunity, by the help of ruffians, he would murder or maim + the Dean of St. Patrick's, (Dr. Swift.) Upon which thirty-one of the + principal inhabitants of that liberty signed a paper to this effect: + 'That, out of their great love and respect to the Dean, to whom the whole + kingdom hath so many obligations, they would endeavour to defend the life + and limbs of the said Dean against a certain man and all his ruffians and + murderers.' With which paper they, in the name of themselves and all the + inhabitants of the city, attended the Dean on January 8, who being + extremely ill in bed of a giddiness and deafness, and not able to receive + them, immediately dictated a very grateful answer. The occasion of a + certain man's declaration of his villanous design against the Dean, was a + frivolous unproved suspicion that he had written some lines in verse + reflecting upon him."—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Kevan Bayl was a cant term for the rabble of this district + of Dublin.] + + [Footnote 3: Swift, in a letter to the Duke of Dorset, January, 1733-4, + gives a full account of Bettesworth's visit to him, about which he says + that the serjeant had spread some five hundred falsehoods.—<i>W. E. B.</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> + ON THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL,[1] AND BETTESWORTH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move? + The world is in doubt whether hatred or love; + And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite, + They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite. + You certainly know, though so loudly you vapour, + His spite cannot wound who attempted the Drapier. + Then, pr'ythee, reflect, take a word of advice; + And, as your old wont is, change sides in a trice: + On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way; + And say of the man what all honest men say. + But if, still obdurate, your anger remains, + If still your foul bosom more rancour contains, + Say then more than they, nay, lavishly flatter; + Tis your gross panegyrics alone can bespatter; + For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak plain, + Like very foul mops, dirty more than they clean. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, a particular friend of the + Dean.—<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> + ON THE IRISH CLUB. 1733[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye paltry underlings of state, + Ye senators who love to prate; + Ye rascals of inferior note, + Who, for a dinner, sell a vote; + Ye pack of pensionary peers, + Whose fingers itch for poets' ears; + Ye bishops, far removed from saints, + Why all this rage? Why these complaints? + Why against printers all this noise? + This summoning of blackguard boys? + Why so sagacious in your guesses? + Your <i>effs</i>, and <i>tees</i>, and <i>arrs</i>, and <i>esses</i>! + Take my advice; to make you safe, + I know a shorter way by half. + The point is plain; remove the cause; + Defend your liberties and laws. + Be sometimes to your country true, + Have once the public good in view: + Bravely despise champagne at court, + And choose to dine at home with port: + Let prelates, by their good behaviour, + Convince us they believe a Saviour; + Nor sell what they so dearly bought, + This country, now their own, for nought. + Ne'er did a true satiric muse + Virtue or innocence abuse; + And 'tis against poetic rules + To rail at men by nature fools: + But * * * + * * * * +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In the Dublin Edition, 1729—<i>Scott</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> + ON NOISY TOM. HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT. VI, PARAPHRASED, 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate, + "That he would answer both for church and state; + And, farther, to demonstrate his affection, + Would take the kingdom into his protection;" + All mortals must be curious to inquire, + Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire? + "What! thou, the spawn of him[2] who shamed our isle, + Traitor, assassin, and informer vile! + Though by the female side,[3] you proudly bring, + To mend your breed, the murderer of a king: + What was thy grandsire,[4] but a mountaineer, + Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year: + Whose master Moore[5] preserved him from the halter, + For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter! + Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase + Thy founder's grandson,[6] and usurp his place? + Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood + Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?[7] + Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,[8] + In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"[9] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See <i>post</i>, p. 266.] + + [Footnote 2: The father of Sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot + to murder King William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer + against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and + made a baronet.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: Cadogan's family.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 4: A poor thieving cottager under Mr. Moore, condemned at + Clonmel assizes to be hanged for stealing cows.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The grandfather of Guy Moore, Esq., who procured him a + pardon.<i>—F.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Guy Moore was fairly elected member of Parliament for + Clonmel; but Sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party + then prevailing, and since known by the title of parson-hunters, + petitioned the House against him; out of which he was turned upon + pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted + to be.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 7: "Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your + throat."—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 8: Mr. George Faulkner. Mr. Sergeant Bettesworth, a member of + the Irish Parliament, having made a complaint to the House of Commons + against the "Satire on Quadrille," they voted Faulkner the printer into + custody (who was confined closely in prison three days, when he was in a + very bad state of health, and his life in much danger) for not + discovering the author.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 9: Among the poems, etc., preserved by Mr. Smith are verses on + the same subject and person with these in the text. The verses are given + in Swift's works, edit. Scott, xii, 448.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0158" id="link2H_4_0158"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY, 1734-5 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame! + An Arian to usurp the name! + A bishop in the isle of saints! + How will his brethren make complaints! + Dare any of the mitred host + Confer on him the Holy Ghost: + In mother church to breed a variance, + By coupling orthodox with Arians? + Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew: + What is there in it strange or new? + For, let us hear the weak pretence, + His brethren find to take offence; + Of whom there are but four at most, + Who know there is a Holy Ghost; + The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it, + Like Paul's Ephesians, never-heard it; + And, when they gave it, well 'tis known + They gave what never was their own. + Rundle a bishop! well he may; + He's still a Christian more than they. + We know the subject of their quarrels; + The man has learning, sense, and morals. + There is a reason still more weighty; + 'Tis granted he believes a Deity. + Has every circumstance to please us, + Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus. + But why should he with that be loaded, + Now twenty years from court exploded? + And is not this objection odd + From rogues who ne'er believed a God? + For liberty a champion stout, + Though not so Gospel-ward devout. + While others, hither sent to save us + Come but to plunder and enslave us; + Nor ever own'd a power divine, + But Mammon, and the German line. + Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em? + Who shew'd a better <i>jus divinum</i>? + From ancient canons would not vary, + But thrice refused <i>episcopari</i>. + Our bishop's predecessor, Magus, + Would offer all the sands of Tagus; + Or sell his children, house, and lands, + For that one gift, to lay on hands: + But all his gold could not avail + To have the spirit set to sale. + Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee, + Be gone: thy money perish with thee." + Were Peter now alive, perhaps, + He might have found a score of chaps, + Could he but make his gift appear + In rents three thousand pounds a-year. + Some fancy this promotion odd, + As not the handiwork of God; + Though e'en the bishops disappointed + Must own it made by God's anointed, + And well we know, the <i>congi</i> regal + Is more secure as well as legal; + Because our lawyers all agree, + That bishoprics are held in fee. + Dear Baldwin[1] chaste, and witty Crosse,[2] + How sorely I lament your loss! + That such a pair of wealthy ninnies + Should slip your time of dropping guineas; + For, had you made the king your debtor, + Your title had been so much better. + + [Footnote 1: Richard Baldwin, Provost of Trinity College in 1717. He left + behind him many natural children.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Rector of St. Mary's Dublin, in 1722; before which time he + had been chaplain to the Smyrna Company. See the Epistolary + Correspondence, May 26, 1720.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0159" id="link2H_4_0159"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Friend Rundle fell, with grievous bump, + Upon his reverential rump. + Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped, + Hadst thou been join'd to Boulter's head; + A head, so weighty and profound, + Would needs have kept thee from the ground. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0160" id="link2H_4_0160"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION CLUB, 1736 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The immediate provocation to this fierce satire upon the Irish Parliament + was the introduction of a Bill to put an end to the tithe on pasturage, + called <i>agistment</i>, and thus to free the landlords from a legal payment, + with severe loss to the Church. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I stroll the city, oft I + See a building large and lofty, + Not a bow-shot from the college; + Half the globe from sense and knowledge + By the prudent architect, + Placed against the church direct,[1] + Making good my grandam's jest, + "Near the church"—you know the rest.[2] + Tell us what the pile contains? + Many a head that has no brains. + These demoniacs let me dub + With the name of Legion[3] Club. + Such assemblies, you might swear, + Meet when butchers bait a bear: + Such a noise, and such haranguing, + When a brother thief's a hanging: + Such a rout and such a rabble + Run to hear Jackpudding gabble: + Such a crowd their ordure throws + On a far less villain's nose. + Could I from the building's top + Hear the rattling thunder drop, + While the devil upon the roof + (If the devil be thunder proof) + Should with poker fiery red + Crack the stones, and melt the lead; + Drive them down on every skull, + When the den of thieves is full; + Quite destroy that harpies' nest; + How might then our isle be blest! + For divines allow, that God + Sometimes makes the devil his rod; + And the gospel will inform us, + He can punish sins enormous. + Yet should Swift endow the schools, + For his lunatics and fools, + With a rood or two of land, + I allow the pile may stand. + You perhaps will ask me, Why so? + But it is with this proviso: + Since the house is like to last, + Let the royal grant be pass'd, + That the club have right to dwell + Each within his proper cell, + With a passage left to creep in + And a hole above for peeping. + Let them, when they once get in, + Sell the nation for a pin; + While they sit a-picking straws, + Let them rave of making laws; + While they never hold their tongue, + Let them dabble in their dung: + Let them form a grand committee, + How to plague and starve the city; + Let them stare, and storm, and frown, + When they see a clergy gown; + Let them, ere they crack a louse, + Call for th'orders of the house; + Let them, with their gosling quills, + Scribble senseless heads of bills; + We may, while they strain their throats, + Wipe our a—s with their votes. + Let Sir Tom,[4] that rampant ass, + Stuff his guts with flax and grass; + But before the priest he fleeces, + Tear the Bible all to pieces: + At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, + Worthy offspring of a shoeboy, + Footman, traitor, vile seducer, + Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, + Lay thy privilege aside, + From Papist sprung, and regicide; + Fall a-working like a mole, + Raise the dirt about thy hole. + Come, assist me, Muse obedient! + Let us try some new expedient; + Shift the scene for half an hour, + Time and place are in thy power. + Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me; + I shall ask, and you instruct me. + See, the Muse unbars the gate; + Hark, the monkeys, how they prate! + All ye gods who rule the soul:[5] + Styx, through Hell whose waters roll! + Let me be allow'd to tell + What I heard in yonder Hell. + Near the door an entrance gapes,[6] + Crowded round with antic shapes, + Poverty, and Grief, and Care, + Causeless Joy, and true Despair; + Discord periwigg'd with snakes,'[7] + See the dreadful strides she takes! + By this odious crew beset,[8] + I began to rage and fret, + And resolved to break their pates, + Ere we enter'd at the gates; + Had not Clio in the nick[9] + Whisper'd me, "Lay down your stick." + What! said I, is this a mad-house? + These, she answer'd, are but shadows, + Phantoms bodiless and vain, + Empty visions of the brain. + In the porch Briareus stands,[10] + Shows a bribe in all his hands; + Briareus the secretary, + But we mortals call him Carey.[11] + When the rogues their country fleece, + They may hope for pence a-piece. + Clio, who had been so wise + To put on a fool's disguise, + To bespeak some approbation, + And be thought a near relation, + When she saw three hundred[12] brutes + All involved in wild disputes, + Roaring till their lungs were spent, +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0161" id="link2H_4_0161"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT, + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now a new misfortune feels, + Dreading to be laid by th' heels. + Never durst a Muse before + Enter that infernal door; + Clio, stifled with the smell, + Into spleen and vapours fell, + By the Stygian steams that flew + From the dire infectious crew. + Not the stench of Lake Avernus + Could have more offended her nose; + Had she flown but o'er the top, + She had felt her pinions drop. + And by exhalations dire, + Though a goddess, must expire. + In a fright she crept away, + Bravely I resolved to stay. + When I saw the keeper frown, + Tipping him with half-a-crown, + Now, said I, we are alone, + Name your heroes one by one. + Who is that hell-featured brawler? + Is it Satan? No; 'tis Waller.[13] + In what figure can a bard dress + Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? + Honest keeper, drive him further, + In his looks are Hell and murther; + See the scowling visage drop, + Just as when he murder'd Throp.[14] + Keeper, show me where to fix + On the puppy pair of Dicks: + By their lantern jaws and leathern, + You might swear they both are brethren: + Dick Fitzbaker,[15] Dick the player,[15] + Old acquaintance, are you there? + Dear companions, hug and kiss, + Toast Old Glorious in your piss; + Tie them, keeper, in a tether, + Let them starve and stink together; + Both are apt to be unruly, + Lash them daily, lash them duly; + Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, + Scorpion's rods, perhaps, may tame them. + Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, + Sweetly snoring in his cloak: + Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne,[16] + Half encompass'd by his kin: + There observe the tribe of Bingham,[17] + For he never fails to bring 'em; + And that base apostate Vesey + With Bishop's scraps grown fat and greasy, + While Wynne sleeps the whole debate, + They submissive round him wait; + (Yet would gladly see the hunks, + In his grave, and search his trunks,) + See, they gently twitch his coat, + Just to yawn and give his vote, + Always firm in his vocation, + For the court against the nation. + Those are Allens Jack and Bob,[18] + First in every wicked job, + Son and brother to a queer + Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. + We must give them better quarter, + For their ancestor trod mortar, + And at Hoath, to boast his fame, + On a chimney cut his name. + There sit Clements, Dilks, and Carter;[19] + Who for Hell would die a martyr. + Such a triplet could you tell + Where to find on this side Hell? + Gallows Carter, Dilks, and Clements, + Souse them in their own excrements. + Every mischief's in their hearts; + If they fail, 'tis want of parts. + Bless us! Morgan,[20] art thou there, man? + Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman? + Chairman to yon damn'd committee! + Yet I look on thee with pity. + Dreadful sight! what, learned Morgan + Metamorphosed to a Gorgon![21] + For thy horrid looks, I own, + Half convert me to a stone. + Hast thou been so long at school, + Now to turn a factious tool? + Alma Mater was thy mother, + Every young divine thy brother. + Thou, a disobedient varlet, + Treat thy mother like a harlot! + Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, + Who are all grown reverend preachers! + Morgan, would it not surprise one! + To turn thy nourishment to poison! + When you walk among your books, + They reproach you with their looks; + Bind them fast, or from their shelves + They'll come down to right themselves: + Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, + All in arms, prepare to back us: + Soon repent, or put to slaughter + Every Greek and Roman author. + Will you, in your faction's phrase, + Send the clergy all to graze;[22] + And to make your project pass, + Leave them not a blade of grass? + How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! + Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art. + Were but you and I acquainted, + Every monster should be painted: + You should try your graving tools + On this odious group of fools; + Draw the beasts as I describe them: + Form their features while I gibe them; + Draw them like; for I assure you, + You will need no <i>car'catura;</i> + Draw them so that we may trace + All the soul in every face. + Keeper, I must now retire, + You have done what I desire: + But I feel my spirits spent + With the noise, the sight, the scent. + "Pray, be patient; you shall find + Half the best are still behind! + You have hardly seen a score; + I can show two hundred more." + Keeper, I have seen enough. + Taking then a pinch of snuff, + I concluded, looking round them, + "May their god, the devil, confound them!"[23] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: St. Andrew's Church, close to the site of the Parliament + House.] + + [Footnote 2: On a scrap of paper, containing the memorials respecting the + Dean's family, there occur the following lines, apparently the rough + draught of the passage in the text: + "Making good that proverb odd, + Near the church and far from God, + Against the church direct is placed, + Like it both in head and waist."—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: From the answer of the demoniac that the devils which + possessed him were Legion.—St. Mark, v, 9.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Sir Thomas Prendergast, a prominent opponent of the clergy, + and a servile supporter of the government. See the verses on "Noisy Tom," + <i>ante</i>, p. 260.] + + [Footnote 5: "Di quibus imperium est animarum umbraeque silentes + Sit mihi fas audita loqui."—VIRG., <i>Aen</i>., vi, 264.] + + [Footnote 6: "Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci + Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae;"—273.] + + [Footnote 7:"——Discordia demens + Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis."—281.] + + [Footnote 8: "Corripit his subita trepidus, + ——strictamque aciem venientibus offert."—290.] + + [Footnote 9: "Et ni docta comes tenues sine corpore vitas."—VIRG., + <i>Aen</i>., vi, 291.] + + [Footnote 10: "Et centumgeminus Briareus."—287.] + + [Footnote 11: The Right Honourable Walter Carey. He was secretary to the + Duke of Dorset when lord-lieutenant of Ireland. The Duke of Dorset + came to Ireland in 1731.] + + [Footnote 12: "Two hundred" written by Swift in the margin.—<i>Forster</i>.] + + [Footnote 13: John Waller, Esq., member for the borough of Dongaile. He + was grandson to Sir Hardress Waller, one of the regicide judges, and who + concurred with them in passing sentence on Charles I. This Sir + Hardressmarried the daughter and co-heir of John Dowdal of Limerick, in + Ireland, + by which alliance he became so connected with the country, that after the + rebellion was over, the family made it their residence.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 14: Rev. Roger Throp, whose death was said to have been + occasioned by the persecution which he suffered from Waller. His case was + published by his brother, and never answered, containing such a scene of + petty vexatious persecutions as is almost incredible; the cause being the + refusal of Mr. Throp to compound, for a compensation totally inadequate, + some of the rights of his living which affected Waller's estate. In 1739, + a petition was presented to the House of Commons by his brother, Robert + Throp, gentleman, complaining of this persecution, and applying to + parliament for redress, relative to the number of attachments granted by + the King's Bench, in favour of his deceased brother, and which could not + be executed against the said Waller, on account of the privilege of + Parliament, etc. But this petition was rejected by the House, <i>nem. con.</i> + The Dean seems to have employed his pen against Waller. See a letter from + Mrs. Whiteway to Swift, Nov. 15, 1735, edit. Scott, xviii, p. + 414.—<i>W. E. B</i>.] + + [Footnote 15: Richard Tighe, so called because descended from a baker who + supplied Cromwell's army with bread. Bettesworth is termed the <i>player</i>, + from his pompous enunciation.] + + [Footnote 16: "Right Honourable Owen Wynne, county of Sligo.-Owen Wynne, + Esq., borough of Sligo.—John Wynne, Esq., borough of Castlebar."] + + [Footnote 17: "Sir John Bingham, Bart., county of Mayo.—His brother, + Henry Bingham, sat in parliament for some time for Castlebar."] + + [Footnote 18: John Allen represented the borough of Carysfort; Robert + Allen the county of Wicklow. The former was son, and the latter brother + to Joshua, the second Viscount Allen, hated and satirized by Swift, under + the name of Traulus. The ancestor of the Allens, as has been elsewhere + noticed, was an architect in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth's reign; + and was employed as such by many of the nobility, particularly Lord + Howth. He settled in Ireland, and was afterwards consulted by Lord + Stafford in some of his architectural plans.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 19: There were then two Clements in parliament, brothers, + Nathaniel and Henry. Michael Obrien Dilks represented the borough of + Castlemartye. He was barrack-master-general.] + + [Footnote 20: Doctor Marcus Antonius (which Swift calls his "heathenish + Christian name") Morgan, chairman to that committee to whom was referred + the petition of the farmers, graziers, etc. against tithe agistment. On + this petition the House reported, and agreed that it deserved the + strongest support.] + + [Footnote 21: Whose hair consisted of snakes, and who turned all she + looked upon to stone.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 22: A suggestion that if the tithe of <i>agistment</i> were + abolished, the clergy might be sent to graze.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 23: On the margin of a Broadside containing this poem is + written by Swift: + "Except the righteous Fifty Two + To whom immortal honour's due, + Take them, Satan, as your due + All except the Fifty Two."—<i>Forster.</i> + probably the number of those who opposed the Bill.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0162" id="link2H_4_0162"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A PRINTER'S[1] BEING SENT TO NEWGATE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Better we all were in our graves, + Than live in slavery to slaves; + Worse than the anarchy at sea, + Where fishes on each other prey; + Where every trout can make as high rants + O'er his inferiors, as our tyrants; + And swagger while the coast is clear: + But should a lordly pike appear, + Away you see the varlet scud, + Or hide his coward snout in mud. + Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach, + He dares not venture to approach; + Yet still has impudence to rise, + And, like Domitian,[2] leap at flies. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Mr. Faulkner, for printing the "Proposal for the better + Regulation and Improvement of Quadrille."] + + [Footnote 2: "Inter initia principatus cotidie secretum sibi horarum + sumere solebat, nec quicquam amplius quam muscas captare ac stilo + praeacuto configere; ut cuidam interroganti, essetne quis intus cum + Caesare, non absurde responsum sit a Vibio Crispo, <i>ne muscam quidem</i>" + (Suet. 3).—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0163" id="link2H_4_0163"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL; OR, A NEW BALLAD, WRITTEN BY A SHOE-BOY, ON AN + ATTORNEY WHO WAS FORMERLY A SHOE-BOY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Qui color ater erat, nunc est contrarius atro."[1] + + WITH singing of ballads, and crying of news, + With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes, + Did Hartley set out, both shoeless and shirtless, + And moneyless too, but not very dirtless; + Two pence he had gotten by begging, that's all; + One bought him a brush, and one a black ball; + For clouts at a loss he could not be much, + The clothes on his back as being but such; + Thus vamp'd and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and brush, + He gallantly ventured his fortune to push: + Vespasian[2] thus, being bespatter'd with dirt, + Was omen'd to be Rome's emperor for't. + But as a wise fiddler is noted, you know, + To have a good couple of strings to one bow; + So Hartley[3] judiciously thought it too little, + To live by the sweat of his hands and his spittle: + He finds out another profession as fit, + And straight he becomes a retailer of wit. + One day he cried—"Murders, and songs, and great news!" + Another as loudly—"Here blacken your shoes!" + At Domvile's[4] full often he fed upon bits, + For winding of jacks up, and turning of spits; + Lick'd all the plates round, had many a grubbing, + And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing; + Such bastings effect upon him could have none: + The dog will be patient that's struck with a bone. + Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal + So expert and so active at brushes and ball, + Was moved with compassion, and thought it a pity + A youth should be lost, that had been so witty: + Without more ado, he vamps up my spark, + And now we'll suppose him an eminent clerk! + Suppose him an adept in all the degrees + Of scribbling <i>cum dasho</i>, and hooking of fees; + Suppose him a miser, attorney, <i>per</i> bill, + Suppose him a courtier—suppose what you will— + Yet, would you believe, though I swore by the Bible, + That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Variation from Ovid, "Met.," ii, 541: + "Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: So in <i>Hudibras</i>, Pt. II, Canto II: + "<i>Vespasian</i> being dawb'd with Durt, + Was destin'd to the Empire for't + And from a Scavinger did come + To be a mighty Prince in <i>Rome</i>."] + + [Footnote 3: Squire Hartley Hutcheson, "that zealous prosecutor of + hawkers and libels," who signed Faulkner's committal to prison. See + "Prose Works," vii, 234.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper office.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0164" id="link2H_4_0164"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FRIENDLY APOLOGY FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE BY WAY OF DEFENCE OF + HARTLEY HUTCHESON, ESQ. BY JAMES BLACK-WELL, OPERATOR FOR THE FEET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But he by bawling news about, + And aptly using brush and clout, + A justice of the peace became, + To punish rogues who do the same. + + I sing the man of courage tried, + O'errun with ignorance and pride, + Who boldly hunted out disgrace + With canker'd mind, and hideous face; + The first who made (let none deny it) + The libel-vending rogues be quiet. + The fact was glorious, we must own, + For Hartley was before unknown, + Contemn'd I mean;—for who would chuse + So vile a subject for the Muse? + 'Twas once the noblest of his wishes + To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes, + For which he'd parch before the grate, + Or wind the jack's slow-rising weight, + (Such toils as best his talents fit,) + Or polish shoes, or turn the spit; + But, unexpectedly grown rich in + Squire Domvile's family and kitchen, + He pants to eternize his name, + And takes the dirty road to fame; + Believes that persecuting wit + Will prove the surest way to it; + So with a colonel[1] at his back, + The Libel feels his first attack; + He calls it a seditious paper, + Writ by another patriot Drapier; + Then raves and blunders nonsense thicker + Than alderman o'ercharged with liquor: + And all this with design, no doubt, + To hear his praises hawk'd about; + To send his name through every street, + Which erst he roam'd with dirty feet; + Well pleased to live in future times, + Though but in keen satiric rhymes. + So, Ajax, who, for aught we know, + Was justice many years ago, + And minding then no earthly things, + But killing libellers of kings; + Or if he wanted work to do, + To run a bawling news-boy through; + Yet he, when wrapp'd up in a cloud, + Entreated father Jove aloud, + Only in light to show his face, + Though it might tend to his disgrace. + And so the Ephesian villain [2] fired + The temple which the world admired, + Contemning death, despising shame, + To gain an ever-odious name. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Colonel Ker, a Scotchman, lieutenant-colonel to Lord + Harrington's regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against + The printer.—<i>F</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Herostratus, who set fire to the Temple of Artemis at + Ephesus, 356 B.C.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0165" id="link2H_4_0165"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AY AND NO, A TALE FROM DUBLIN.[1] WRITTEN IN 1737 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean, + Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean: + Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold." + "Ay, ay," quoth the Dean, "the cause is old gold." + "No, no," quoth the Primate, "if causes we sift, + This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift." + The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case; + And nothing of that ever troubled your grace. + Though with your state sieve your own notions you split, + A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit. + It's matter of weight, and a mere money job; + But the lower the coin the higher the mob. + Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk, + That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke. + The Irish dear joys have enough common sense, + To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence. + It is a pity a prelate should die without law; + But if I say the word—take care of Armagh!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In 1737, the gold coin had sunk in current value to the + amount of 6<i>d.</i> in each guinea, which made it the interest of the Irish + dealers to send over their balances in silver. To bring the value of the + precious metals nearer to a par, the Primate, Boulter, who was chiefly + trusted by the British Government in the administration of Ireland, + published a proclamation reducing the value of the gold coin threepence + in each guinea. This scheme was keenly opposed by Swift; and such was the + clamour excited against the archbishop, that his house was obliged to be + guarded by soldiers. The two following poems relate to this controversy, + which was, for the time it lasted, nearly as warm as that about Wood's + halfpence. The first is said to be the paraphrase of a conversation which + actually passed between Swift and the archbishop. The latter charged the + Dean with inflaming the mob, "I inflame them?" retorted Swift, "were I to + lift but a finger, they would tear you to pieces."—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0166" id="link2H_4_0166"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town? + By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down, + The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure, + For I saw'd them reading upon the towlsel[2] <i>doore</i>. + Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.[3] + + Arrah! who was him reading? 'twas <i>jauntleman</i> in ruffles, + And Patrick's bell she was ringing all in muffles; + She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with rag, + Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black flag.[4] + Sing, och, &c. + + Patrick astore, who was him made this law? + Some they do say, 'twas the big man of straw;[5] + But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6] + The devil he may take her into hell and <i>Boult-her!</i> + Sing, och, &c. + + Musha! Why Parliament wouldn't you maul, + Those <i>carters</i>, and paviours, and footmen, and all;[7] + Those rascally paviours who did us undermine, + Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of swine! + Sing, och, &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Astore, means my dear, my heart.] + + [Footnote 2: The Tholsel, where criminals for the city were tried, and + where proclamations, etc., were posted. It was invariably called the + Touls'el by the lower class.] + + [Footnote 3: It would appear that the chorus here introduced, was + intended to chime with the howl, the <i>ululatus</i>, or funeral cry, of the + Irish.] + + [Footnote 4: Swift, it is said, caused a muffled peal to be rung from the + steeple of St. Patrick's, on the day of the proclamation, and a black + flag to be displayed from its battlements.—<i>Scott</i>.] + + [Footnote 5: The big man of straw, means the Duke of Dorset, + Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; he had only the name of authority, the + essential power being vested in the primate.] + + [Footnote 6: Jug-Joulter means Primate <i>Boulter</i>, whose name is played + upon in the succeeding line. In consequence of the public dissatisfaction + expressed at the lowering the gold coin, the primate became very + unpopular.] + + [Footnote 7: "Footmen" alludes to a supporter of the measure, said to + have been the son or grandson of a servant.] + + [Footnote 8: Means <i>"my hundred thousand hearty curses</i> on the feeders of + swine."] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0167" id="link2H_4_0167"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While the king and his ministers keep such a pother, + And all about changing one whore for another, + Think I to myself, what need all this strife, + His majesty first had a whore of a wife, + And surely the difference mounts to no more + Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore. + Now give me your judgment a very nice case on; + Each queen has a son, say which is the base one? + Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales, + To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails; + Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines + To unite these two Protestant parallel lines, + From a left-handed wife, and one turn'd out of doors, + Two reputed king's sons, both true sons of whores; + No law can determine it, which is first oars. + But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master'd; + For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: So the following very remarkable verses are entitled, in a + copy which exists in the Dean's hand-writing bearing the following + characteristic memorandum on the back: "A traitorous libel, writ several + years ago. It is inconsistent with itself. Copied September 9, 1735. I + wish I knew the author, that I might hang him." And at the bottom of the + paper is subjoined this postscript. "I copied out this wicked paper many + years ago, in hopes to discover the traitor of an author, that I might + inform against him." For the foundation of the scandals current during + the reign of George I, to which the lines allude, see Walpole's + Reminiscences of the Courts of George the first and second, chap, ii, at + p. cii, Walpole's Letters, edit. Cunningham.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0168" id="link2H_4_0168"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY BY SWIFT AND OTHERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin, was publisher of a + translation of Horace, in which the Latin was printed on the one side, + and the English on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius, + alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained the dead to the + living. + Carthy was almost continually involved in satirical skirmishes with + Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship, and there is no doubt + that the Dean himself engaged in the warfare.—<i>Scott</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0169" id="link2H_4_0169"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own + version. + + This I may boast, which few e'er could, + Half of my book at least is good. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0170" id="link2H_4_0170"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced, + For here we see the man and there the beast. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0171" id="link2H_4_0171"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once Horace fancied from a man, + He was transformed to a swan;[1] + But Carthy, as from him thou learnest, + Has made the man a goose in earnest. + + [Footnote 1: + "Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae + Pelles, et album mutor in alitem + Superne, nascunturque leves + Per digitos humerosque plumae." + Lib. ii, Carm. xx.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0172" id="link2H_4_0172"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux, + Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro; + Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus, + Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0173" id="link2H_4_0173"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IMITATED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So blush'd Aurora with celestial charms, + So bloom'd the goddess in a mortal's arms; + He sunk at length to wasting age a prey, + But thy book perish'd on its natal day. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0174" id="link2H_4_0174"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lectores ridere jubes dum Carthius astat? + Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes: + Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles + Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0175" id="link2H_4_0175"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IMITATED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Could Horace give so sad a monster birth? + Why then in vain he would excite our mirth; + His humour well our laughter might command, + But who can bear the death's head in his hand? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0176" id="link2H_4_0176"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While with the fustian of thy book, + The witty ancient you enrobe, + You make the graceful Horace look + As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1] + Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount, + And Helicon, for if this log + Should stumble once into the fount, + He'll make it muddy as a bog. + + [Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become + proverbial.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0177" id="link2H_4_0177"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + High as Longinus to the stars ascends, + So deeply Carthy to the centre tends. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0178" id="link2H_4_0178"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras, + Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0179" id="link2H_4_0179"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then, + Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0180" id="link2H_4_0180"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy's works, as + they did not sell. + + I must confess that I was somewhat warm, + I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm? + My work he said could ne'er afford him meat, + And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TO CARTHY + On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his + Longinus. + + Thus vagrant beggars, to extort + By charity a mean support, + Their sores and putrid ulcers show, + And shock our sense till we bestow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0181" id="link2H_4_0181"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CARTHY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems. + + How different from thine is Dunkin's lot! + Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0182" id="link2H_4_0182"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS + POETASTERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So witches bent on bad pursuits, + Assume the shapes of filthy brutes. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0183" id="link2H_4_0183"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CARTHY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light, + Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight, + But forced from their retirement into day, + The tender embryos half unknown decay; + Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare, + Expire when first exposed to open air. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0184" id="link2H_4_0184"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the Gentleman's London Magazine for January. + + My lines to him you give; to speak your due, + 'Tis what no man alive will say of you. + Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats, + Known by the verse, yet better by the notes. + Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass, + But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass; + So green in different lights may pass for blue, + But what's dyed black will take no other hue. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0185" id="link2H_4_0185"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You have undone Horace,—what should hinder + Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar? + But ere you mount his fiery steed, + Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:— + For should you give him once the reins, + High up in air he'll turn your brains; + And if you should his fury check, + 'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck. +</pre> + <h3> + DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On one Delacourt's complimenting Carthy on his Poetry + + Carthy, you say, writes well—his genius true, + You pawn your word for him—he'll vouch for you. + So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail, + To cheat the world, become each other's bail. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0186" id="link2H_4_0186"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some ancient authors wisely write, + That he who drinks will wake at night, + Will never fail to lose his rest, + And feel a streightness in his chest; + A streightness in a double sense, + A streightness both of breath and pence: + Physicians say, it is but reasonable, + He that comes home at hour unseasonable, + (Besides a fall and broken shins, + Those smaller judgments for his sins;) + If, when he goes to bed, he meets + A teasing wife between the sheets, + 'Tis six to five he'll never sleep, + But rave and toss till morning peep. + Yet harmless Betty must be blamed + Because you feel your lungs inflamed + But if you would not get a fever, + You never must one moment leave her. + This comes of all your drunken tricks, + Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks; + Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory + Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery + But like the prelate who lives yonder-a, + And always cries he is like Cassandra; + I always told you, Mr. Sheridan, + If once this company you were rid on, + Frequented honest folk, and very few, + You'd live till all your friends were weary of you. + But if rack punch you still would swallow, + I then forewarn'd you what would follow. + Are the Deanery sober hours? + Be witness for me all ye powers. + The cloth is laid at eight, and then + We sit till half an hour past ten; + One bottle well might serve for three + If Mrs. Robinson drank like me. + Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd + To Robert to bring up a second; + I hate to have it in my sight, + And drink my share in perfect spite. + If Robin brings the ladies word, + The coach is come, I 'scape a third; + If not, why then I fall a-talking + How sweet a night it is for walking; + For in all conscience, were my treasure able, + I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable; + It strikes eleven,—get out of doors.— + This is my constant farewell + Yours, + J. S. + + October 18, 1724, nine in the morning. + + You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the + provost. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0187" id="link2H_4_0187"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Resolve me this, ye happy dead, + Who've lain some hundred years in bed, + From every persecution free + That in this wretched life we see; + Would ye resume a second birth, + And choose once more to live on earth? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Soon after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they + passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of + Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the + following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In + the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer + to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it + has been since restored.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE + FOLLOWING LINES + + Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb: + "Mortal, I would not change my doom, + To live in such a restless state, + To be unfortunately great; + To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves, + To shine amidst a race of slaves; + To learn from wise men to complain + And only rise to fall again: + No! let my dusty relics rest, + Until I rise among the blest." + + [Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0188" id="link2H_4_0188"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UPSTART + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the + editor, ascribed to Swift.—<i>Scott.</i> + + "—— The rascal! that's too mild a name; + Does he forget from whence he came? + Has he forgot from whence he sprung? + A mushroom in a bed of dung; + A maggot in a cake of fat, + The offspring of a beggar's brat; + As eels delight to creep in mud, + To eels we may compare his blood; + His blood delights in mud to run, + Witness his lazy, lousy son! + Puff'd up with pride and insolence, + Without a grain of common sense. + See with what consequence he stalks! + With what pomposity he talks! + See how the gaping crowd admire + The stupid blockhead and the liar! + How long shall vice triumphant reign? + How long shall mortals bend to gain? + How long shall virtue hide her face, + And leave her votaries in disgrace? + —Let indignation fire my strains, + Another villain yet remains— + Let purse-proud C——n next approach; + With what an air he mounts his coach! + A cart would best become the knave, + A dirty parasite and slave! + His heart in poison deeply dipt, + His tongue with oily accents tipt, + A smile still ready at command, + The pliant bow, the forehead bland—" + * * * * + * * * * +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0189" id="link2H_4_0189"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —URBS INTACTA MANET—semper intacta manebit, + Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat? + + [Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing + the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this + monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote + the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he + said, of the ladies.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TRANSLATION + + A thistle is the Scottish arms, + Which to the toucher threatens harms, + What are the arms of Waterford, + That no man touches—but a ——? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0190" id="link2H_4_0190"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam + Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas! + MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See, here's the grand approach, + That way is for his grace's coach; + There lies the bridge, and there the clock, + Observe the lion and the cock;[2] + The spacious court, the colonnade, + And mind how wide the hall is made; + The chimneys are so well design'd, + They never smoke in any wind: + The galleries contrived for walking, + The windows to retire and talk in; + The council-chamber to debate, + And all the rest are rooms of state. + Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine, + But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? + I find, by all you have been telling, + That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling. + + [Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See + vol. i, p. 74.—<i>W.E..B</i>] + + [Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed + over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding + of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a + cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that + signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation," + and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No. + 59.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0191" id="link2H_4_0191"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year, + Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near; + To whom did he lose it?—A judge or a peer.[2] + Which nobody can deny. + + This very same conscience was sold in a closet, + Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset, + But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset. + Which nobody can deny. + + O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense, + For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since, + But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience. + Which nobody can deny. + + So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed, + Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead, + Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned. + Which nobody can deny. + + But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue, + Since selling de contre be now all de vogue, + You be but von fool after seventeen rogue. + Which nobody can deny. + + Some sell it for profit, 'tis very well known, + And some but for sitting in sight of the throne, + And other some sell what is none of their own. + Which nobody can deny. + + But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze, + And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise, + With six other worthies as glorious as these. + Which nobody can deny. + + There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood, + And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good, + All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood. + Which nobody can deny. + + But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on't in time, + Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme, + We'll paint 'em in colours as black as their crime. + Which nobody can deny. + + But P——r and copper L——h we'll excuse, + The commands of your betters you dare not refuse, + Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes. + Which nobody can deny. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who + threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had + not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve + are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course + this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of + England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have + been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written + by Swift.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0192" id="link2H_4_0192"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by + his opposition to Wood's coinage. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL + + I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood, + But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good; + Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears, + Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years. + In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right, + And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't. + And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season + When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason. + His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore, + Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more. + Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross, + For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross. + To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win, + He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin. + Why, theres my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows, + He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows. + "A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name, + To have two thousand pounds a-year—O 'tis a burning shame! + Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!" + And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive: + Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground, + And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound. + Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo, + Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go." + He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks, + For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box. + And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace, + Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face: + Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain; + He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain. + "Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend, + I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend, + Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can; + I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man." + Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash, + I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!" + "God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher, + Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire." + To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke, + Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk. + And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found, + His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound; + "Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face, + Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace." + And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack, + That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back. + Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as long + As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0193" id="link2H_4_0193"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HIS GRACE THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A POEM + + Serus in coelum redeas, diuque + Laetus intersis populo.—HOR., <i>Carm.</i> I, ii, 45. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great, good, and just, was once applied + To one who for his country died;[l] + To one who lives in its defence, + We speak it in a happier sense. + O may the fates thy life prolong! + Our country then can dread no wrong: + In thy great care we place our trust, + Because thou'rt great, and good, and just: + Thy breast unshaken can oppose + Our private and our public foes: + The latent wiles, and tricks of state, + Your wisdom can with ease defeat. + When power in all its pomp appears, + It falls before thy rev'rend years, + And willingly resigns its place + To something nobler in thy face. + When once the fierce pursuing Gaul + Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall, + The godlike hero with a frown + Struck all his rage and malice down; + Then how can we dread William Wood, + If by thy presence he's withstood? + Where wisdom stands to keep the field, + In vain he brings his brazen shield; + Though like the sibyl's priest he comes, + With furious din of brazen drums + The force of thy superior voice + Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise. + + [Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose: + + "Great, good, and just! could I but rate + My griefs to thy too rigid fate, + I'd weep the world in such a strain + As it should deluge once again; + But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies + More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes, + I'll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds, + And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds." + + See Napier's "Montrose and the Covenanters," i, 520.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0194" id="link2H_4_0194"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE CITIZENS[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And shall the Patriot who maintain'd your cause, + From future ages only meet applause? + Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid, + By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd? + Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside, + These wretches had been damn'd for parricide. + Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat + The sure destruction of an injured state, + Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd, + Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd; + Inspired with love of glorious liberty, + Do wonders to preserve his country free; + He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they + Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey, + Each urging in his rage the deadly dart, + Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart; + Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief, + And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief, + But, if the people he preserved should cry, + He went too far, and he deserved to—die, + Would not your soul such treachery detest, + And indignation boil within your breast, + Would not you wish that wretched state preserved, + To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved? + If, then, oppression has not quite subdued + At once your prudence and your gratitude, + If you yourselves conspire not your undoing, + And don't deserve, and won't draw down your ruin, + If yet to virtue you have some pretence, + If yet ye are not lost to common sense, + Assist your patriot in your own defence; + That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise, + And know that to be brave is to be wise: + Think how he struggled for your liberty, + And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free. + M. B. + + [Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature + M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the + Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier's + Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the + author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments, + while confined to Wood's scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth + letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature + of Ireland's connection with England. The object of these verses is, to + encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly + their own.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0195" id="link2H_4_0195"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ——Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, + Auri sacra fames!——VIRG., <i>Aen.</i>, iii. + + This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of + Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems + to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, + when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.—<i>Scott.</i> See + vol. i, p. 169.—<i>W. E. B.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fair ones who do all hearts command, + And gently sway with fan in hand + Your favourite—Punch a suppliant falls, + And humbly for assistance calls; + He humbly calls and begs you'll stop + The gothic rage of Vander Hop, + Wh'invades without pretence and right, + Or any law but that of might, + Our Pigmy land—and treats our kings + Like paltry idle wooden things; + Has beat our dancers out of doors, + And call'd our chastest virgins whores; + He has not left our Queen a rag on, + Has forced away our George and Dragon, + Has broke our wires, nor was he civil + To Doctor Faustus nor the devil; + E'en us he hurried with full rage, + Most hoarsely squalling off the stage; + And faith our fright was very great + To see a minister of state, + Arm'd with power and fury come + To force us from our little home— + We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason, + An accusation of high-treason; + Till, starting up, says Banamiere, + "Treason, my friends, we need not fear, + For 'gainst the Brass we used no power, + Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1] + Nor did we show the least affection + To Rochford or the Meath election; + Nor did we sing,—'Machugh he means.'" + "You villain, I'll dash out your brains, + 'Tis no affair of state which brings + Me here—or business of the King's; + I'm come to seize you all as debtors, + And bind you fast in iron fetters, + From sight of every friend in town, + Till fifty pound's to me paid down." + —"Fifty!" quoth I, "a devilish sum; + But stay till the brass farthings come, + Then we shall all be rich as Jews, + From Castle down to lowest stews; + That sum shall to you then be told, + Though now we cannot furnish gold." + Quoth he, "thou vile mis-shapen beast, + Thou knave, am I become thy jest; + And dost thou think that I am come + To carry nought but farthings home! + Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves, + Farthings are made for Irish slaves; + No brass for me, it must be gold, + Or fifty pounds in silver told, + That can by any means obtain + Freedom for thee and for thy train." + "Votre trhs humble serviteur, + I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure, + But from the bottom of my belly, + I do in sober sadness tell you, + I thought it was good reasoning, + For us fictitious men to bring + Brass counters made by William Wood + Intrinsic as we flesh and blood; + Then since we are but mimic men, + Pray let us pay in mimic coin." + Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate, + And couldst for ever hold debate; + But think'st thou I have nought to do + But to stand prating thus with you? + Therefore to stop your noisy parly, + I do at once assure you fairly, + That not a puppet of you all + Shall stir a step without this wall, + Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum, + Until you pay the foresaid sum." + Then marching off with swiftest race + To write dispatches for his grace, + The revel-master left the room, + And us condemn'd to fatal doom. + Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace, + Or if my jokes did ever please, + Use all your interest with your sec,[2] + (They say he's at the ladies' beck,) + And though he thinks as much of gold + As ever Midas[3] did of old: + Your charms I'm sure can never fail, + Your eyes must influence, must prevail; + At your command he'll set us free, + Let us to you owe liberty. + Get us a license now to play, + And we'll in duty ever pray. + + [Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure + passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his + absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant, + who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, <i>rythmi gratia.—Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: See Ovid, "Metam." xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0196" id="link2H_4_0196"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great folks are of a finer mould; + Lord! how politely they can scold! + While a coarse English tongue will itch, + For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0197" id="link2H_4_0197"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM ON JOSIAH HORT[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH + DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2] + + Lord Pam[3] in the church (you'd you think it) kneel'd down; + When told that the Duke was just come to Town— + His station despising, unawed by the place, + He flies from his God to attend to his Grace. + To the Court it was better to pay his devotion, + Since God had no hand in his Lordship's promotion. + + [Footnote 1: See vol. i, "The Storm," at p. 242.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant + of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French + <i>Pamphile</i>. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the + whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of + wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most + vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the + days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was + promoted <i>non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus</i>. + From a note in "The Toast," by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin + verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London, + 1736.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0198" id="link2H_4_0198"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Behold! a proof of <i>Irish</i> sense; + Here <i>Irish</i> wit is seen! + When nothing's left that's worth defence, + We build a magazine. + + [Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician, + Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed + for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, "Oh! Oh!" + said the Dean, "This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my + tablets"—and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above + epigram.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0199" id="link2H_4_0199"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRIFLES + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0200" id="link2H_4_0200"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GEORGE ROCHFORT'S VERSES FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT + LARACOR, NEAR TRIM + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0201" id="link2H_4_0201"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MUSA CLONSHOGHIANA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That Downpatrick's Dean, or Patrick's down went, + Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant; + So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent, + Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent. + Our parsons agree here, as those did at Trent, + Dan's forehead has got a most damnable dent, + Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent. + But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly bent, + With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent; + Does Jack's utter ruin at picket prevent, + For an answer in specie to yours must be sent; + So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent, + And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint, + Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment; + But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent. + Bellcampe, January 1, 1717. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0202" id="link2H_4_0202"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LEFT-HANDED LETTER[1] TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, + That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung; + We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst, + Yet still are no wiser than we were at first. + + <i>Pudet haec opprobria</i>, I freely must tell ye, + <i>Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli.</i> + Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer, + You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2]; + I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score; + How many to answer? One, two, three, or four, + But, because the three former are long ago past, + I shall, for method-sake, begin with the last. + You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe, + Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow. + Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, + Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield. + So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them, + Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, <i>Te Deum.</i> + So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground, + Comes off by out-laughing the company round: + In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies, + Having thus overthrown all our farther advances. + My offers of peace you ill understood; + Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good? + 'Twas to teach you in modester language your duty; + For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye; + As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends + To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends. + But we like Antfus and Hercules fight, + The oftener you fall, the oftener you write: + And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown, + I'll first take you up, and then take you down; + And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound + The worst dunce in your school, till he's heaved from the ground. + + I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and + the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of + business. September 20, 1718.—I will send you the rest when I have + leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility + of printing it left-handed as it was written.—<i>H</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see "Prose Works," + v, 326.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella, + "Prose Works," ii, especially p. 404.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0203" id="link2H_4_0203"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S IN ANSWER TO HIS LEFT-HANDED LETTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer, + I'll tell you at once, sir, I'm now not your man, sir; + For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found + With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground? + When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back; + But I found out the way to your den by its track: + From thence the black monster I drew, o' my conscience, + And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense. + When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue, + You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew; + Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair, + Therefore turn about to the right, as you were; + Then if with true courage your ground you maintain, + My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain: + Who's greater by far than great Alexander, + As much as a teal surpasses a gander; + As much as a game-cocks excell'd by a sparrow; + As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow: + As much and much more as the most handsome man + Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan. + T. SHERIDAN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called + the left hand. + + Oft have I been by poets told, + That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old. + Alas, thy numbers failing all, + Poor Jonathan, how they do fall! + Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell, + Now jingle like a rusty bridle: + Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet, + Now limp upon their gouty feet: + Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime, + Are humbled by the tyrant, Time: + Alas! what cannot Time subdue? + Time has reduced my wine and you; + Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings, + Disabled both in our main springs; + So that of late we two are grown + The jest and scorn of all the town. + But yet, if my advice be ta'en, + We two may be as great again; + I'll send you wings, you send me wine; + Then you will fly, and I shall shine. + + This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other. + + How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex'd her; + Little did she know, I was <i>ambidexter</i>. + T. SHERIDAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0204" id="link2H_4_0204"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR, + + I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school, + in the lower end of St. Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a + Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood + less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself: therefore I + made bold to send you the enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may + qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if + you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one + to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane. + I am yours, + Reverend Sir, to command, + PAT. REYLY. + + Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim. + HOR., <i>Epist</i>. II, i, 117 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0205" id="link2H_4_0205"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AD AMICUM ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Delicif, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice, + Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo + Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident, + Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu + Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum, + Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem + Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri + Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas + Astitit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae, + Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus; + Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra; + Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam: + Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura. + Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit, + Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente, + Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus, + Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas. + Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi; + Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est + Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram. + Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed usque + Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo + Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror + Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones. + Quin tu alth penitusque latentia semina cernis + Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras + Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saeph puella + Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes. + Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub akre natus: + Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris + Pessundat: nam saeph vides in stipite matrem. + Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae, + Aeneae sedes tantym patefecit Avernas; + Saeph puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga, + Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ad te, doctissime Delany, + Pulsus ` foribus Decani, + Confugiens edo querelam, + Pauper petens clientelam. + Petebam Swift doctum patronum, + Sed ille dedit nullum donum, + Neque cibum neque bonum. + Quaeris qu`m malh sit stomacho num? + Iratus valdh valdh latrat, + Crumenicidam fermh patrat: + Quin ergo releves aegrotum, + Dato cibum, dato potum. + Ita in utrumvis oculum, + Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum. + + Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis + perlegere, quam cum fastidio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam) + lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Reverende Vir, + + De vestrb benignitate et clementib in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi + persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non + scripsissem; quam profectr, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere + partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis + maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu + visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra + querela. Proh De{m atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi + est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro + ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, + qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi + ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene ntssem succurrere potuisse, + mehercule, neque fores vestras pult{ssem, neque limina tetigissem. Qu`m + longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, + despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In + vib nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne + turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me picturb + pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum + sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; + nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale. + + Vivitur parvo malh, sed canebat + Flaccus ut parvo benh: quod negamus: + Pinguis et lauth saturatus ille + Ridet inanes. + + Pace sic dicam liceat poetae + Nobilis laeti salibus faceti + Usque jocundi, lepidh jocantis + Non sine curb. + + Quis potest versus (meditans merendam, + Prandium, coenam) numerare? quis non + Quot panes pistor locat in fenestrb + Dicere mallet? + + Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus; + Latrat ingenti stomachus furore; + Quaeso digneris renovare fauces, + Docte Patrone. + + Vestiant lanae tenues libellos, + Vestiant panni dominum trementem, + Aedibus vestris trepidante pennb + Musa propinquat. + + Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes + Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam + Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta + Frigore iniquo. + + Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me + Plura, sed praestat rogitare plura, + An dabis binos digitos crumenae im- + ponere vestrae? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0206" id="link2H_4_0206"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise + Have made a recantation, + From your low bended knees arise; + I hate such poor prostration. + + 'Tis bravery that moves the brave, + As one nail drives another; + If you from me would mercy have, + Pray, Sir, be such another. + + You that so long maintain'd the field + With true poetic vigour; + Now you lay down your pen and yield, + You make a wretched figure. + + Submit, but do't with sword in hand, + And write a panegyric + Upon the man you cannot stand; + I'll have it done in lyric: + + That all the boys I teach may sing + The achievements of their Chiron; + What conquests my stern looks can bring + Without the help of iron. + + A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen, + From magazine of standish + Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean, + Than any sword we brandish. + + My inks my flash, my pens my bolt; + Whene'er I please to thunder, + I'll make you tremble like a colt, + And thus I'll keep you under. + THOMAS SHERIDAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0207" id="link2H_4_0207"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Dean, I'm in a sad condition, + I cannot see to read or write; + Pity the darkness of thy Priscian, + Whose days are all transform'd to night. + + My head, though light, 's a dungeon grown, + The windows of my soul are closed; + Therefore to sleep I lay me down, + My verse and I are both composed. + + Sleep, did I say? that cannot be; + For who can sleep, that wants his eyes? + My bed is useless then to me, + Therefore I lay me down to rise. + + Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro + Upon the surface of my brain; + In various maze they come and go, + And come and go again. + + So have you seen in sheet burnt black, + The fiery sparks at random run; + Now here, now there, some turning back + Some ending where they just begun. + THOMAS SHERIDAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0208" id="link2H_4_0208"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANSWER, BY DELANY, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye, + And the more I consider your case, still the more I + Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye. + Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye, + In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory." + But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye + A sovereign cure well attested in Gory. + First wash it with <i>ros</i>, that makes dative <i>rori</i>, + Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye; + Then take a cordial dram to restore ye, + Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree, + Then take a glass of good claret <i>ex more</i>, + Then stay as long as you can <i>ab uxore</i>; + And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door, he + Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er ye, + And make you so bright, that you'll sing tory rory, + And make a new ballad worth ten of John Dory: + (Though I work your cure, yet he'll get the glory.) + I'm now in the back school-house, high up one story, + Quite weary with teaching, and ready to <i>mori</i>. + My candle's just out too, no longer I'll pore ye, + But away to Clem Barry's,[2]—theres an end of my story. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.] + + [Footnote 2: See "The Country Life," i, 140.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0209" id="link2H_4_0209"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I like your collyrium, + Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um, + 'Twill gain you a great reputation; + By this you may rise, + Like the doctor so wise,[1] + Who open'd the eyes of the nation. + + And these, I must tell ye, + Are bigger than its belly;— + You know, theres in Livy a story + Of the hands and the feet + Denying of meat,— + Don't I write in the dark like a Tory? + + Your water so far goes, + 'Twould serve for an Argus, + Were all his whole hundred sore; + So many we read + He had in his head, + Or Ovid's a son of a whore. + + For your recipe, sir, + May my lids never stir, + If ever I think once to fee you; + For I'd have you to know, + When abroad I can go, + That it's honour enough, if I see you. + + [Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0210" id="link2H_4_0210"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER REPLY, BY SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise + Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes; + As the Dean of St. Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies! + I cannot lie down, but immediately rise, + To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise. + Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies, + But his head and his tail new succour supplies, + To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs. + The wing of a goose before me now lies, + Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies. + Whoever opposes me, certainly dies, + Though he were as valiant as Condi or Guise. + The women disturb me a-crying of pies, + With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs. + By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize, + That I'd gain cloth of gold, when you'd scarce merit frize. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0211" id="link2H_4_0211"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THOMAS SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Tom, I'm surprised that your verse did not jingle; + But your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single. + For, as Helsham observes, there's nothing can chime, + Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme. + If you had not took physic, I'd pay off your bacon, + But now I'll write short, for fear you're short-taken. + Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call'd me a fool; + For he says, short as 'tis, it will give you a stool. + In libris bellis, tu parum parcis ocellis; + Dum nimium scribis, vel talpb caecior ibis, + Aut ad vina redis, nam sic tua lumina laedis: + Sed tibi coenanti sunt collyria tanti? + Nunquid eges visu, dum comples omnia risu? + Heu Sheridan caecus, heu eris nunc cercopithecus. + Nunc benh nasutus mittet tibi carmina tutus: + Nunc ope Burgundi, malus Helsham ridet abund`, + Nec Phoebe fili versum quns[2] mittere Ryly. + Quid tibi cum libris? relavet tua lumina Tybris[3] + Mixtus Saturno;[4] penso sed parch diurno + Observes hoc tu, nec scriptis utere noctu. + Nonnulli mingunt et palpebras sibi tingunt. + Quidam purgantes, libros in stercore nantes + Lingunt; sic vinces videndo, mn bone, lynces. + Culum oculum tergis, dum scripta hoc flumine mergis; + Tunc oculi et nates, ni fallor, agent tibi grates. + Vim fuge Decani, nec sit tibi cura Delani: + Heu tibi si scribant, aut si tibi fercula libant, + Pone loco mortis, rapis fera pocula fortis + Haec tibi pauca dedi, sed consule Betty my Lady, + Huic te des solae, nec egebis pharmacopolae. + Haec somnians cecini, + JON. SWIFT. + + Oct. 23, 1718. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.] + + [Footnote 2: Pro potes.—<i>Horat.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio.—<i>Virg.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0212" id="link2H_4_0212"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWIFT TO SHERIDAN, IN REPLY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tom, for a goose you keep but base quills, + They're fit for nothing else but pasquils. + I've often heard it from the wise, + That inflammations in the eyes + Will quickly fall upon the tongue, + And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung, + From out the pen will presently + On paper dribble daintily. + Suppose I call'd you goose, it is hard + One word should stick thus in your gizzard. + You're my goose, and no other man's; + And you know, all my geese are swans: + Only one scurvy thing I find, + Swans sing when dying, geese when blind. + But now I smoke where lies the slander,— + I call'd you goose instead of gander; + For that, dear Tom, ne'er fret and vex, + I'm sure you cackle like the sex. + I know the gander always goes + With a quill stuck across his nose: + So your eternal pen is still + Or in your claw, or in your bill. + But whether you can tread or hatch, + I've something else to do than watch. + As for your writing I am dead, + I leave it for the second head. + + Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0213" id="link2H_4_0213"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANSWER BY SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos; + Perlepidos quidhm; scribendo semper es idem. + Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo; + Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes, + Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae, + Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit) + Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto + Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum. + O terra et coelum! qu`m redit pectus anhelum. + Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum? + Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato, + Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales? + Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno: + Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem. + Amphora, qu`m dulces risus queis pectora mulces, + Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho: + Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe; + Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0214" id="link2H_4_0214"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whate'er your predecessors taught us, + I have a great esteem for Plautus; + And think your boys may gather there-hence + More wit and humour than from Terence; + But as to comic Aristophanes, + The rogue too vicious and too profane is. + I went in vain to look for Eupolis + Down in the Strand,[1] just where the New Pole[2] is; + For I can tell you one thing, that I can, + You will not find it in the Vatican. + He and Cratinus used, as Horace says, + To take his greatest grandees for asses. + Poets, in those days, used to venture high; + But these are lost full many a century. + Thus you may see, dear friend, <i>ex pede</i> hence, + My judgment of the old comedians. + Proceed to tragics: first Euripides + (An author where I sometimes dip a-days) + Is rightly censured by the Stagirite, + Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright. + A friend of mine that author despises + So much he swears the very best piece is, + For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's; + And that a woman in these tragedies, + Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is. + At least I'm well assured, that no folk lays + The weight on him they do on Sophocles. + But, above all, I prefer Eschylus, + Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us. + And now I find my Muse but ill able, + To hold out longer in trissyllable. + I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty; + Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye? + + [Footnote 1: N.B.—The Strand in London. The fact may not be true; but + the rhyme cost me some trouble.—<i>Swift</i>.] + + [Footnote 2: The Maypole. See "The Dunciad," ii, 28. Pope's "Works," + Elwin and Courthope, vol. iv.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0215" id="link2H_4_0215"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sir, + + I thank you for your comedies. + I'll stay and read 'em now at home a-days, + Because Parcus wrote but sorrily + Thy notes, I'll read Lambinus thoroughly; + And then I shall be stoutly set a-gog + To challenge every Irish Pedagogue. + I like your nice epistle critical, + Which does in threefold rhymes so witty fall; + Upon the comic dram' and tragedy + Your notions right, but verses maggotty; + 'Tis but an hour since I heard a man swear it, + The Devil himself could hardly answer it. + As for your friend the sage Euripides, + I[1] believe you give him now the slip o' days; + But mum for that—pray come a Saturday + And dine with me, you can't a better day: + I'll give you nothing but a mutton chop, + Some nappy mellow'd ale with rotten hop, + A pint of wine as good as Falern', + Which we poor masters, God knows, all earn; + We'll have a friend or two, sir, at table, + Right honest men, for few're comeatable; + Then when our liquor makes us talkative, + We'll to the fields, and take a walk at eve. + Because I'm troubled much with laziness, + These rhymes I've chosen for their easiness. + + [Footnote 1: N.B.—You told me you forgot your Greek.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0216" id="link2H_4_0216"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT, 1718 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Dean, since in <i>cruxes</i> and <i>puns</i> you and I deal, + Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle? + 'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning, + In bed as I lay, sir, a-tossing and turning. + You'll find if you read but a few of your histories, + All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries. + To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager, + And make every one of the sex a Belphegor. + But that will not do, for I mean to commend them; + I swear without jest I an honour intend them. + In a sieve, sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell, + In a riddle I give you their power and their title. + This I told you before; do you know what I mean, sir? + "Not I, by my troth, sir."—Then read it again, sir. + The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double, + Is purely through pity, to save you the trouble + Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last, + When your Pegasus canter'd in triple, and rid fast. + As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnassus, + With Phoebus's leave, to run with his asses, + He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded, + While your fiery steed is whipp'd, spurr'd, bastinaded. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0217" id="link2H_4_0217"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In reading your letter alone in my hackney, + Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh. + And when with much labour the matter I crack'd, + I found you mistaken in matter of fact. + A woman's no sieve, (for with that you begin,) + Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in. + And that she's a riddle can never be right, + For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light. + But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer; + Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher. + Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation, + What name for a maid,[1] was the first man's damnation? + If your worship will please to explain me this rebus, + I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus. + + From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718, past 12 at noon. + + [Footnote 1: A damsel, <i>i.e.</i>, <i>Adam's Hell</i>.—<i>H.</i> Vir Gin.—<i>Dublin + Edition.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0218" id="link2H_4_0218"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Don't think these few lines which I send, a reproach, + From my Muse in a car, to your Muse in a coach. + The great god of poems delights in a car, + Which makes him so bright that we see him from far; + For, were he mew'd up in a coach, 'tis allow'd + We'd see him no more than we see through a cloud. + You know to apply this—I do not disparage + Your lines, but I say they're the worse for the carriage. + Now first you deny that a woman's a sieve; + I say that she is: What reason d'ye give? + Because she lets out more than she takes in. + Is't that you advance for't? you are still to begin. + Your major and minor I both can refute, + I'll teach you hereafter with whom to dispute. + A sieve keeps in half, deny't if you can. + D. "Adzucks, I mistook it, who thought of the bran?" + I tell you in short, sir, you[1] should have a pair o' stocks + For thinking to palm on your friend such a paradox. + Indeed, I confess, at the close you grew better, + But you light from your coach when you finish'd your letter. + Your thing which you say wants interpretation, + What's name for a maiden—the first man's damnation? + A damsel—Adam's hell—ay, there I have hit it, + Just as you conceived it, just so have I writ it. + Since this I've discover'd, I'll make you to know it, + That now I'm your Phoebus, and you are my poet. + But if you interpret the two lines that follow, + I'll again be your poet, and you my Apollo. + Why a noble lord's dog, and my school-house this weather, + Make up the best catch when they're coupled together? + + From my Ringsend car, Sept. 12, 1718, past 5 in the morning, + on a repetition day. + + [Footnote 1: Begging pardon for the expression to a dignitary of + thechurch.—<i>S.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0219" id="link2H_4_0219"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE SAME. BY DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 12 o'Clock at Noon + Sept. 12, 1718. + + SIR, + Perhaps you may wonder, I send you so soon + Another epistle; consider 'tis noon. + For all his acquaintance well know that friend Tom is, + Whenever he makes one, as good as his promise. + Now Phoebus exalted, sits high on his throne, + Dividing the heav'ns, dividing my crown, + Into poems and business, my skull's split in two, + One side for the lawyers, and t'other for you. + With my left eye, I see you sit snug in your stall, + With my right I'm attending the lawyers that scrawl + With my left I behold your bellower a cur chase; + With my right I'm a-reading my deeds for a purchase. + My left ear's attending the hymns of the choir, + My right ear is stunn'd with the noise of the crier. + My right hand's inditing these lines to your reverence, + My left is indenting for me and heirs ever-hence. + Although in myself I'm divided in two, + Dear Dean, I shall ne'er be divided from you. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0220" id="link2H_4_0220"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S, TO THOMAS SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SIR, + I cannot but think that we live in a bad age, + <i>O tempora, O mores!</i> as 'tis in the adage. + My foot was but just set out from my cathedral, + When into my hands comes a letter from the droll. + I can't pray in quiet for you and your verses; + But now let us hear what the Muse from your car says. + Hum—excellent good—your anger was stirr'd; + Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word. + But let me advise you, when next I hear from you, + To leave off this passion which does not become you; + For we who debate on a subject important, + Must argue with calmness, or else will come short on't. + For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle, + For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle; + And think of the sex as you please, I'd as lieve + You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve. + Yet still you are out, (though to vex you I'm loth,) + For I'll prove it impossible they can be both; + A school-boy knows this, for it plainly appears + That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears; + For you can't but have heard of a trick among wizards, + To break open riddles with shears or with scissars. + Think again of the sieve, and I'll hold you a wager, + You'll dare not to question my minor or major.[1] + A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt, + Like a woman, keeps in less than it lets out. + Why sure, Mr. Poet, your head got a-jar, + By riding this morning too long in your car: + And I wish your few friends, when they next see your cargo, + For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo. + You threaten the stocks; I say you are scurrilous + And you durst not talk thus, if I saw you at our ale-house. + But as for your threats, you may do what you can + I despise any poet that truckled to Dan + But keep a good tongue, or you'll find to your smart + From rhyming in cars, you may swing in a cart. + You found out my rebus with very much modesty; + But thanks to the lady; I'm sure she's too good to ye: + Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter; + You hit it, you say;—you're a delicate hitter. + How could you forget so ungratefully a lass, + And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas? + As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux, + I will either explain, or repay it by trucks; + Though your lords, and your dogs, and your catches, methinks, + Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx. + And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks, + Which is all at present from the + DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S. + + From my closet, Sept, 12, 1718, just 12 at noon. + + [Footnote 1: Ut tu perper`m argumentaris.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0221" id="link2H_4_0221"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SIR, + Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin + With much greater noise than a conjugal din. + A pox of her bawling, her <i>tempora et mores!</i> + What are times now to me; a'nt I one of the Tories? + You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers; + Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears? + You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus, + To give his assistance to make out my rebus: + Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future; + When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter. + I'm now at the tavern, where I drink all I can, + To write with more spirit; I'll drink no more Helicon; + For Helicon is water, and water is weak; + 'Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your Muse speak. + This I know by her spirit and life; but I think + She's much in the wrong to scold in her drink. + Her damn'd pointed tongue pierced almost to my heart; + Tell me of a cart,—tell me of a ——, + I'd have you to tell on both sides her ears, + If she comes to my house, that I'll kick her down stairs: + Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, O my knee; + You shall soon have a crutch to buy for your Melpomene. + You may come as her bully, to bluster and swagger; + But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger: + Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you, + If you come I will make your Apollo shine through you. + Don't think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would fear a dun; + Which is all at present from yours, + THOMAS SHERIDAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0222" id="link2H_4_0222"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN TO THOMAS SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SIR, + When I saw you to-day, as I went with Lord Anglesey, + Lord, said I, who's that parson, how awkwardly dangles he! + When whip you trot up, without minding your betters, + To the very coach side, and threaten your letters. + Is the poison [and dagger] you boast in your jaws, trow? + Are you still in your cart with <i>convitia ex plaustro</i>? + But to scold is your trade, which I soon should be foil'd in, + For scolding is just <i>quasi diceres</i>—school-din: + And I think I may say, you could many good shillings get, + Were you drest like a bawd, and sold oysters at Billingsgate; + But coach it or cart it, I'd have you know, sirrah, + I'll write, though I'm forced to write in a wheelbarrow; + Nay, hector and swagger, you'll still find me stanch, + And you and your cart shall give me <i>carte blanche</i>. + Since you write in a cart, keep it <i>tecta et sarta</i>, + 'Tis all you have for it; 'tis your best Magna Carta; + And I love you so well, as I told you long ago, + That I'll ne'er give my vote for <i>Delenda Cart-ago</i>. + Now you write from your cellar, I find out your art, + You rhyme as folks fence, in <i>tierce</i> and in <i>cart</i>: + Your ink is your poison, your pen is what not; + Your ink is your drink, your pen is your pot. + To my goddess Melpomene, pride of her sex, + I gave, as you beg, your most humble respects: + The rest of your compliment I dare not tell her, + For she never descends so low as the cellar; + But before you can put yourself under her banners, + She declares from her throne you must learn better manners. + If once in your cellar my Phoebus should shine, + I tell you I'd not give a fig for your wine; + So I'll leave him behind, for I certainly know it, + What he ripens above ground, he sours below it. + But why should we fight thus, my partner so dear + With three hundred and sixty-five poems a-year? + Let's quarrel no longer, since Dan and George Rochfort + Will laugh in their sleeves: I can tell you they watch for't. + Then George will rejoice, and Dan will sing highday: + Hoc Ithacus velit, et magni mercentur Atridae. + JON. SWIFT. + + Written, signed, and sealed, five minutes and eleven seconds after the + receipt of yours, allowing seven seconds for sealing and superscribing, + from my bed-side, just eleven minutes after eleven, Sept. 15, 1718. + + Erratum in your last, 1. antepenult, pro "fear a <i>Dun</i>" lege "fear a + <i>Dan</i>:" ita omnes MSS. quos ego legi, et ita magis congruum tam sensui + quam veritati. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0223" id="link2H_4_0223"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DR. SHERIDAN[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dec. 14, 1719, Nine at night. + + SIR, + + It is impossible to know by your letter whether the wine is to be bottled + to-morrow, or no. + + If it be, or be not, why did not you in plain English tell us so? + + For my part, it was by mere chance I came to sit with the ladies[2] this + night. + + And if they had not told me there was a letter from you; and your man + Alexander had not gone, and come back from the deanery; and the boy here + had not been sent, to let Alexander know I was here, I should have missed + the letter outright. + + Truly I don't know who's bound to be sending for corks to stop your + bottles, with a vengeance. + + Make a page of your own age, and send your man Alexander to buy corks; + for Saunders already has gone above ten jaunts. + + Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson say, truly they don't care for your wife's + company, though they like your wine; but they had rather have it at their + own house to drink in quiet. + + However, they own it is very civil in Mrs. Sheridan to make the offer; + and they cannot deny it. + + I wish Alexander safe at St. Catherine's to-night, with all my heart and + soul, upon my word and honour: + + But I think it base in you to send a poor fellow out so late at this time + of year, when one would not turn out a dog that one valued; I appeal to + your friend Mr. Connor. + + I would present my humble service to my Lady Mountcashel; but truly I + thought she would have made advances to have been acquainted with me, as + she pretended. + + But now I can write no more, for you see plainly my paper is ended. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 P.S. + + I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated: + Much plague it created. I scolded and rated; + My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited. + I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited: + Your man is belated: the case I have stated; + And me you have cheated. My stables unslated. + Come back t'us well freighted. + I remember my late head; and wish you translated, + For teasing me. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 P.S. + + Mrs. Dingley desires me singly + Her service to present you; hopes that will content you; + But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame, + For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 3 P.S. + + You keep such a twattling with you and your bottling; + But I see the sum total, we shall ne'er have a bottle; + The long and the short, we shall not have a quart, + I wish you would sign't, that we have a pint. + For all your colloguing,[3] I'd be glad for a knoggin:[4] + But I doubt 'tis a sham; you won't give us a dram. + 'Tis of shine a mouth moon-ful, you won't part with a spoonful, + And I must be nimble, if I can fill my thimble, + You see I won't stop, till I come to a drop; + But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum; + Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we smell it. + STELLA. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In this letter, though written in prose, the reader, upon + examining, will find each second sentence rhymes to the former.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of + kindness without sincerity.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: A name used in Ireland for the English quartern.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0224" id="link2H_4_0224"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'd have you to know, as sure as you're Dean, + On Thursday my cask of Obrien I'll drain; + If my wife is not willing, I say she's a quean; + And my right to the cellar, egad, I'll maintain + As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain: + Go tell her it over and over again. + I hope, as I ride to the town, it won't rain; + For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain, + Entirely extinguish my poetic vein; + And then I should be as stupid as Kain, + Who preach'd on three heads, though he mention'd but twain. + Now Wardel's in haste, and begins to complain; + Your most humble servant, dear Sir, I remain, + T. S.—N. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany, + And some Grattans, if there be any:[1] + Take care you do not bid too many. + + [Footnote 1: <i>I.e.</i> in Dublin, for they were country clergy.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0225" id="link2H_4_0225"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SWIFT'S REPLY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The verses you sent on the bottling your wine + Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine; + And I must confess, as a dean and divine, + I think you inspired by the Muses all nine. + I nicely examined them every line, + And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine; + O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine! + With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine. + I know they have many a wicked design; + And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine. + However, I wish, honest comrade of mine, + You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,[1] + Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a swine; + With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine, + Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine; + So I wish you were toothless, like Lord Masserine. + But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,[2] + I wish you would tell me which way you incline. + If when you return your road you don't line, + On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine, + Wherever you bend, wherever you twine, + In square, or in opposite, circle, or trine. + Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine; + I hope you have swill'd with new milk from the kine, + As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine; + And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline. + If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyne; + Or may your gown never be good Lutherine. + The beef you have got I hear is a chine; + But if too many come, your madam will whine; + And then you may kiss the low end of her spine. + But enough of this poetry Alexandrine; + I hope you will not think this a pasquine. + + [Footnote 1: The seat of Lady Mountcashel, near Dublin.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), an Italian poet noted for his + satirical and licentious verse,—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0226" id="link2H_4_0226"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A COPY OF A COPY OF VERSES FROM THOMAS SHERIDAN, CLERK, TO + GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Written July 15, 1721, at night. + + I'd have you t' know, George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, + That I've learned how verse t' compose trim, + Much better b'half th'n you, n'r you, n'r him, + And that I'd rid'cule their'nd your flam-flim. + Ay b't then, p'rhaps, says you, t's a merry whim, + With 'bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim, + So th't I ought n't for t' be morose 'nd t' look grim, + Think n't your 'p'stle put m' in a megrim; + Though 'n rep't't'on day, I 'ppear ver' slim, + Th' last bowl't Helsham's did m' head t' swim, + So th't I h'd man' aches 'n v'ry scrubb'd limb, + Cause th' top of th' bowl I h'd oft us'd t' skim; + And b'sides D'lan' swears th't I h'd swall'w'd s'v'r'l brim- + Mers, 'nd that my vis'ge's cov'r'd o'er with r'd pim- + Ples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were ('s 'tis n't) 's strong's tim- + Ber, 't must have ach'd. Th' clans of th' c'llege Sanh'drim, + Pres'nt the'r humbl' and 'fect'nate respects; thats t' say, + D'ln', 'chlin, P. Ludl', Dic' St'wart, H'lsham, Capt'n + P'rr' Walmsl', 'nd Long sh'nks Timm.[2] + + [Footnote 1: For the persons here alluded to see "The Country Life," vol. + i, p. 137.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Dr. James Stopford, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0227" id="link2H_4_0227"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Sheridan! a gentle pair + Of Gaulstown lads (for such they are) + Besides a brace of grave divines, + Adore the smoothness of thy lines: + Smooth as our basin's silver flood, + Ere George had robb'd it of its mud; + Smoother than Pegasus' old shoe, + Ere Vulcan comes to make him new. + The board on which we set our a—s, + Is not so smooth as are thy verses; + Compared with which (and that's enough) + A smoothing-iron itself is rough. + Nor praise I less that circumcision, + By modern poets call'd elision, + With which, in proper station placed, + Thy polish'd lines are firmly braced.[1] + Thus a wise tailor is not pinching, + But turns at every seam an inch in: + Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches + Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold their stitches. + Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather, + When smooth'd by rubbing them together; + Thy words so closely wedged and short are, + Like walls, more lasting without mortar; + By leaving out the needless vowels, + You save the charge of lime and trowels. + One letter still another locks, + Each grooved and dovetail'd like a box; + Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct; + In chains thy syllables are linkt; + Thy words together tied in small hanks, + Close as the Macedonian phalanx;[2] + Or like the <i>umbo</i>[3] of the Romans, + Which fiercest foes could break by no means. + The critic, to his grief will find, + How firmly these indentures bind. + So, in the kindred painter's art, + The shortening is the nicest part. + Philologers of future ages, + How will they pore upon thy pages! + Nor will they dare to break the joints, + But help thee to be read with points: + Or else, to show their learned labour, you + May backward be perused like Hebrew, + In which they need not lose a bit + Or of thy harmony or wit. + To make a work completely fine, + Number and weight and measure join; + Then all must grant your lines are weighty + Where thirty weigh as much as eighty; + All must allow your numbers more, + Where twenty lines exceed fourscore; + Nor can we think your measure short, + Where less than forty fill a quart, + With Alexandrian in the close, + Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long nose.[4] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: In the Dublin edition: + "Makes thy verse smooth, and makes them last."] + + [Footnote 2: For a clear description of the phalanx, see Smith's "Greek + and Roman Antiquities," p. 488.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The projection in the centre of the shield, which caused the + missiles of the enemy to glance off. See Smith, as above, + p. 298.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: See <i>post</i>, the poems on Dan Jackson's Picture.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0228" id="link2H_4_0228"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S INVITATION TO THOMAS SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gaulstown, Aug. 2, 1721. + + Dear Tom, this verse, which however the beginning may appear, yet in the + end's good metre, + Is sent to desire that, when your August vacation comes, your friends + you'd meet here. + For why should you stay in that filthy hole, I mean the city so smoky, + When you have not one friend left in town, or at least not one that's + witty, to joke w' ye? + For as for honest John,[1] though I'm not sure on't, yet I'll be hang'd, + lest he + Be gone down to the county of Wexford with that great peer the Lord + Anglesey.[2] + O! but I forgot; perhaps, by this time, you may have one come to town, + but I don't know whether he be friend or foe, Delany: + But, however, if he be come, bring him down, and you shall go back in a + fortnight, for I know there's no delaying ye. + O! I forgot too: I believe there may be one more, I mean that great fat + joker, friend Helsham, he + That wrote the prologue,[3] and if you stay with him, depend on't, in the + end, he'll sham ye. + Bring down Longshanks Jim[4] too; but, now I think on't, he's not yet + come from Courtown,[5] I fancy; + For I heard, a month ago, that he was down there a-courting sly Nancy. + However, bring down yourself, and you bring down all; for, to say it we + may venture, + In thee Delany's spleen, John's mirth, Helsham's jokes, and the soft soul + of amorous Jemmy, centre. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + POSTSCRIPT + + I had forgot to desire you to bring down what I say you have, and you'll + believe me as sure as a gun, and own it; + I mean, what no other mortal in the universe can boast of, your own + spirit of pun, and own wit. + And now I hope you'll excuse this rhyming, which I must say is (though + written somewhat at large) trim and clean; + And so I conclude, with humble respects as usual + Your most dutiful and obedient + GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Supposed to mean Dr. Walmsley.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Arthur, Earl of Anglesey.—<i>Scott.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: It was customary with Dr. Sheridan to have a Greek play + acted by his head class, just before they entered the university; and, + accordingly, in the year 1720, the Doctor having fixed on Hippolytus, + writ a prologue in English, to be spoken by Master Thom. Putland, one of + the youngest children he had in his school. The prologue was very neat + and elegant, but extremely puerile, and quite adapted to the childhood of + the speaker, who as regularly was taught and rehearsed his part as any of + the upper lads did theirs. However, it unfortunately happened that Dr. + King, Archbishop of Dublin, had promised Sheridan that he would go and + see his lads perform the tragedy. Upon which Dr. Helsham writ another + prologue, wherein he laughed egregiously at Sheridan's; and privately + instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time + exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him + repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan. When the play + was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and + Master Putland began Helsham's prologue, and went through it to the + amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was + one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put + off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was + indeed highly complimented in Helsham's performance. When the play was + over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan's prologue; but + all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child's father, and Sheridan, + could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said, + promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and + therefore insisted that he would keep his word.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: The seat of —— Hussay, Esq., in the county of + Kildare.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0229" id="link2H_4_0229"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ. UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES. BY DR. DELANY + IN SHERIDAN'S NAME[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hail, human compound quadrifarious, + Invincible as wight Briareus![2] + Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one, + Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3] + O may your vastness deign t' excuse + The praises of a puny Muse, + Unable, in her utmost flight, + To reach thy huge colossian height! + T' attempt to write like thee were frantic, + Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic. + Yet let me bless, in humbler strain, + Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein, + Pour'd out t' enrich thy native isle, + As Egypt wont to be with Nile. + O, how I joy to see thee wander, + In many a winding loose meander, + In circling mazes, smooth and supple, + And ending in a clink quadruple; + Loud, yet agreeable withal, + Like rivers rattling in their fall! + Thine, sure, is poetry divine, + Where wit and majesty combine; + Where every line, as huge as seven, + If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven: + Here all comparing would be slandering, + The least is more than Alexandrine. + Against thy verse Time sees with pain, + He whets his envious scythe in vain; + For though from thee he much may pare, + Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. + Thou hast alone the skill to feast + With Roman elegance of taste, + Who hast of rhymes as vast resources + As Pompey's caterer of courses. + O thou, of all the Nine inspired! + My languid soul, with teaching tired, + How is it raptured, when it thinks + Of thy harmonious set of chinks; + Each answering each in various rhymes, + Like echo to St. Patrick's chimes! + Thy Muse, majestic in her rage, + Moves like Statira[5] on the stage; + And scarcely can one page sustain + The length of such a flowing train: + Her train of variegated dye + Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky; + Alike they glow, alike they please, + Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays. + Thy verse—(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) + To what, to what shall I compare it? + 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, + The famous statue of Laocoon. + 'Tis like,—O yes, 'tis very like it, + The long, long string, with which you fly kite. + 'Tis like what you, and one or two more, + Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour; + And every couplet thou hast writ + Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as + appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, "centumgeminus Briareus," Virg., + "Aen.," vi, 287; also called Aegaeon, "centum cui brachia dicunt," Virg., + "Aen.," x, 565; see Heyne's notes.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: A mythic king, having three bodies, whose arms were carried + off by Hercules.—Lucr., v, 28, and Munro's note; Virg. "Aen.," vii, 662, + and viii, 202: + + "maxumus ultor + Tergemini nece Geryonae spoliisque superbus + Alcides aderat taurosque hac victor agebat + Ingentis, vallemque boves amnemque tenebant."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: Cambyses, the warrior king of Persia, whose name is the + emblem of bravado.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 5: Represented as the perfection of female beauty in + "Cassandra," a romance by La Calprenhde, romancier et auteur dramatique, + 1610-1663,—<i>Larousse.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 6: Iris, daughter of Thaumas, and the messenger of Juno, + descending and returning on the rainbow.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 7: At Gaulstown there is so famous an echo, that if you repeat + two lines of Virgil out of a speaking-trumpet, you may hear the nymph + return them to your ear with great propriety and clearness.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 8: These words allude to their amusements with the echo, having + no other signification but to express the sound of stones when beaten one + against the other, returned by the echo.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0230" id="link2H_4_0230"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN IN CIRCLES BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It never was known that circular letters, + By humble companions were sent to their betters, + And, as to the subject, our judgment, <i>meherc'le</i>, + Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle. + But now for your verses; we tell you, <i>imprimis</i>, + The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is, + That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound, + And, before we find either, our noddles turn round. + Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant, + To give us your measures of line by a quadrant. + But we took our dividers, and found your d—n'd metre, + In each single verse, took up a diameter. + But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture + George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre?[1] + 'Twill appear to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd, + For the chord of your circle is now in their hand. + The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether, + By which your jade Pegasus, fix'd in a tether, + As his betters are used, shall be lash'd round the ring, + Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string. + Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass, + To encroach on his art by writing of bombast; + And has taken just now a firm resolution + To answer your style without circumlocution. + Lady Betty[2] presents you her service most humble, + And is not afraid your worship will grumble, + That she make of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam.[3] + Which is all at present; and so I remain— + + [Footnote 1: There were four human figures in the centre of the circular + verses.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George + Rochfort, Esq.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Miss Thomason, Lady Betty's daughter, then, perhaps, about a + year old; afterwards married to Gustavus Lambert, Esq., of Paynstown, + in the county of Meath.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0231" id="link2H_4_0231"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DR. SHERIDAN'S CIRCULAR VERSES BY MR. GEORGE ROCHFORT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With music and poetry equally blest, + A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest: + "Great author of harmony, verses, and light! + Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write. + Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day, + My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away. + Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains + To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains; + Thy manual signet refuses to put + To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut. + Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant + Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want. + Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine, + O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine! + With them I'm content thou shouldst make thy abode; + But visit thy servant in jig or in ode; + Make one work immortal: 'tis all I request." + Apollo look'd pleased; and, resolving to jest, + Replied, "Honest friend, I've consider'd thy case; + Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face. + Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great; + Thy works shall continue; and here's the receipt. + On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend: + Write verses in circles: they never shall end." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0232" id="link2H_4_0232"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND PAPER[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To fair Lady Betty Dan sat for his picture, + And defied her to draw him so oft as he piqued her, + He knew she'd no pencil or colouring by her, + And therefore he thought he might safely defy her. + Come sit, says my lady; then whips up her scissar, + And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, sir. + Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprise + How she lengthen'd his chin, how she hollow'd his eyes; + But flatter'd himself with a secret conceit, + That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat. + Lady Betty observed it, then pulls out a pin, + And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin: + And, to make roasted silk to resemble his raw-bone, + She raised up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone; + Till at length in exactest proportion he rose, + From the crown of his head to the arch of his nose; + And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all, + 'Tis certain the copy had outdone the original. + Well, that's but my outside, says Dan, with a vapour; + Say you so? says my lady; I've lined it with paper. + + PATR. DELANY <i>sculpsit</i>. + + [Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 96. Dan Jackson's nose seems to have been a + favourite subject for raillery, as in this and some following + pieces.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0233" id="link2H_4_0233"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME PICTURE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clarissa draws her scissars from the case + To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson's face; + One sloping cut made forehead, nose, and chin, + A nick produced a mouth, and made him grin, + Such as in tailor's measure you have seen. + But still were wanting his grimalkin eyes, + For which gray worsted stocking paint supplies. + Th' unravell'd thread through needle's eye convey'd, + Transferr'd itself into his pasteboard head. + How came the scissars to be thus outdone? + The needle had an eye, and they had none. + O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan— + You'll swear the pasteboard was the better man. + "The devil!" says he, "the head is not so full!" + Indeed it is—behold the paper skull. + + THO. SHERIDAN <i>sculp.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0234" id="link2H_4_0234"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, + I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it. + + THO. SHERIDAN <i>sculp.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0235" id="link2H_4_0235"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME PICTURE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dan's evil genius in a trice + Had stripp'd him of his coin at dice. + Chloe, observing this disgrace, + On Pam cut out his rueful face. + By G—, says Dan, 'tis very hard, + Cut out at dice, cut out at card! + + G. ROCHFORT <i>sculp.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0236" id="link2H_4_0236"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE SAME PICTURE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whilst you three merry poets traffic + To give us a description graphic + Of Dan's large nose in modern sapphic; + + I spend my time in making sermons, + Or writing libels on the Germans, + Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments. + + But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort, + And look in English, French, and Scotch for't, + At last I'm fairly forced to botch for't. + + Bid Lady Betty recollect her, + And tell, who was it could direct her + To draw the face of such a spectre? + + I must confess, that as to me, sirs, + Though I ne'er saw her hold the scissars, + I now could safely swear it is hers. + + 'Tis true, no nose could come in better; + 'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter, + Which all may handle, none can flatter. + + Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows, + That not the wisest mortal knows + What fortune may befall his nose. + + Show me the brightest Irish toast, + Who from her lover e'er could boast + Above a song or two at most: + + For thee three poets now are drudging all, + To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all, + Both of the picture and original. + + Thy nose's length and fame extend + So far, dear Dan, that every friend + Tries who shall have it by the end. + + And future poets, as they rise, + Shall read with envy and surprise + Thy nose outshining Celia's eyes. + + JON. SWIFT. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0237" id="link2H_4_0237"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My verse little better you'll find than my face is; + A word to the wise—<i>ut pictura poesis</i>. + + Three merry lads, with envy stung, + Because Dan's face is better hung, + Combined in verse to rhyme it down, + And in its place set up their own; + As if they'd run it down much better + By number of their feet in metre. + Or that its red did cause their spite, + Which made them draw in black and white. + Be that as 'twill, this is most true, + They were inspired by what they drew. + Let then such critics know, my face + Gives them their comeliness and grace: + While every line of face does bring + A line of grace to what they sing. + But yet, methinks, though with disgrace + Both to the picture and the face, + I should name them who do rehearse + The story of the picture farce; + The squire, in French as hard as stone, + Or strong as rock, that's all as one, + On face on cards is very brisk, sirs, + Because on them you play at whisk, sirs. + But much I wonder, why my crany + Should envied be by De-el-any: + And yet much more, that half-namesake + Should join a party in the freak. + For sure I am it was not safe + Thus to abuse his better half, + As I shall prove you, Dan, to be, + Divisim and conjunctively. + For if Dan love not Sherry, can + Sherry be anything to Dan? + This is the case whene'er you see + Dan makes nothing of Sherry; + Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en + Then Dan would be poor Sherridane + 'Tis hard then he should be decried + By Dan, with Sherry by his side. + But, if the case must be so hard, + That faces suffer by a card, + Let critics censure, what care I? + Backbiters only we defy, + Faces are free from injury. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0238" id="link2H_4_0238"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You say your face is better hung + Than ours—by what? by nose or tongue? + In not explaining you are wrong + to us, sir. + + Because we thus must state the case, + That you have got a hanging face, + Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace + of noose, sir. + + But yet be not cast down: I see + A weaver will your hangman be: + You'll only hang in tapestry + with many; + + And then the ladies, I suppose, + Will praise your longitude of nose, + For latent charms within your clothes, + dear Danny. + + Thus will the fair of every age + From all parts make their pilgrimage, + Worship thy nose with pious rage + of love, sir: + + All their religion will be spent + About thy woven monument, + And not one orison be sent + to Jove, sir. + + You the famed idol will become, + As gardens graced in ancient Rome, + By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom + of night.[1] + + O happy Dan! thrice happy sure! + Thy fame for ever shall endure, + Who after death can love secure + at sight. + + So far I thought it was my duty + To dwell upon thy boasted beauty; + Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye + in answer + + To that part where you carry on + This paradox, that rock and stone + In your opinion, are all one: + How can, sir, + + A man of reasoning so profound + So stupidly be run a-ground, + As things so different to confound + t'our senses? + + Except you judged them by the knock + Of near an equal hardy block; + Such an experimental stroke + convinces. + + Then might you be, by dint of reason, + A proper judge on this occasion; + 'Gainst feeling there's no disputation, + is granted: + + Therefore to thy superior wit, + Who made the trial, we submit; + Thy head to prove the truth of it + we wanted. + + In one assertion you're to blame, + Where Dan and Sherry's made the same, + Endeavouring to have your name + refined, sir: + + You'll see most grossly you mistook, + If you consult your spelling-book, + (The better half you say you took,) + you'll find, sir, + + S, H, E, she—and R, I, ri, + Both put together make Sherry; + D, A, N, Dan—makes up the three + syllables; + + Dan is but one, and Sherry two, + Then, sir, your choice will never do; + Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you + the tables. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human + and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens. + Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., "Georg.", iv, 110-11. In India, + the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is + described by Horace—"ruber porrectus ab inguine palus"—and where he is + worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0239" id="link2H_4_0239"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. DELANY'S REPLY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him. + <i>Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem.</i> + You look and you write with so different a grace, + That I envy your verse, though I did not your face. + And to him that thinks rightly, there's reason enough, + 'Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough. + But much I'm amazed you should think my design + Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin, + Which you yourself wonder the de'el should malign. + And if 'tis so strange, that your monstership's crany + Should be envied by him, much less by Delany; + Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter, + I envy the painter, although not the picture. + And justly she's envied, since a fiend of Hell + Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael. + Next, as to the charge, which you tell us is true, + That we were inspired by the subject we drew. + Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it; + Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it; + Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne'er been inspired, + Though perhaps it might justly 've been said we were fired, + As to the division of words in your staves, + Like my countryman's horn-comb, into three halves, + I meddle not with 't, but presume to make merry, + You call'd Dan one half, and t'other half Sherry: + Now if Dan's a half, as you call't o'er and o'er, + Then it can't be denied that Sherry's two more. + For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you, + That Sherry's at least of double the value. + But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse; + So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce) + Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce. + But be that as 'twill, you'll know more anon, sir, + When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0240" id="link2H_4_0240"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHERIDAN'S REPLY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Three merry lads you own we are; + 'Tis very true, and free from care: + But envious we cannot bear, + believe, sir: + + For, were all forms of beauty thine, + Were you like Nereus soft and fine, + We should not in the least repine, + or grieve, sir. + + Then know from us, most beauteous Dan, + That roughness best becomes a man; + 'Tis women should be pale, and wan, + and taper; + + And all your trifling beaux and fops, + Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops, + Are but the offspring of toy-shops, + mere vapour. + + We know your morning hours you pass + To cull and gather out a face; + Is this the way you take your glass? + Forbear it: + + Those loads of paint upon your toilet + Will never mend your face, but spoil it, + It looks as if you did parboil it: + Drink claret. + + Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean, + That they're like Cynthia in the wane, + Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean, + or pullet: + + See what by drinking you have done: + You've made your phiz a skeleton, + From the long distance of your crown, + t' your gullet. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0241" id="link2H_4_0241"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wearied with saying grace and prayer, + I hasten'd down to country air, + To read your answer, and prepare + reply to't: + + But your fair lines so grossly flatter, + Pray do they praise me or bespatter? + I must suspect you mean the latter— + Ah! slyboot! + + It must be so! what else, alas! + Can mean by culling of a face, + And all that stuff of toilet, glass, + and box-comb? + + But be't as 'twill, this you must grant, + That you're a daub, whilst I but paint; + Then which of us two is the quaint- + er coxcomb? + + I value not your jokes of noose, + Your gibes and all your foul abuse, + More than the dirt beneath my shoes, + nor fear it. + + Yet one thing vexes me, I own, + Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone; + To be called lean by a skeleton, + who'd bear it? + + 'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends, + You seem to praise, to make amends, + And yet, before your stanza ends, + you flout me, + + 'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes, + For every one that knows me, knows + That I have nothing like my nose + about me: + + I pass now where you fleer and laugh, + 'Cause I call Dan my better half! + O there you think you have me safe! + But hold, sir; + + Is not a penny often found + To be much greater than a pound! + By your good leave, my most profound + and bold sir, + Dan's noble metal, Sherry base; + So Dan's the better, though the less, + An ounce of golds worth ten of brass, + dull pedant! + + As to your spelling, let me see, + If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry, + Good spelling-master: your crany + has lead in't. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0242" id="link2H_4_0242"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Three days for answer I have waited, + I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated + And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated + poetaster? + + Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose + Of thy dimension's fit for prose; + But every one that knows Dan, knows + thy master. + + Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, + And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1] + Thy fame, thy genius, now declines, + proud boaster. + + I hear with some concern your roar + And flying think to quit the score, + By clapping billets on your door + and posts, sir. + + Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, + I'm grieved to hear your banishment, + But pleased to find you do relent + and cry on. + + I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, + But now I'll secret keep your stuff; + For know, prostration is enough + to th' lion. + + [Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0243" id="link2H_4_0243"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae, + Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poor Sherry, inglorious, + To Dan the victorious, + Presents, as 'tis fitting, + Petition and greeting. + + To you, victorious and brave, + Your now subdued and suppliant slave + Most humbly sues for pardon; + Who when I fought still cut me down, + And when I vanquish'd, fled the town + Pursued and laid me hard on. + + Now lowly crouch'd, I cry <i>peccavi</i>, + And prostrate, supplicate <i>pour ma vie</i>; + Your mercy I rely on; + For you my conqueror and my king, + In pardoning, as in punishing, + Will show yourself a lion. + + Alas! sir, I had no design, + But was unwarily drawn in; + For spite I ne'er had any; + 'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name; + The de'il too that owed me a shame, + The devil and Delany; + + They tempted me t' attack your highness, + And then, with wonted wile and slyness, + They left me in the lurch: + Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween, + I've nothing left to vent my spleen + But ferula and birch: + + And they, alas! yield small relief, + Seem rather to renew my grief, + My wounds bleed all anew: + For every stroke goes to my heart + And at each lash I feel the smart + Of lash laid on by you. + + [Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0244" id="link2H_4_0244"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PARDON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The suit which humbly you have made + Is fully and maturely weigh'd; + And as 'tis your petition, + I do forgive, for well I know, + Since you're so bruised, another blow + Would break the head of Priscian.[1] + + 'Tis not my purpose or intent + That you should suffer banishment; + I pardon, now you've courted; + And yet I fear this clemency + Will come too late to profit thee, + For you're with grief transported. + + However, this I do command, + That you your birch do take in hand, + Read concord and syntax on; + The bays, your own, are only mine, + Do you then still your nouns decline, + Since you've declined Dan Jackson. + + [Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has + left a work entitled "Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri + xviii."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0245" id="link2H_4_0245"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN, + + —mediocribus esse poetis + Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1] + + To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of + Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my + speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense: + + For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones, + The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans. + + I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the + Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, + and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the + shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon + which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was + made: + + You'll have a gosling, call it Dan, + And do not make your goose a swan. + 'Tis true, because the God of Wit + To get him in that shape thought fit, + He'll have some glowworm sparks of it. + Venture you may to turn him loose, + But let it be to another goose. + The time will come, the fatal time, + When he shall dare a swan to rhyme; + The tow'ring swan comes sousing down, + And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown. + From that sad time, and sad disaster, + He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster. + At length for stealing rhymes and triplets, + He'll be content to hang in giblets. + + You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pass; for + it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom + Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so + batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings, + though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from + Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now + forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my + Gradus ad Parnassum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works. + + Then lo, I mount as slowly as I sung, + And then I'll make a line for every rung;[2] + There's nine, I see,—the Muses, too, are nine. + Who would refuse to die a death like mine! + 1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name; + 2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same. + 3. This rung, I see, Terpsichore's thy flute; + 4. Erato, sing me to the Gods; ah, do't: + 5. Thalia, don't make me a comedy; + 6. Urania, raise me tow'rds the starry sky: + 7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend, + 8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend; + 9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end. + POOR DAN JACKSON. + + [Footnote 1: A variation from: + "mediocribus esse poetis + Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae." + <i>Epist. ad Pisones.—W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder; + still used in every part of Ireland.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0246" id="link2H_4_0246"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN + PERSON, WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED. TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. + SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DEAR DAN, + + Here I return my trust, nor ask + One penny for remittance; + If I have well perform'd my task, + Pray send me an acquittance. + + Too long I bore this weighty pack, + As Hercules the sky; + Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back, + Let me be stander-by. + + Not all the witty things you speak + In compass of a day, + Not half the puns you make a-week, + Should bribe his longer stay. + + With me you left him out at nurse, + Yet are you not my debtor; + For, as he hardly can be worse, + I ne'er could make him better. + + He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes, + Just as he did before; + And, when he's lash'd a hundred times, + He rhymes and puns the more. + + When rods are laid on school-boys' bums, + The more they frisk and skip: + The school-boys' top but louder hums + The more they use the whip. + + Thus, a lean beast beneath a load + (A beast of Irish breed) + Will, in a tedious dirty road, + Outgo the prancing steed. + + You knock him down and down in vain, + And lay him flat before ye, + For soon as he gets up again, + He'll strut, and cry, Victoria! + + At every stroke of mine, he fell, + 'Tis true he roar'd and cried; + But his impenetrable shell + Could feel no harm beside. + + The tortoise thus, with motion slow, + Will clamber up a wall; + Yet, senseless to the hardest blow, + Gets nothing but a fall. + + Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I, + Attack his pericrany? + And, since it is in vain to try, + We'll send him to Delany. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + POSTSCRIPT + + Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry, + Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery, + But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says, + He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses, + For omitting the first (where I make a comparison, + With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison) + Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is + A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise. + So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul + This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal? + And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit, + (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0247" id="link2H_4_0247"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHERIDAN TO SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate, + The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target; + Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could, + But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood; + While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him, + While t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him, + Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore, + Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!" + Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man, + Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan; + For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough, + The devil himself can't get through his buff. + Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard, + Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard; + And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar, + Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore. + Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it, + You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet; + With the din of which tube my head you so bother, + That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other. + + You made me in your last a goose; + I lay my life on't you are wrong, + To raise me by such foul abuse; + My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue; + And slit, just like a bird will chatter, + And like a bird do something more; + When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter, + I'll change you to a black-a-moor. + + I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; + I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead. + Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, + I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1] + + [Footnote 1; <i>See post</i>, p. 351.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0248" id="link2H_4_0248"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHERIDAN TO SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, + To see you live, so often slain. + My arrows fly and fly in vain, + But still I try and try again. + I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; + Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, + Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; + I will not tell, because it's plain. + Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; + If so, from pen and ink refrain. + Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain + For her and you; your life's a scene + Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, + Enough to crack the strongest brain. + Now to conclude, I do remain, + Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0249" id="link2H_4_0249"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWIFT TO SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, + Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. + You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer; + Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer? + If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, + And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury, + I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk; + I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: + Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding, + I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0250" id="link2H_4_0250"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head! + You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred. + I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; + I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. + Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame + For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name. + Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin; + And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: + He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole + body: + My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy. + And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, + Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose: + Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, + And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober: + Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, + Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked + college. + You say you will eat grass on his grave:[1] a Christian eat grass! + Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass: + But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye; + Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true + story: + And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I? + And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. + Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil: + I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. + Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; + I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year. + And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking: + Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;) + My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school— + I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. + Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale + He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. + And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter; + For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better. + Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from + prayers: + And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs; + Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand; + And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command, + MARY. + + [Footnote 1: See <i>ante</i>, p. 349.—<i>W.E.B</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0251" id="link2H_4_0251"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw: + In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw; + A temper the devil himself could not bridle; + Impertinent mixture of busy and idle; + As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed; + She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit; + A housewife in bed, at table a slattern; + For all an example, for no one a pattern. + Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4] + Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan? + + [Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.] + + [Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.] + + [Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.] + + [Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0252" id="link2H_4_0252"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise + Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes, + Like ghost I glide along your floor, + And softly shut the parlour door: + For, should I break your sweet repose, + Who knows what money you might lose: + Since oftentimes it has been found, + A dream has given ten thousand pound? + Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on, + And all you get shall be your own; + Provided you to this agree, + That all you lose belongs to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0253" id="link2H_4_0253"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEAN'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So, about twelve at night, the punk + Steals from the cully when he's drunk: + Nor is contented with a treat, + Without her privilege to cheat: + Nor can I the least difference find, + But that you left no clap behind. + But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye, + My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny + To eat my meat and drink my medlicot, + And then to give me such a deadly cut— + But 'tis observed, that men in gowns + Are most inclined to plunder crowns. + Could you but change a crown as easy + As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye! + I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's + Knew how to set you better patterns; + For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3] + And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em. + + Saturday night. + + [Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, + comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, + for whom the Dean had a great esteem.—<i>Scott</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0254" id="link2H_4_0254"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL. SPOKEN BY ONE OF + THE SCHOLARS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AS in a silent night a lonely swain, + 'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain, + To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes, + And every look finds out a new surprise; + So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view + Our lower sphere made more serene by you. + O! could such light in my dark bosom shine, + What life, what vigour, should adorn each line! + Beauty and virtue should be all my theme, + And Venus brighten my poetic flame. + The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one + Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun; + Majestic light his feeble art defies, + And for presuming, robs him of his eyes. + Then blame your power, that my inferior lays + Sink far below your too exalted praise: + Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain; + No, we're sincere,—to flatter you were vain. + You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied, + And all perfections but your beauties hide. + Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind, + Nor frown on those you see so well inclined + To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then + Those sweet rewards will make us act like men. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0255" id="link2H_4_0255"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EPILOGUE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell + Have we not play'd our parts extremely well? + We think we did, but if you do complain, + We're all content to act the play again: + 'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most, + And time well spent in school cannot be lost. + But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above? + We guess'd long since you all desired to move: + But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir, + Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1] + Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play; + He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay. + Though this new method may provoke your laughter, + To act plays first, and understand them after; + We do not care, for we will have our humour, + And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more. + Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; + How much they've read, I leave you all to judge. + + [Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here + intended.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0256" id="link2H_4_0256"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A parody on the popular song beginning, + "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent." + + My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent, + When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went; + For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest; + Was ever a toper so merrily blest? + But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown, + Because I must go to my wife back to town; + To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear," + And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer. + My daughter I ever was pleased to see + Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee: + My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said, + Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head: + But now out of humour, I with a sour look, + Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book; + And I'll give her another; for why should she play, + Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away? + Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become, + That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum? + Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile, + While we sit carousing and drinking the while? + Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done, + Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone. + Then since it is so, bring me here a supply; + Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0257" id="link2H_4_0257"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY + SHERIDAN, 1723 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How few can be of grandeur sure! + The high may fall, the rich be poor. + The only favourite at court, + To-morrow may be Fortune's sport; + For all her pleasure and her aim + Is to destroy both power and fame. + Of this the Dean is an example, + No instance is more plain and ample. + The world did never yet produce, + For courts a man of greater use. + Nor has the world supplied as yet, + With more vivacity and wit; + Merry alternately and wise, + To please the statesman, and advise. + Through all the last and glorious reign, + Was nothing done without the Dean; + The courtier's prop, the nation's pride; + But now, alas! he's thrown aside; + He's quite forgot, and so's the queen, + As if they both had never been. + To see him now a mountaineer! + Oh! what a mighty fall is here! + From settling governments and thrones, + To splitting rocks, and piling stones. + Instead of Bolingbroke and Anna, + Shane Tunnally, and Bryan Granna, + Oxford and Ormond he supplies, + In every Irish Teague he spies: + So far forgetting his old station, + He seems to like their conversation, + Conforming to the tatter'd rabble, + He learns their Irish tongue to gabble; + And, what our anger more provokes, + He's pleased with their insipid jokes; + Then turns and asks them who do lack a + Good plug, or pipefull of tobacco. + All cry they want, to every man + He gives, extravagant, a span. + Thus are they grown more fond than ever, + And he is highly in their favour. + Bright Stella, Quilca's greatest pride, + For them he scorns and lays aside; + And Sheridan is left alone + All day, to gape, and stretch, and groan; + While grumbling, poor, complaining Dingley, + Is left to care and trouble singly. + All o'er the mountains spreads the rumour, + Both of his bounty and good humour; + So that each shepherdess and swain + Comes flocking here to see the Dean. + All spread around the land, you'd swear + That every day we kept a fair. + My fields are brought to such a pass, + I have not left a blade of grass; + That all my wethers and my beeves + Are slighted by the very thieves. + At night right loath to quit the park, + His work just ended by the dark, + With all his pioneers he comes, + To make more work for whisk and brooms. + Then seated in an elbow-chair, + To take a nap he does prepare; + While two fair damsels from the lawns, + Lull him asleep with soft cronawns. + Thus are his days in delving spent, + His nights in music and content; + He seems to gain by his distress, + His friends are more, his honours less. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0258" id="link2H_4_0258"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO QUILCA, A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let me thy properties explain: + A rotten cabin, dropping rain: + Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke; + Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke. + Here elements have lost their uses, + Air ripens not, nor earth produces: + In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil, + Fire will not roast, nor water boil. + Through all the valleys, hills, and plains, + The goddess Want, in triumph reigns; + And her chief officers of state, + Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0259" id="link2H_4_0259"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE, 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters; + Not seen by our betters. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0260" id="link2H_4_0260"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A companion with news; a great want of shoes; + Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; + Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; + December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0261" id="link2H_4_0261"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO —— ROOM IN + T. C. D. IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ——quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1] + + This description of a scholar's room in Trinity College, Dublin, was + found among Mr. Smith's papers. It is not in the Dean's hand, but seems + to have been the production of Sheridan. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Imprimis, there's a table blotted, + A tatter'd hanging all bespotted. + A bed of flocks, as I may rank it, + Reduced to rug and half a blanket. + A tinder box without a flint, + An oaken desk with nothing in't; + A pair of tongs bought from a broker, + A fender and a rusty poker; + A penny pot and basin, this + Design'd for water, that for piss; + A broken-winded pair of bellows, + Two knives and forks, but neither fellows. + Item, a surplice, not unmeeting, + Either for table-cloth, or sheeting; + There is likewise a pair of breeches, + But patch'd, and fallen in the stitches, + Hung up in study very little, + Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle, + An airy prospect all so pleasing, + From my light window without glazing, + A trencher and a College bottle, + Piled up on Locke and Aristotle. + A prayer-book, which he seldom handles + A save-all and two farthing candles. + A smutty ballad, musty libel, + A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible. + The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses + By Overton, to save expenses. + Item, (if I am not much mistaken,) + A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon. + A candlestick without a snuffer, + Whereby his fingers often suffer. + Two odd old shoes I should not skip here, + Each strapless serves instead of slippers, + And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em, + But each of them without a bottom. + Thus I in rhyme have comprehended + His goods, and so my schedule's ended. + + [Footnote 1: Virg., "Aen.," ii, 5.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of "An Argument to prove that + the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen + Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of + that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author's reply." + London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so + disliked.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in + mezzotints.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0262" id="link2H_4_0262"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PALINODIA[1], HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine, + Whose verses far his rays outshine, + Look down upon your quondam foe; + O! let me never write again, + If e'er I disoblige you, Dean, + Should you compassion show. + + Take those iambics which I wrote, + When anger made me piping hot, + And give them to your cook, + To singe your fowl, or save your paste + The next time when you have a feast; + They'll save you many a book. + + To burn them, you are not content; + I give you then my free consent, + To sink them in the harbour; + If not, they'll serve to set off blocks, + To roll on pipes, and twist in locks; + So give them to your barber. + + Or, when you next your physic take, + I must entreat you then to make + A proper application; + 'Tis what I've done myself before, + With Dan's fine thoughts and many more, + Who gave me provocation. + + What cannot mighty anger do? + It makes the weak the strong pursue, + A goose attack a swan; + It makes a woman, tooth and nail, + Her husband's hands and face assail, + While he's no longer man. + + Though some, we find, are more discreet, + Before the world are wondrous sweet, + And let their husbands hector: + But when the world's asleep, they wake, + That is the time they choose to speak: + Witness the curtain lecture. + + Such was the case with you, I find: + All day you could conceal your mind; + But when St. Patrick's chimes + Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse, + When I engaged for better for worse,) + You scolded with your rhymes. + + Have done! have done! I quit the field, + To you as to my wife, I yield: + As she must wear the breeches: + So shall you wear the laurel crown, + Win it and wear it, 'tis your own; + The poet's only riches. + + [Footnote 1: Recantation.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0263" id="link2H_4_0263"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You will excuse me, I suppose, + For sending rhyme instead of prose. + Because hot weather makes me lazy, + To write in metre is more easy. + While you are trudging London town, + I'm strolling Dublin up and down; + While you converse with lords and dukes, + I have their betters here, my books: + Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease, + I choose companions as I please. + I'd rather have one single shelf + Than all my friends, except yourself; + For, after all that can be said, + Our best acquaintance are the dead. + While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1] + I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina. + While you are starving there in state, + I'm cramming here with butchers' meat. + You say, when with those lords you dine, + They treat you with the best of wine, + Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay; + Why, so can we, as well as they. + No reason then, my dear good Dean, + But you should travel home again. + What though you mayn't in Ireland hope + To find such folk as Gay and Pope; + If you with rhymers here would share + But half the wit that you can spare, + I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days, + You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays. + Our weathers good, our sky is clear; + We've every joy, if you were here; + So lofty and so bright a sky + Was never seen by Ireland's eye! + I think it fit to let you know, + This week I shall to Quilca go; + To see M'Faden's horny brothers + First suck, and after bull their mothers; + To see, alas! my wither'd trees! + To see what all the country sees! + My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves, + My servants such a pack of thieves; + My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks, + My house in common to all folks, + No cabbage for a single snail, + My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail; + My no green peas, my few green sprouts; + My mother always in the pouts; + My horses rid, or gone astray; + My fish all stolen or run away; + My mutton lean, my pullets old, + My poultry starved, the corn all sold. + A man come now from Quilca says, + "<i>They</i>'ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;" + But, what must fret and vex me more, + He says, "<i>They</i> stole the keys before. + <i>They</i>'ve stol'n the knives from all the forks; + And half the cows from half the sturks." + Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, + "<i>They</i>'ve stol'n the sturks from half the cows:" + With many more accounts of woe, + Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go: + 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, + Because I've more vexation here. + + [Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.—<i>Dublin + Edition.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: <i>They</i> is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for + whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, + "They have stolen it." <i>Dublin Edition.</i>—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0264" id="link2H_4_0264"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT, 1727 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em, + To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1] + Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship + Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2] + I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret, + That's just disengaged from the toils of a net: + An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted, + With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted: + Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies, + Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes; + And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died, + And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried. + My wine will inspire you with joy and delight, + 'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright; + An emblem of one that you love, I suppose, + Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4] + Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope, + We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope; + When we are together there's nothing that is dull, + There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall. + We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast, + Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste. + + Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers; + you have a pencil in your pocket. + + [Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country + house.] + + [Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health. + She died the January following.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a + fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.," + iii, 407.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable + women in the world.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0265" id="link2H_4_0265"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1] WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR. + SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728 + + Fair ladies, number five, + Who in your merry freaks, + With little Tom contrive + To feast on ale and steaks; + + While he sits by a-grinning, + To see you safe in Sot's Hole, + Set up with greasy linen, + And neither mugs nor pots whole; + + Alas! I never thought + A priest would please your palate; + Besides, I'll hold a groat + He'll put you in a ballad; + + Where I shall see your faces, + On paper daub'd so foul, + They'll be no more like graces, + Than Venus like an owl. + + And we shall take you rather + To be a midnight pack + Of witches met together, + With Beelzebub in black. + + It fills my heart with woe, + To think such ladies fine + Should be reduced so low, + To treat a dull divine. + + Be by a parson cheated! + Had you been cunning stagers, + You might yourselves be treated + By captains and by majors. + + See how corruption grows, + While mothers, daughters, aunts, + Instead of powder'd beaux, + From pulpits choose gallants. + + If we, who wear our wigs + With fantail and with snake, + Are bubbled thus by prigs; + Z——ds! who would be a rake? + + Had I a heart to fight, + I'd knock the Doctor down; + Or could I read or write, + Egad! I'd wear a gown. + + Then leave him to his birch;[3] + And at the Rose on Sunday, + The parson safe at church, + I'll treat you with burgundy. + + [Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for + beef-steaks.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0266" id="link2H_4_0266"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BEAU, WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD BY + DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You little scribbling beau, + What demon made you write? + Because to write you know + As much as you can fight. + + For compliment so scurvy, + I wish we had you here; + We'd turn you topsy-turvy + Into a mug of beer. + + You thought to make a farce on + The man and place we chose; + We're sure a single parson + Is worth a hundred beaux. + + And you would make us vassals, + Good Mr. Wig and Wings, + To silver clocks and tassels; + You would, you Thing of Things! + + Because around your cane + A ring of diamonds is set; + And you, in some by-lane, + Have gain'd a paltry grisette; + + Shall we, of sense refined, + Your trifling nonsense bear, + As noisy as the wind, + As empty as the air? + + We hate your empty prattle; + And vow and swear 'tis true, + There's more in one child's rattle, + Than twenty fops like you. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0267" id="link2H_4_0267"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why, how now, dapper black! + I smell your gown and cassock, + As strong upon your back, + As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock. + + To write such scurvy stuff! + Fine ladies never do't; + I know you well enough, + And eke your cloven foot. + + Fine ladies, when they write, + Nor scold, nor keep a splutter: + Their verses give delight, + As soft and sweet as butter. + + But Satan never saw + Such haggard lines as these: + They stick athwart my maw, + As bad as Suffolk cheese. + + [Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland, + who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned + in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall + or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the + Journal.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0268" id="link2H_4_0268"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All you that would refine your blood, + As pure as famed Llewellyn, + By waters clear, come every year + To drink at Ballyspellin. + + Though pox or itch your skins enrich + With rubies past the telling, + 'Twill clear your skin before you've been + A month at Ballyspellin. + + If lady's cheek be green as leek + When she comes from her dwelling, + The kindling rose within it glows + When she's at Ballyspellin. + + The sooty brown, who comes from town, + Grows here as fair as Helen; + Then back she goes, to kill the beaux, + By dint of Ballyspellin. + + Our ladies are as fresh and fair + As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling: + And Mars might make a fair mistake, + Were he at Ballyspellin. + + We men submit as they think fit, + And here is no rebelling: + The reason's plain; the ladies reign, + They're queens at Ballyspellin. + + By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms, + They have the way of quelling + Such desperate foes as dare oppose + Their power at Ballyspellin. + + Cold water turns to fire, and burns + I know, because I fell in + A stream, which came from one bright dame + Who drank at Ballyspellin. + + Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, + To bring their Anne or Nell in, + With so much grace, I'm sure no place + Can vie with Ballyspellin. + + No politics, no subtle tricks, + No man his country selling: + We eat, we drink; we never think + Of these at Ballyspellin. + + The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind, + Do all come here pell-mell in; + And they are sure to work their cure + By drinking Ballyspellin. + + Though dropsy fills you to the gills, + From chin to toe though swelling, + Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt + A cure at Ballyspellin. + + Death throws no darts through all these parts, + No sextons here are knelling; + Come, judge and try, you'll never die, + But live at Ballyspellin. + + Except you feel darts tipp'd with steel, + Which here are every belle in: + When from their eyes sweet ruin flies, + We die at Ballyspellin. + + Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care, + Your sight, your taste, your smelling, + Your ears, your touch, transported much + Each day at Ballyspellin. + + Within this ground we all sleep sound, + No noisy dogs a-yelling; + Except you wake, for Celia's sake, + All night at Ballyspellin. + + There all you see, both he and she, + No lady keeps her cell in; + But all partake the mirth we make, + Who drink at Ballyspellin. + + My rhymes are gone; I think I've none, + Unless I should bring Hell in; + But, since I'm here to Heaven so near, + I can't at Ballyspellin! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, "whither Sheridan + had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady." See note to the + "Answer," <i>post</i>, p. 371.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Ross.—<i>Dublin Edition.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0269" id="link2H_4_0269"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER.[1] BY DR. SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dare you dispute, you saucy brute, + And think there's no refelling + Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise + You give to Ballyspellin? + + Howe'er you flounce, I here pronounce, + Your medicine is repelling; + Your water's mud, and sours the blood + When drunk at Ballyspellin. + + Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs, + You thither are compelling, + Will back be sent worse than they went, + From nasty Ballyspellin. + + Llewellyn why? As well may I + Name honest Doctor Pellin; + So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes, + To bring in Ballyspellin. + + No subject fit to try your wit, + When you went colonelling: + But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues, + You met at Ballyspellin. + + Our lasses fair, say what you dare, + Who sowins[2] make with shelling, + At Market-hill more beaux can kill, + Than yours at Ballyspellin. + + Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript, + To wash herself our well in, + A bum so white ne'er came in sight + At paltry Ballyspellin. + + Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear; + Of Holland not an ell in, + No, not a rag, whate'er your brag, + Is found at Ballyspellin. + + But Tom will prate at any rate, + All other nymphs expelling: + Because he gets a few grisettes + At lousy Ballyspellin. + + There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane, + Just o'er against the Bell inn; + Where can you meet a lass so sweet, + Round all your Ballyspellin? + + We have a girl deserves an earl; + She came from Enniskellin; + So fair, so young, no such among + The belles of Ballyspellin. + + How would you stare, to see her there, + The foggy mists dispelling, + That cloud the brows of every blowse + Who lives at Ballyspellin! + + Now, as I live, I would not give + A stiver or a skellin, + To towse and kiss the fairest miss + That leaks at Ballyspellin. + + Whoe'er will raise such lies as these + Deserves a good cudgelling: + Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts + At dirty Ballyspellin. + + My rhymes are gone to all but one, + Which is, our trees are felling; + As proper quite as those you write, + To force in Ballyspellin. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift was + on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, "in a mere jest and innocent + merriment," was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady and + himself, "against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment, + gratitude, or common manners." See "The History of the Second Solomon," + "Prose Works," xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon passed, and the Dean + and Sheridan resumed their intimate friendship.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, and + other parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the shellings of + oats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.—<i>F.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0270" id="link2H_4_0270"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS[1] TO DR. HELSHAM [2] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nov. 23, at night, 1731. + + SIR, + + When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick; + I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick; + And the patientest patient ever you knew sick; + Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick. + I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick: + She mended at first, but now she's anew sick. + Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick. + Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick. + Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick? + Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew sick, + And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick. + Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick: + For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick? + Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick, + Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick. + Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick. + My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick, + And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick: + But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick: + And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick: + For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick, + And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick. + Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick; + But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick, + And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick. + So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick; + You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick; + So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick. + + [Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a + specimen of those <i>bagatelles</i> for which the Dean hath perhaps been too + severely censured.—<i>H.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural + Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath, + Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminent + physician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literary + coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.—<i>W. E. B.</i>.] + + [Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's + day was usually performed.—<i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 4: <i>Vide</i> Grattan, <i>inter</i> Belchamp and Clonshogh.—<i>Dublin + Edition.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0271" id="link2H_4_0271"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DR. SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nov. 23, at night. + + If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick. + This night I came home with a very cold dew sick, + And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick; + But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick, + Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0272" id="link2H_4_0272"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick: + I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick, + For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick, + Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick: + Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick: + And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick, + The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick, + And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick. + The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew sick; + Had we two been there, it would have made me and you sick: + A lady that long'd, is by eating of glue sick; + Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick? + I'm told that my wife is by winding a clew sick; + The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick. + There's a gamester in town, for a throw that he threw sick, + And yet the whole trade of his dice he'll pursue sick; + I've known an old miser for paying his due sick; + At present I'm grown by a pinch of my shoe sick, + And what would you have me with verses to do sick? + Send rhymes, and I'll send you some others in lieu sick. + Of rhymes I have plenty, + And therefore send twenty. + + Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23. + + I desire you will carry both these to the Doctor together with his own; + and let him know we are not persons to be insulted. + + I was at Howth to-day, and staid abroad a-visiting till just now. + + Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731. + + "Can you match with me, + Who send thirty-three? + You must get fourteen more, + To make up thirty-four: + But, if me you can conquer, + I'll own you a strong cur."[2] + + This morning I'm growing, by smelling of yew, sick; + My brother's come over with gold from Peru sick; + Last night I came home in a storm that then blew sick; + This moment my dog at a cat I halloo sick; + I hear from good hands, that my poor cousin Hugh's sick; + By quaffing a bottle, and pulling a screw sick: + And now there's no more I can write (you'll excuse) sick; + You see that I scorn to mention word music. + I'll do my best, + To send the rest; + Without a jest, + I'll stand the test. + These lines that I send you, I hope you'll peruse sick; + I'll make you with writing a little more news sick; + Last night I came home with drinking of booze sick; + My carpenter swears that he'll hack and he'll hew sick. + An officer's lady, I'm told, is tattoo sick; + I'm afraid that the line thirty-four you will view sick. + Lord! I could write a dozen more; + You see I've mounted thirty-four. + + [Footnote 1: Time.—<i>Dublin Edition.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The lines "thus marked" were written by Dr. Swift, at the + bottom of Dr. Helsham's twenty lines; and the following fourteen were + afterwards added on the same paper.—<i>N.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0273" id="link2H_4_0273"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR + OF LARACOR. UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH, UNTIL HIS OWN + WAS BUILT[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An oaken broken elbow-chair; + A caudle cup without an ear; + A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead; + A box of deal, without a lid; + A pair of tongs, but out of joint; + A back-sword poker, without point; + A pot that's crack'd across, around, + With an old knotted garter bound; + An iron lock, without a key; + A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey; + A curtain, worn to half a stripe; + A pair of bellows, without pipe; + A dish, which might good meat afford once; + An Ovid, and an old Concordance; + A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter + One is for meal, and one for water; + There likewise is a copper skillet, + Which runs as fast out as you fill it; + A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all, + And thus his household goods you have all. + These, to your lordship, as a friend, + 'Till you have built, I freely lend: + They'll serve your lordship for a shift; + Why not as well as Doctor Swift? + + [Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to + the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift's great + surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the + time.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0274" id="link2H_4_0274"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1] + 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To make a writer miss his end, + You've nothing else to do but mend. + + I often tried in vain to find + A simile[2] for womankind, + A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, + In every circumstance to hit 'em.[3] + Through every beast and bird I went, + I ransack'd every element; + And, after peeping through all nature, + To find so whimsical a creature, + A cloud[4] presented to my view, + And straight this parallel I drew: + Clouds turn with every wind about, + They keep us in suspense and doubt, + Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, + Are seen to scud against the wind: + And are not women just the same? + For who can tell at what they aim?[5] + Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, + When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder: + So, when the alarum-bell is rung, + Of Xanti's[7] everlasting tongue, + The husband dreads its loudness more + Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. + Clouds weep, as they do, without pain; + And what are tears but women's rain? + The clouds about the welkin roam:[8] + And ladies never stay at home. + The clouds build castles in the air, + A thing peculiar to the fair: + For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9] + Are not more solid nor more lasting. + A cloud is light by turns, and dark, + Such is a lady with her spark; + Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloom + She seems to darken all the room; + Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,[11] + And all is clear when she has smiled. + In this they're wondrously alike, + (I hope the simile will strike,)[12] + Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them, + Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. + The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14] + And frequently produce infection; + So Celia, with small provocation, + Blasts every neighbour's reputation. + The clouds delight in gaudy show, + (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) + The gravest matron[15] will confess, + That she herself is fond of dress. + Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, + What various colours are display'd; + The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, + In that great drawing-room the sky; + How do these differ from our Graces,[16] + In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? + Are they not such another sight, + When met upon a birth-day night? + The clouds delight to change their fashion: + (Dear ladies, be not in a passion!) + Nor let this whim to you seem strange, + Who every hour delight in change. + In them and you alike are seen + The sullen symptoms of the spleen; + The moment that your vapours rise, + We see them dropping from your eyes. + In evening fair you may behold + The clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold; + And this is many a lady's case, + Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.[17] + Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, + Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow; + While brisk coquettes,[18] like rattling hail, + Our ears on every side assail. + Clouds, when they intercept our sight, + Deprive us of celestial light: + So when my Chloe I pursue, + No heaven besides I have in view. + Thus, on comparison,[19] you see, + In every instance they agree; + So like, so very much the same, + That one may go by t'other's name. + Let me proclaim[20] it then aloud, + That every woman is a cloud. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, + are replaced from the Irish edition:] + + [Footnote 2: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a <i>smile</i>; but they + are to note, it consists of three syllables, si-mi-le. In English, a + likeness.] + + [Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.] + + [Footnote 4: Not like a gun or pistol.] + + [Footnote 5: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.] + + [Footnote 6: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a + cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] + + [Footnote 7: Xanti, a nick-name for Xantippe, that scold of glorious + memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet + with unexampled patience, he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg + the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her; and at the + same time I assure them, it is not to lessen those of the present age, + who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that + I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that + they have not as great men to work upon. + + When a friend asked Socrates, how he could bear the scolding of his + wife Xantippe? he retorted, and asked him, how he could bear the + gaggling of his geese? Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replied his + friend; so doth my wife bear children, said Socrates.—<i>Diog. Laert.</i> + + Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue? + he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the + impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad.—<i>Plat. De + Capiend. ex host. utilit.</i> + + Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great + rage, went in to them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in a + passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do + the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any + resentment?—<i>Plat. de ira cohibenda.</i> + + I could give many more instances of her termagancy, and his philosophy, + if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity + to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I + declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour + to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great + esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honourable + station of matrimony.] + + [Footnote 8: Ramble.] + + [Footnote 9: Not vomiting.] + + [Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.] + + [Footnote 11: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when + brewers put yeast or harm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or + cheated.] + + [Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.] + + [Footnote 13: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig, called Dumpty-Deary, + invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.] + + [Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.] + + [Footnote 15: Motherly woman.] + [Footnote 16: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the + duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.] + + [Footnote 17: Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I + mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not + able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last + birth-day.—Vid. the shopkeepers' books.] + + [Footnote 18: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a + number of monkey-airs to catch men.] + + [Footnote 19: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to + think these comparisons are odious.] + + [Footnote 20: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and + rapparees.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0275" id="link2H_4_0275"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANSWER TO A SCANDALOUS POEM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wherein the Author most audaciously presumes to cast an indignity upon + their highnesses the Clouds, by comparing them to a woman. + Written by DERMOT O'NEPHELY, Chief Cape of Howth.[1] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BY DR. SWIFT ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE CLOUDS + + N.B. The following answer to that scurrilous libel against us, should + have been published long ago in our own justification: But it was + advised, that, considering the high importance of the subject, it should + be deferred until the meeting of the General Assembly of the Nation. + + [Two passages within crotchets are added to this poem, from a copy + found amongst Swift's papers. It is indorsed, "Qufre, should it go." + And a little lower, "More, but of no use."] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Presumptuous bard! how could you dare + A woman with a cloud compare? + Strange pride and insolence you show + Inferior mortals there below. + And is our thunder in your ears + So frequent or so loud as theirs? + Alas! our thunder soon goes out; + And only makes you more devout. + Then is not female clatter worse, + That drives you not to pray, but curse? + We hardly thunder thrice a-year; + The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear; + But every sublunary dowdy, + The more she scolds, the more she's cloudy. + [How useful were a woman's thunder, + If she, like us, would burst asunder! + Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her, + And, whisp'ring, wish'd the devil burst her: + For hourly thund'ring in his face, + She ne'er was known to burst a lace.] + Some critic may object, perhaps, + That clouds are blamed for giving claps; + But what, alas! are claps ethereal, + Compared for mischief to venereal? + Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches, + Or from your noses dig out notches? + We leave the body sweet and sound; + We kill, 'tis true, but never wound. + You know a cloudy sky bespeaks + Fair weather when the morning breaks; + But women in a cloudy plight, + Foretell a storm to last till night. + A cloud in proper season pours + His blessings down in fruitful showers; + But woman was by fate design'd + To pour down curses on mankind. + When Sirius[2] o'er the welkin rages, + Our kindly help his fire assuages; + But woman is a cursed inflamer, + No parish ducking-stool can tame her: + To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her; + Like fireworks, she can burn in water. + For fickleness how durst you blame us, + Who for our constancy are famous? + You'll see a cloud in gentle weather + Keep the same face an hour together; + While women, if it could be reckon'd, + Change every feature every second. + Observe our figure in a morning, + Of foul or fair we give you warning; + But can you guess from women's air + One minute, whether foul or fair? + Go read in ancient books enroll'd + What honours we possess'd of old. + To disappoint Ixion's[3] rape + Jove dress'd a cloud in Juno's shape; + Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore, + No goddess could have pleased him more; + No difference could he find between + His cloud and Jove's imperial queen; + His cloud produced a race of Centaurs, + Famed for a thousand bold adventures; + From us descended <i>ab origine</i>, + By learned authors, called <i>nubigenae</i>; + But say, what earthly nymph do you know, + So beautiful to pass for Juno? + Before Fneas durst aspire + To court her majesty of Tyre, + His mother begg'd of us to dress him, + That Dido might the more caress him: + A coat we gave him, dyed in grain, + A flaxen wig, and clouded cane, + (The wig was powder'd round with sleet, + Which fell in clouds beneath his feet) + With which he made a tearing show; + And Dido quickly smoked the beau. + Among your females make inquiries, + What nymph on earth so fair as Iris? + With heavenly beauty so endow'd? + And yet her father is a cloud. + We dress'd her in a gold brocade, + Befitting Juno's favourite maid. + 'Tis known that Socrates the wise + Adored us clouds as deities: + To us he made his daily prayers, + As Aristophanes declares; + From Jupiter took all dominion, + And died defending his opinion. + By his authority 'tis plain + You worship other gods in vain; + And from your own experience know + We govern all things there below. + You follow where we please to guide; + O'er all your passions we preside, + Can raise them up, or sink them down, + As we think fit to smile or frown: + And, just as we dispose your brain, + Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain. + Compare us then to female race! + We, to whom all the gods give place! + Who better challenge your allegiance + Because we dwell in higher regions. + You find the gods in Homer dwell + In seas and streams, or low as Hell: + Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp, + No higher climb than mount Olymp. + Who makes you think the clouds he pierces? + He pierce the clouds! he kiss their a—es; + While we, o'er Teneriffa placed, + Are loftier by a mile at least: + And, when Apollo struts on Pindus, + We see him from our kitchen windows; + Or, to Parnassus looking down, + Can piss upon his laurel crown. + Fate never form'd the gods to fly; + In vehicles they mount the sky: + When Jove would some fair nymph inveigle, + He comes full gallop on his eagle; + Though Venus be as light as air, + She must have doves to draw her chair; + Apollo stirs not out of door, + Without his lacquer'd coach and four; + And jealous Juno, ever snarling, + Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin: + But we can fly where'er we please, + O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas: + From east to west the world we roam, + And in all climates are at home; + With care provide you as we go + With sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow. + You, when it rains, like fools, believe + Jove pisses on you through a sieve: + An idle tale, 'tis no such matter; + We only dip a sponge in water, + Then squeeze it close between our thumbs, + And shake it well, and down it comes; + As you shall to your sorrow know; + We'll watch your steps where'er you go; + And, since we find you walk a-foot, + We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout. + 'Tis but by our peculiar grace, + That Phoebus ever shows his face; + For, when we please, we open wide + Our curtains blue from side to side; + And then how saucily he shows + His brazen face and fiery nose; + And gives himself a haughty air, + As if he made the weather fair! + 'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads, + The violets ope their purple heads; + The roses blow, the cowslip springs; + 'Tis sung; but we know better things. + 'Tis true, a woman on her mettle + Will often piss upon a nettle; + But though we own she makes it wetter, + The nettle never thrives the better; + While we, by soft prolific showers, + Can every spring produce you flowers. + Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning, + Compare her radiant eyes to lightning; + And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd, + That lightning comes but from a cloud. + But gods like us have too much sense + At poets' flights to take offence; + Nor can hyperboles demean us; + Each drab has been compared to Venus. + We own your verses are melodious; + But such comparisons are odious. + [Observe the case—I state it thus: + Though you compare your trull to us, + But think how damnably you err + When you compare us clouds to her; + From whence you draw such bold conclusions; + But poets love profuse allusions. + And, if you now so little spare us, + Who knows how soon you may compare us + To Chartres, Walpole, or a king, + If once we let you have your swing. + Such wicked insolence appears + Offensive to all pious ears. + To flatter women by a metaphor! + What profit could you hope to get of her? + And, for her sake, turn base detractor + Against your greatest benefactor. + But we shall keep revenge in store + If ever you provoke us more: + For, since we know you walk a-foot, + We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout; + Or may we never thunder throw, + Nor souse to death a birth-day beau. + We own your verses are melodious; + But such comparisons are odious.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: The highest point of Howth is called the Cape of Howth.— + <i>F.</i>] + + [Footnote 2: The Dogstar.—Hyginus, "Astronomica."] + + [Footnote 3: Who murdered his father-in-law, and was taken into heaven + and purified by Jove, but when, after he had begot the Centaurs from the + cloud, he boasted of his imaginary success with Juno, Jupiter hurled + him into Tartarus, where he was bound to a perpetually revolving wheel. + "Volvitur Ixion: et se sequiturque fugitque." Ovid, "Metam.," iv, 460. + Tibullus tells the tale in one distich, lib. I, iii: + "Illic Junonem tentare Ixionis ausi + Versantur celeri noxia membra rota."—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0276" id="link2H_4_0276"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PEG RADCLIFFE THE HOSTESS'S INVITATION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the Reverend Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D. written with a design to be spoken by + her on his arrival at Glassnevin, Dr. Delany having complimented him with + a house there. From the London and Dublin Magazine for June, 1735. The + lines are probably by Delany or Sheridan. + + Though the name of this place may make you to frown, + Your Deanship is welcome to <i>Glassnevin</i> town; + [1]A glass and no wine, to a man of your taste, + Alas! is enough, sir, to break it in haste; + Be that as it will, your presence can't fail + To yield great delight in drinking our ale; + Would you but vouchsafe a mug to partake, + And as we can brew, believe we can bake. + The life and the pleasure we now from you hope, + The famed Violante can't show on the rope; + Your genius and talents outdo even Pope. + Then while, sir, you live at Glassnevin, and find + The benefit wish'd you, by friends who are kind; + One night in the week, sir, your favour bestow, + To drink with Delany and others your know: + They constantly meet at Peg Radcliffe's together, + Talk over the news of the town and the weather; + Reflect on mishaps in church and in state, + Digest many things as well as good meat; + And club each alike that no one may treat. + This if you will grant without coach or chair, + You may, in a trice, cross the way and be there; + For Peg is your neighbour, as well as Delany, + A housewifely woman full pleasing to any. + + [Footnote 1: A pun on <i>Glassnevin</i>—<i>Glass—ne, no, and</i> vin, + <i>wine.</i>—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0277" id="link2H_4_0277"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES BY SHERIDAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When to my house you come, dear Dean, + Your humble friend to entertain, + Through dirt and mire along the street, + You find no scraper for your feet; + At which you stamp and storm and swell, + Which serves to clean your feet as well. + By steps ascending to the hall, + All torn to rags by boys and ball, + With scatter'd fragments on the floor; + A sad, uneasy parlour door, + Besmear'd with chalk, and carved with knives, + (A plague upon all careless wives,) + Are the next sights you must expect, + But do not think they are my neglect. + Ah that these evils were the worst! + The parlour still is farther curst. + To enter there if you advance, + If in you get, it is by chance. + How oft by turns have you and I + Said thus—"Let me—no—let me try— + This turn will open it, I'll engage"— + You push me from it in a rage. + Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling, + Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling, + At length it opens—in we go— + How glad are we to find it so! + Conquests through pains and dangers please, + Much more than those attain'd with ease. + Are you disposed to take a seat; + The instant that it feels your weight, + Out goes its legs, and down you come + Upon your reverend deanship's bum. + Betwixt two stools, 'tis often said, + The sitter on the ground is laid; + What praise then to my chairs is due, + Where one performs the feat of two! + Now to the fire, if such there be, + At present nought but smoke we see. + "Come, stir it up!"—"Ho, Mr. Joker, + How can I stir it without a poker?" + "The bellows take, their batter'd nose + Will serve for poker, I suppose." + Now you begin to rake—alack + The grate has tumbled from its back— + The coals all on the hearth are laid— + "Stay, sir—I'll run and call the maid; + She'll make the fire again complete— + She knows the humour of the grate." + "Pox take your maid and you together— + This is cold comfort in cold weather." + Now all is right again—the blaze + Suddenly raised as soon decays. + Once more apply the bellows—"So— + These bellows were not made to blow— + Their leathern lungs are in decay, + They can't even puff the smoke away." + "And is your reverence vext at that, + Get up, in God's name, take your hat; + Hang them, say I, that have no shift; + Come blow the fire, good Doctor Swift. + If trifles such as these can tease you, + Plague take those fools that strive to please you. + Therefore no longer be a quarrel'r + Either with me, sir, or my parlour. + If you can relish ought of mine, + A bit of meat, a glass of wine, + You're welcome to it, and you shall fare + As well as dining with the mayor." + "You saucy scab—you tell me so! + Why, booby-face, I'd have you know + I'd rather see your things in order, + Than dine in state with the recorder. + For water I must keep a clutter, + Or chide your wife for stinking butter; + Or getting such a deal of meat + As if you'd half the town to eat. + That wife of yours, the devil's in her, + I've told her of this way of dinner + Five hundred times, but all in vain— + Here comes a rump of beef again: + O that that wife of yours would burst— + Get out, and serve the boarders first. + Pox take 'em all for me—I fret + So much, I shall not eat my meat— + You know I'd rather have a slice." + "I know, dear sir, you are not nice; + You'll have your dinner in a minute, + Here comes the plate and slices in it— + Therefore no more, but take your place— + Do you fall to, and I'll say grace." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0278" id="link2H_4_0278"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ADDRESSED TO SWIFT AND TO HIS MEMORY TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS + BIRTH-DAY[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While I the godlike men of old, + In admiration wrapt, behold; + Revered antiquity explore, + And turn the long-lived volumes o'er; + Where Cato, Plutarch, Flaccus, shine + In every excellence divine; + I grieve that our degenerate days + Produce no mighty soul like these: + Patriot, philosopher, and bard, + Are names unknown, and seldom heard. + "Spare your reflection," Phoebus cries; + "'Tis as ungrateful as unwise: + Can you complain, this sacred day, + That virtues or that arts decay? + Behold, in Swift revived appears: + The virtues of unnumber'd years; + Behold in him, with new delight, + The patriot, bard, and sage unite; + And know, Ikrne in that name + Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame." + + [Footnote 1: Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at the time when she wished to + be introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr. + Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0279" id="link2H_4_0279"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DR. SWIFT, 1733 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No pedant Bentley proud, uncouth, + Nor sweetening dedicator smooth, + In one attempt has ever dared + To sap, or storm, this mighty bard, + Nor Envy does, nor ignorance, + Make on his works the least advance. + For <i>this</i>, behold! still flies afar + Where'er his genius does appear; + Nor has <i>that</i> aught to do above, + So meddles not with Swift and Jove. + A faithful, universal fame + In glory spreads abroad his name; + Pronounces Swift, with loudest breath, + Immortal grown before his death. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0280" id="link2H_4_0280"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S A BIRTH-DAY POEM. NOV. 30, + 1736 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To you, my true and faithful friend, + These tributary lines I send, + Which every year, thou best of deans, + I'll pay as long as life remains; + But did you know one half the pain + What work, what racking of the brain, + It costs me for a single clause, + How long I'm forced to think and pause; + How long I dwell upon a proem, + To introduce your birth-day poem, + How many blotted lines; I know it, + You'd have compassion for the poet. + Now, to describe the way I think, + I take in hand my pen and ink; + I rub my forehead, scratch my head, + Revolving all the rhymes I read. + Each complimental thought sublime, + Reduced by favourite Pope to rhyme, + And those by you to Oxford writ, + With true simplicity and wit. + Yet after all I cannot find + One panegyric to my mind. + Now I begin to fret and blot, + Something I schemed, but quite forgot; + My fancy turns a thousand ways, + Through all the several forms of praise, + What eulogy may best become + The greatest dean in Christendom. + At last I've hit upon a thought—— + Sure this will do—— 'tis good for nought—— + This line I peevishly erase, + And choose another in its place; + Again I try, again commence, + But cannot well express the sense; + The line's too short to hold my meaning: + I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the Dean in. + O for a rhyme to glorious birth! + I've hit upon't——The rhyme is earth—— + But how to bring it in, or fit it, + I know not, so I'm forced to quit it. + Again I try—I'll sing the man— + Ay do, says Phoebus, if you can; + I wish with all my heart you would not; + Were Horace now alive he could not: + And will you venture to pursue, + What none alive or dead could do? + Pray see, did ever Pope or Gay + Presume to write on his birth-day; + Though both were fav'rite bards of mine, + The task they wisely both decline. + With grief I felt his admonition, + And much lamented my condition: + Because I could not be content + Without some grateful compliment, + If not the poet, sure the friend + Must something on your birth-day send. + I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more: + "Let every patriot him adore." + Alack-a-day, there's nothing in't— + Such stuff will never do in print. + Pray, reader, ponder well the sequel; + I hope this epigram will take well. + In others, life is deem'd a vapour, + In Swift it is a lasting taper, + Whose blaze continually refines, + The more it burns the more it shines. + I read this epigram again, + 'Tis much too flat to fit the Dean. + Then down I lay some scheme to dream on + Assisted by some friendly demon. + I slept, and dream'd that I should meet + A birth-day poem in the street; + So, after all my care and rout, + You see, dear Dean, my dream is out. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0281" id="link2H_4_0281"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAMS OCCASIONED BY DR. SWIFT'S INTENDED HOSPITAL FOR IDIOTS AND + LUNATICS + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Dean must die—our idiots to maintain! + Perish, ye idiots! and long live the Dean! +</pre> + <h3> + II + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Genius of Hibernia's state, + Sublimely good, severely great, + How doth this latest act excel + All you have done or wrote so well! + Satire may be the child of spite, + And fame might bid the Drapier write: + But to relieve, and to endow, + Creatures that know not whence or how + Argues a soul both good and wise, + Resembling Him who rules the skies, + He to the thoughtful mind displays + Immortal skill ten thousand ways; + And, to complete his glorious task, + Gives what we have not sense to ask! +</pre> + <h3> + III + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lo! Swift to idiots bequeaths his store: + Be wise, ye rich!—consider thus the poor! +</pre> + <h3> + IV + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great wits to madness nearly are allied, + This makes the Dean for kindred <i>thus</i> provide. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0282" id="link2H_4_0282"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTH-DAY BEING NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S DAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Between the hours of twelve and one, + When half the world to rest were gone, + Entranced in softest sleep I lay, + Forgetful of an anxious day; + From every care and labour free, + My soul as calm as it could be. + The queen of dreams, well pleased to find + An undisturb'd and vacant mind, + With magic pencil traced my brain, + And there she drew St. Patrick's Dean: + I straight beheld on either hand + Two saints, like guardian angels, stand, + And either claim'd him for their son, + And thus the high dispute begun: + St. Andrew, first, with reason strong, + Maintain'd to him he did belong. + "Swift is my own, by right divine, + All born upon this day are mine." + St. Patrick said, "I own this true + So far he does belong to you: + But in my church he's born again, + My son adopted, and my Dean. + When first the Christian truth I spread, + The poor within this isle I fed, + And darkest errors banish'd hence, + Made knowledge in their place commence: + Nay more, at my divine command, + All noxious creatures fled the land. + I made both peace and plenty smile, + Hibernia was my favourite isle; + Now his—for he succeeds to me, + Two angels cannot more agree. + His joy is, to relieve the poor; + Behold them weekly at his door! + His knowledge too, in brightest rays, + He like the sun to all conveys, + Shows wisdom in a single page, + And in one hour instructs an age + When ruin lately stood around + Th'enclosures of my sacred ground, + He gloriously did interpose, + And saved it from invading foes; + For this I claim immortal Swift + As my own son, and Heaven's best gift. + The Caledonian saint, enraged, + Now closer in dispute engaged. + Essays to prove, by transmigration, + The Dean is of the Scottish nation; + And, to confirm the truth, he chose + The loyal soul of great Montrose; + "Montrose and he are both the same, + They only differ in the name: + Both heroes in a righteous cause, + Assert their liberties and laws; + He's now the same Montrose was then, + But that the sword is turn'd a pen, + A pen of so great power, each word + Defends beyond the hero's sword." + Now words grew high—we can't suppose + Immortals ever come to blows, + But lest unruly passion should + Degrade them into flesh and blood, + An angel quick from Heaven descends, + And he at once the contest ends: + "Ye reverend pair, from discord cease, + Ye both mistake the present case; + One kingdom cannot have pretence + To so much virtue! so much sense! + Search Heaven's record; and there you'll find + That he was born for all mankind." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0283" id="link2H_4_0283"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT. BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D. + + To gratify thy long desire, + (So love and piety require,) + From Bindon's colours you may trace + The patriot's venerable face. + The last, O Nugent! which his art + Shall ever to the world impart; + For know, the prime of mortal men, + That matchless monarch of the pen, + (Whose labours, like the genial sun, + Shall through revolving ages run, + Yet never, like the sun, decline, + But in their full meridian shine,) + That ever honour'd, envied sage, + So long the wonder of the age, + Who charm'd us with his golden strain, + Is not the shadow of the Dean: + He only breathes Boeotian air— + "O! what a falling off was there!" + Hibernia's Helicon is dry, + Invention, Wit, and Humour die; + And what remains against the storm + Of Malice but an empty form? + The nodding ruins of a pile, + That stood the bulwark of this isle? + In which the sisterhood was fix'd + Of candid Honour, Truth unmix'd, + Imperial Reason, Thought profound, + And Charity, diffusing round + In cheerful rivulets to flow + Of Fortune to the sons of woe? + Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift, + Endued with each exalted gift, + But lo! the pure ethereal flame + Is darken'd by a misty steam: + The balm exhausted breathes no smell, + The rose is wither'd ere it fell. + That godlike supplement of law, + Which held the wicked world in awe + And could the tide of faction stem, + Is but a shell without the gem. + Ye sons of genius, who would aim + To build an everlasting fame, + And in the field of letter'd arts, + Display the trophies of your parts, + To yonder mansion turn aside, + And mortify your growing pride. + Behold the brightest of the race, + And Nature's honour, in disgrace: + With humble resignation own, + That all your talents are a loan; + By Providence advanced for use, + Which you should study to produce + Reflect, the mental stock, alas! + However current now it pass, + May haply be recall'd from you + Before the grave demands his due, + Then, while your morning star proceeds, + Direct your course to worthy deeds, + In fuller day discharge your debts; + For, when your sun of reason sets, + The night succeeds; and all your schemes + Of glory vanish with your dreams. + Ah! where is now the supple train, + That danced attendance on the Dean? + Say, where are those facetious folks, + Who shook with laughter at his jokes, + And with attentive rapture hung, + On wisdom, dropping from his tongue; + Who look'd with high disdainful pride + On all the busy world beside, + And rated his productions more + Than treasures of Peruvian ore? + Good Christians! they with bended knees + Ingulf'd the wine, but loathe the lees, + Averting, (so the text commands,) + With ardent eyes and upcast hands, + The cup of sorrow from their lips, + And fly, like rats, from sinking ships. + While some, who by his friendship rose + To wealth, in concert with his foes + Run counter to their former track, + Like old Actfon's horrid pack + Of yelling mongrels, in requitals + To riot on their master's vitals; + And, where they cannot blast his laurels, + Attempt to stigmatize his morals; + Through Scandal's magnifying glass + His foibles view, but virtues pass, + And on the ruins of his fame + Erect an ignominious name. + So vermin foul, of vile extraction, + The spawn of dirt and putrefaction, + The sounder members traverse o'er, + But fix and fatten on a sore. + Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile + His wit, his humour, and his style; + Since all the monsters which he drew + Were only meant to copy you; + And, if the colours be not fainter, + Arraign yourselves, and not the painter. + But, O! that He, who gave him breath, + Dread arbiter of life and death: + That He, the moving soul of all, + The sleeping spirit would recall, + And crown him with triumphant meeds, + For all his past heroic deeds, + In mansions of unbroken rest, + The bright republic of the bless'd! + Irradiate his benighted mind + With living light of light refined; + And there the blank of thought employ + With objects of immortal joy! + Yet, while he drags the sad remains + Of life, slow-creeping through his veins, + Above the views of private ends, + The tributary Muse attends, + To prop his feeble steps, or shed + The pious tear around his bed. + So pilgrims, with devout complaints, + Frequent the graves of martyr'd saints, + Inscribe their worth in artless lines, + And, in their stead, embrace their shrines. + + [Footnote 1: Created Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, Dec. 20, + 1766.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0284" id="link2H_4_0284"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON THE DRAPIER. BY DR. DUNKIN.[1] + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Undone by fools at home, abroad by knaves, + The isle of saints became the land of slaves, + Trembling beneath her proud oppressor's hand; + But, when thy reason thunder'd through the land, + Then all the public spirit breathed in thee, + And all, except the sons of guilt, were free. + Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife! + You gave her freedom, as she gave you life! + Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well, + And with those rights for which you stand, he fell. + + [Footnote 1: See the translation of Carberiae Rupes in vol. i, p. 143. In + the select Poetical Works of Dr. Dunkin, published at Dublin in 1770, are + four well-chosen compliments to the Dean on his birth-day, and a very + humorous poetical advertisement for a copy of Virgil Travestie, which, at + the Dean's request, Dr. Dunkin had much corrected, and afterwards lost. + After offering a small reward to whoever will restore it, he adds, + + "Or if, when this book shall be offer'd to sale, + Any printer will stop it, the bard will not fail + To make over the issues and profits accruing + From thence to the printer, for his care in so doing; + Provided he first to the poet will send it, + That where it is wrong, he may alter and mend it."—<i>N.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0285" id="link2H_4_0285"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH PROPOSED FOR DR. SWIFT. 1745 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HIC JACET + DEMOCRITVS ILLE NEOTERICVS, RABELAESIVS NOSTER, +IONATHAN SWIFT, S.T.P. HVIVS CATHEDRALIS NVPER DECANVS; + MOMI, MVSARVM, MINERVAE, ALVMNVS PERQVAM DILECTVS; + INSVLSIS, HYPOCRITIS, THEOMACHIS, IVXTA EXOSVS; + QVOS TRIBVTIM SVMMO CVM LEPORE + DERISIT, DENVDAVIT, DEBELLAVIT. + PATRIAE INFELICIS PATRONVS IMPIGER, ET PROPVGNATOR + PRIMORES ARRIPVIT, POPVLVMQVE INTERRITVS, + VNI SCILICET AEQVVS VIRTVTI. + HANC FAVILLAM + SI QVIS ADES, NEC PENITVS EXCORS VIDETVR, + DEBITA SPARGES LACRYMA. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0286" id="link2H_4_0286"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN. 1754 + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two geniuses one age and nation grace! + Pride of our isles, and boast of human race! + Great sage! great bard! supreme in knowledge born! + The world to mend, enlighten, and adorn. + Truth on Cimmerian darkness pours the day! + Wit drives in smiles the gloom of minds away! + Ye kindred suns on high, ye glorious spheres, + Whom have ye seen, in twice three thousand years, + Whom have ye seen, like these, of mortal birth; + Though Archimede and Horace blest the earth? + Barbarians, from th' Equator to the Poles, + Hark! reason calls! wisdom awakes your souls! + Ye regions, ignorant of Walpole's name; + Ye climes, where kings shall ne'er extend their fame; + Where men, miscall'd, God's image have defaced, + Their form belied, and human shape disgraced! + Ye two-legg'd wolves! slaves! superstition's sons! + Lords! soldiers! holy Vandals! modern Huns! + Boors, mufties, monks; in Russia, Turkey, Spain! + Who does not know SIR ISAAC, and THE DEAN? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0287" id="link2H_4_0287"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When wasteful death has closed the Poet's eyes, + And low in earth his mortal essence lies; + When the bright flame, that once his breast inspired, + Has to its first, its noblest seat retired; + All worthy minds, whom love of merit sways, + Should shade from slander his respected bays; + And bid that fame, his useful labours won, + Pure and untainted through all ages run. + Envy's a fiend all excellence pursues, + But mostly poets favour'd by the Muse; + Who wins the laurel, sacred verse bestows, + Makes all, who fail in like attempts, his foes; + No puny wit of malice can complain, + The thorn is theirs, who most applauses gain. + Whatever gifts or graces Heaven design'd + To raise man's genius, or enrich his mind, + Were Swift's to boast—alike his merits claim + The statesman's knowledge, and the poet's flame; + The patriot's honour, zealous to defend + His country's rights—and <i>faithful to the end</i>; + The sound divine, whose charities display'd + He more by virtue than by forms was sway'd; + Temperate at board, and frugal of his store, + Which he but spared, to make his bounties more: + The generous friend, whose heart alike caress'd, + The friend triumphant, or the friend distress'd; + Who could, unpain'd, another's merit spy, + Nor view a rival's fame with jaundiced eye; + Humane to all, his love was unconfined, + And in its scope embraced all human kind; + Sharp, not malicious, was his charming wit, + And less to anger than reform he writ; + Whatever rancour his productions show'd, + From scorn of vice and folly only flow'd; + He thought that fools were an invidious race, + And held no measures with the vain or base. + Virtue so clear! who labours to destroy, + Shall find the charge can but himself annoy: + The slanderous theft to his own breast recoils, + Who seeks renown from injured merit's spoils; + All hearts unite, and Heaven with man conspires + To guard those virtues she herself admires. + O sacred bard!—once ours!—but now no more, + Whose loss, for ever, Ireland must deplore, + No earthly laurels needs thy happy brow, + Above the poet's are thy honours now: + Above the patriot's, (though a greater name + No temporal monarch for his crown can claim.) + From noble breasts if envy might ensue, + Thy death is all the brave can envy you. + You died, when merit (to its fate resign'd) + Saw scarce one friend to genius left behind, + When shining parts did jealous hatred breed, + And 'twas a crime in science to succeed, + When ignorance spread her hateful mist around, + And dunces only an acceptance found. + What could such scenes in noble minds beget, + But life with pain, and talents with regret? + Add that thy spirit from the world retired, + Ere hidden foes its further grief conspired; + No treacherous friend did stories yet contrive, + To blast the Muse he flatter'd when alive,[1] + Or sordid printer (by his influence led) + Abused the fame that first bestow'd him bread. + Slanders so mean, had he whose nicer ear + Abhorr'd all scandal, but survived to hear, + The fraudful tale had stronger scorn supplied, + And he (at length) with more disdain had died, + But since detraction is the portion here + Of all who virtuous durst, or great, appear, + And the free soul no true existence gains, + While earthly particles its flight restrains, + The greatest favour grimful Death can show, + Is with swift dart to expedite the blow. + So thought the Dean, who, anxious for his fate, + Sigh'd for release, and deem'd the blessing late. + And sure if virtuous souls (life's travail past) + Enjoy (as churchmen teach) repose at last, + There's cause to think, a mind so firmly good, + Who vice so long, and lawless power, withstood, + Has reach'd the limits of that peaceful shore, + Where knaves molest, and tyrants awe, no more; + These blissful seats the pious but attain, + Where incorrupt, immortal spirits reign. + There his own Parnell strikes the living lyre. + And Pope, harmonius, joins the tuneful choir; + His Stella too, (no more to forms confined, + For heavenly beings all are of a kind,) + Unites with his the treasures of her mind, + With warmer friendships bids their bosoms glow, + Nor dreads the rage of vulgar tongues below. + Such pleasing hope the tranquil breast enjoys, + Whose inward peace no conscious crime annoys; + While guilty minds irresolute appear, + And doubt a state their vices needs must fear. + + R——T B——N. + + Dublin, Nov. 4, 1755. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: Compare the Earl of Orrery's "Verses to Swift on his + birthday" (vol. i, 228) with his "Remarks on the Life and writings of + Swift." And see <i>post</i>, p. 406. The next line refers to + Faulkner.—<i>W. E. B.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0288" id="link2H_4_0288"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SCHOOLBOY'S THEME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The following lines were enclosed in a letter from Mr. Pulteney, + (afterwards Earl of Bath,) to Swift, in which he says—"You must give me + leave to add to my letter a copy of verses at the end of a declamation + made by a boy at Westminster school on this theme,—<i>Ridentem dicere + verum quid vetat?</i>" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dulce, Decane, decus, flos optime gentis Hibernae + Nomine quique audis, ingenioque celer: + Dum lepido indulges risu, et mutaris in horas, + Qur nova vis animi, materiesque rapit? + Nunc gravis astrologus, coelo dominaris et astris, + Filaque pro libitu Partrigiana secas. + Nunc populo speciosa hospes miracula promis, + Gentesque aequoreas, akriasque creas. + Seu plausum captat queruli persona Draperi, + Seu levis a vacuo tabula sumpta cado. + Mores egregius mira exprimis arte magister, + Et vitam atque homines pagina quaeque sapit; + Socraticae minor est vis et sapientia chartae, + Nec tantum potuit grande Platonis opus. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0289" id="link2H_4_0289"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERSES ON THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS, BY MR. JAMES STERLING, OF THE COUNTY OF + MEATH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While the Dean with more wit than man ever wanted, + Or than Heaven to any man else ever granted, + Endeavours to prove, how the ancients in knowledge + Have excell'd our adepts of each modern college; + How by heroes of old our chiefs are surpass'd + In each useful science, true learning, and taste. + While thus he behaves, with more courage than manners, + And fights for the foe, deserting our banners; + While Bentley and Wotton, our champions, he foils, + And wants neither Temple's assistance, nor Boyle's; + In spite of his learning, fine reasons, and style, + —Would you think it?—he favours our cause all the while: + We raise by his conquest our glory the higher, + And from our defeat to a triumph aspire; + Our great brother-modern, the boast of our days, + Unconscious, has gain'd for our party the bays: + St. James's old authors, so famed on each shelf, + Are vanquish'd by what he has written himself. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0290" id="link2H_4_0290"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON DR. SWIFT'S LEAVING HIS ESTATE TO IDIOTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Swift, wondrous genius, bright intelligence, + Pities the orphan's, idiot's want of sense; + And rich in supernumerary pelf, + Adopts posterity unlike himself. + To one great individual wit's confined! + Such eunuchs never propagate their kind. + Thus nature's prodigies bestow the gifts + Of fortune, their descendants are no Swifts. + When did prime statesman, for a sceptre fit + His ministerial successor beget? + No age, no state, no world, can hope to see + Two SWIFTS or WALPOLES in one family. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0291" id="link2H_4_0291"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON SEVERAL PETTY PIECES LATELY PUBLISHED AGAINST DEAN SWIFT, NOW DEAF AND + INFIRM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy mortal part, ingenious Swift! must die, + Thy fame shall reach beyond mortality! + How puny whirlings joy at thy decline, + Thou darling offspring of the tuneful nine! + The noble <i>lion</i> thus, as vigour passes, + The fable tells us, is abused by <i>asses</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0292" id="link2H_4_0292"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON FAULKNER'S EDITION OF SWIFT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ornamented with an Engraving of the Dean, by Vertue. + + In a little dark room at the back of his shop, + Where poets and scribes have dined on a chop, + Poor Faulkner sate musing alone thus of late, + "Two volumes are done—it is time for the plate; + Yes, time to be sure;—but on whom shall I call + To express the great Swift in a compass so small? + Faith, <i>Vertue</i> shall do it, I'm pleased at the thought, + Be the cost what it will—the copper is bought." + Apollo o'erheard, (who as some people guess, + Had a hand in the work, and corrected the press;) + And pleased, he replied, "Honest George, you are right, + The thought was my own, howsoe'er you came by't. + For though both the wit and the style is my gift, + 'Tis VERTUE alone can design us a SWIFT." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0293" id="link2H_4_0293"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM, ON LORD ORRERY'S REMARKS ON SWIFT'S LIFE AND WRITINGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A sore disease this scribbling itch is! + His Lordship, in his Pliny seen,[1] + Turns Madam Pilkington in breeches, + And now attacks our Patriot Dean. + + What! libel his friend when laid in ground: + Nay, good sir, you may spare your hints, + His parallel at last is found, + For what he writes George Faulkner prints. + + Had Swift provoked to this behaviour, + Yet after death resentment cools, + Sure his last act bespoke his favour, + He built an hospital—for fools. + + [Footnote 1: Lord Orrery translated the letters of the younger + Pliny.—<i>Scott.</i>] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0294" id="link2H_4_0294"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DOCTOR DELANY ON HIS BOOK ENTITLED "OBSERVATIONS ON LORD ORRERY'S + REMARKS" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Delany, to escape your friend the Dean, + And prove all false that Orrery had writ, + You kindly own his Gulliver profane, + Yet make his puns and riddles sterling wit. + + But if for wrongs to Swift you would atone, + And please the world, one way you may succeed, + Collect Boyle's writings and your own, + And serve them as you served THE DEED. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0295" id="link2H_4_0295"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPIGRAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Faulkner's displaying in his shop the Dean's bust in marble, (now + placed in the great aisle of St. Patrick's church), while he was + publishing Lord Orrery's Remarks. + + Faulkner! for once you have some judgment shown, + By representing Swift transform'd to stone; + For could he thy ingratitude have known, + Astonishment itself the work had done! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0296" id="link2H_4_0296"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INSCRIPTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Intended for a compartment in Dr. Swift's monument, designed by + Cunningham, on College Green, Dublin. + + Say, to the Drapier's vast unbounded fame, + What added honours can the sculptor give? + None.—'Tis a sanction from the Drapier's name + Must bid the sculptor and his marble live. + + June 4, 1765. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0297" id="link2H_4_0297"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPIGRAM OCCASIONED BY THE ABOVE INSCRIPTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Which gave the Drapier birth two realms contend; + And each asserts her poet, patriot, friend: + Her mitre jealous Britain may deny; + That loss Ikrne's laurel shall supply; + Through life's low vale, she, grateful, gave him bread; + Her vocal stones shall vindicate him dead. + + W. B. J. N. + + 1766. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0298" id="link2H_4_0298"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INDEX + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACHESON, SIR ARTHUR, ii, 89; + verses by, to Swift, 92; + verses to, by Swift, 93. + Acheson, Lady, Lamentation by, ii, 95, 115; + twelve articles addressed to, 125. + Addison, i, 322. + Address to the Citizens, ii, 292. + Agistment, ii, 264, 271. + Aislaby, John, ii, 164. + Alcides, Hercules, ii, 71. + Alexander, Earl of Stirling, ii, 89. + Allen, John, ii, 269. + Allen, Lord, Traulus, i, 344; ii, 239, 242, 243. + Ambrec, Mary, i, 71. + Amherst, Caleb d'Anvers, i. 224. + Amphion, i, 245. + Anne, Queen, her "Coronation medal," i, 50; + death of, 261; + mentioned, ii, 144. + Apollo's edict, i, 105. + Arbuthnot, i, 191, 254. + Aretine (Aretino), ii, 323. + Astraea, i, 183. + Athenian Society, i, 16. + Atherton, a bishop of Waterford, account of, i, 191. + Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, his trial, ii, 196. + + Baldwin, Richard, ii, 263. + Ballyspellin, ii, 368, 371. + Bangor, Bishop of, ii, 299. + Barber, Mrs., her poems, i, 231. + Barracks, i, 263. + Bath referred to, i, 117. + Bath, Order of the, revived, ii, 203. + Battus, i, 272. + Baviad and Maeviad, i, 273. + Bavius and Maevius, i, 273. + Beaumont (Poet Joe), i. 81. + Bec, Mrs. Dingley, ii, 43. + Bec's birthday, ii, 49. + Bedel, Bishop, ii, 285. + Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, i, 166, 243. + Berkeley, Lord and Lady, i, 36, 39, 40, 41, 42. + Betterton, actor, i. 129. + Bettesworth, lines on, ii, 252; + account of, 256; + his visit to Swift, 257. + Bingham, ii, 269. + Blackall, Dr., ii, 138. + Blackmore, i, 275. + Blenheim, ii, 287. + Blount, Patty, i, 157. + Blue-Boys Hospital, i, 327. + Blueskins, who stabbed Jon. Wild, i, 225. + Bolingbroke, i, 253; + his disgust at Oxford's and Swift's levity, ii, 170. + Bolton, Archbishop, i, 243. + Bossu, i, 271. + Boulter, Primate, ii, 277. + Boyle, Lord Orrery, ii, 129. + Boyle, Viscount Blessington, ii, 129. + Brass, nickname for Walpole, i, 226; ii, 204, 224. + "Break no squares," i, 51; + note on, ii, 126. + Brent, Mrs., ii, 39. + Briareus, ii, 167, 328. + Bridewell described, i, 201, 265; ii, 29. + Broderick, Lord Middleton, ii, 200. + Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester, i, 284. + Brydges, Duke of Chandos, i, 283. + Buckley, Samuel, ii, 171. + Burgersdicius, ii, 360. + Burnet, referred to, i, 188. + Bush, Secretary to Lord Berkeley, i, 42. + + Cambyses, ii, 328. + Carey, Walter, ii, 267. + Caroline, Queen, the busts in Richmond Hermitage, i, 227; + and Dr. Clarke, 337. + Carruthers' Pope, i, 283. + Carteret, Lord, i, 258; + character of, 308, 309; + Epistle to, by Delany, 314. + Carteret, Lady, Apology to, i, 304. + Carthy, Charles, his translations of Horace, ii, 278, 283. + Cassandra, ii, 329. + Censure, ii, 17. + Charles XII of Sweden, i, 140. + Chartres, mentioned, i, 191; + described, 252. + Chesterfield, i, 283. + Chesterfield, Lord, letter to Voltaire enclosing Day of Judgment, i, 213. + "Chesterfield, Life of," referred to, ii, 203. + Chetwode MS., referred to, i, 98. + Chevy Chase, cited in Baucis and Philemon, i, 65. + Church, Swift's love for, ii, 164. + Cibber, Colley, i, 129, 255, 266. + Clarendon, referred to, i, 188. + Clarke, Dr., i, 337. + + Classics, Greek and Roman authors cited, imitated, and paraphrased: + Catullus, i, 295. + Cicero, i, 20; ii, 61. + Horace, cited, i, 34, 225, 245, 273, 277, 293, 317, 320; + ii, 40, 61, 124, 136, 170, 185, 291, 337, 345, 361; + imitated, i, 92; ii, 159, 167, 175, 182, 219, 248, 260, 279. + Hyginus, ii, 153, 206, 382. + Juvenal, i, 75; ii, 343. + Lucian, i, 76. + Lucretius, i, 137; ii, 60. + Martial, i, 75; ii, 287, 296. + Ovid, i, 17, 21, 88, 89, 117, 122, 124, 134, 183, 205, 334; + ii, 47, 60, 68, 71, 153, 185, 272, 296, 383. + Petronius, imitation, i, 148 + Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," i, 46, 47, 212. + Plutarch, cited, ii, 71. + Priscian, ii, 344. + Seneca, ii, 194. + Suetonius, ii, 194. + Tacitus, ii, 221. + Tibullus, ii, 383. + Virgil, i, 77, So, 120, 270, 278; ii, 51, 55, 123, 124, + 206, 266, 267, 294, 328, 359. + Vitruvius Pollio, i, 74. + + Clements, ii, 270. + "Clem," Barry, at Gaulstown, i, 140. + Coffee-houses frequented by the clergy, ii, 163. + Coke, Sir E., his precepts, i, 181. + Colberteen lace, i, 67; ii, 11. + Colloguing, ii, 321. + Compter, described, i, 201. + Compton, Sir Spencer, ridiculed in Williams' works, i, 219. + Compton, Sir Spencer, i, 219; ii, 224. <i>See</i> Wilmington. + Concanen, i, 276. + Congreve, Ode to, i, 24, 30, 321, 322. + Corbet, Dean of St. Patrick's, i, 147. + Country Life, description of, at Gaulstown House, i, 137. + Cracherode, i, 305. + "Craftsman, The," i, 224. + Craggs, ii, 167. + Creech, i, 281. + "Crisis, The," ii, 175, 176. + Croke, Sir A., editor of the "Regimen Sanitatis," i, 207. + Cross-bath described, i, 118. + Crosse, ii, 263. + Crowe, William, Parody on his address to Queen Anne, ii, 127. + Cunningham's "Handbook of London" cited, i, 201. + Curll, bookseller, i, 154, 253. + + Daphne, fable of, i, 88. + Daphne, ii, 57. + Deafness of Swift, i, 149, 150. + Deanery House, Verses on a window at the, i, 98. + Delany, Patrick, account of, i, 93; + to Swift when deaf, 149; + and Lord Carteret, Libel on, 320; + Fable by, 338; + Verses by, ii, 37, 38; + mentioned, 298. + Delany's villa described, i, 141. + Delawar, ii, 165. + Delos, i, 17. + Demar, Usurer, Elegy on, i, 96; + Epitaph on, 97. + Democritus, i, 224. + Demoniac, ii, 264. <i>See</i> Legion Club. + Denham, i, 106, 203, 257. + Dennis, i, 271; + his fear of the French, ii, 176. + Deucalion, ii, 68. + Dictionary of National Biography referred to, i, 232, 282. + Disraeli, "Curiosities of Literature," cited, i, 79. + Dolly, Lady Meath, i, 299. + Domitian, ii, 272. + Domvile, ii, 273. + "Don Quixote," cited, ii, 154. + Dorinda, poetical name for Dorothy, i, 32. + Dorothy, Sir W. Temple's wife, i, 32. + Dorset, Duke of, ii, 277, 297. + Dramatis Personae at Gaulstown House, i, 137. + Drapier's Hill, ii, 106. + Drapier's Letters, referred to, i, 251; ii, 200, 201. + Drummond of Hawthornden, ii, 89. + Dryden, Swift's malevolence to, i, 16, 272; + Malone's life of, 16, 43; + his "All for Love," ii, 114. + Duck, Stephen, Epigram on, and account of, i, 192; + mentioned, 255, 269. + Dunkin, Dr., ii, 399. + Dunster, i, 281. + Dunton, John, i, 16. + + Edgar, King, i, 318. + Elrington, English actor, i, 128, 129. + English Mall, i, 70. + Epigram, French, i, 297. + Epilogue to play for distressed weavers, i, 133. + Europa, ii, 47. + Excise on wines and tobacco defeated, i, 237. + + Fagot, Fable of the, ii, 166. + Farnham School, i, 27. + Faulkner, George, imprisoned at the instance of Bettesworth, ii, 261, + 272. + Fielding's "Life of Jon. Wild," i, 225. + Finch, Mrs., Verses to, as Ardelia, i, 52. + Finch, Lord Nottingham, ii, 148, 164. + Fitzpatrick, Brigadier, i, 243. + Flammeum, i, 204. + Flamsteed, i, 113. + Flecknoe, i, 275. + Fleet Ditch, i, 78, 201; + illustration of, referred to, 80. + Floyd, Dame, i, 40, 50. + Forbes, Lady Catherine, i, 107. + Ford, Charles, Verses on, i, 145; ii, 40. + Ford, Matthew, i, 145. + Forster, "Life of Swift," i, 43, 55; + his notes on Baucis and Philemon, 62. + "Freeholder, The," ii, 189. + French, Humphrey, ode from Horace addressed to, ii, 248. + + Gadbury, i, 113. + Garraway's auction room, i, 125. + Gaulstown House, described by Delany, i, 136. + Gay, "Shepherd's week," i, 83; + Epistle to, satirizing Sir R. Walpole, 214; + post of gentleman usher offered to, 215; + referred to, 104, 273, 322. + George I, death of, i, 155; + disputes with his son, 331. + George II, i, 331; ii, 130. + Godolphin, lampoon on, ii, 133; + satirized by Pope, 136. + Gorgon, ii, 270. + Grafton, Lord Lieutenant, ii, 295. + Greek play, account of, at Sheridan's school, ii, 326. + Grierson, Mrs. Constantia, i, 232. + Grimston, i, 275. + Guiscard, his attack on Harley, ii, 148. + Gulliveriana, cited, Scott's note from, corrected, i, 130. + Gulliver's Travels referred to, i, 239. + Gyges, story of, i, 20. + Hakluyt, ii, 60. + Halifax, good, ii, 183. + Hamet, Cid, Ben Eng'li, ii, 133. + Hamilton's Bawn, described, ii, 101. + Harcourt, Lord Chancellor, i, 259; ii, 167. + Harding, the printer, i, 163; ii, 288, 292. + Harley, Lord Oxford, ii, 159. + Harley, Lord, son of Lord Oxford, i, 87. + Harris, Mrs. Frances, her Petition, i, 36, 40. + Helsham, Dr. Richard, ii, 85, 307, 309, 373. + Henley, i, 256. + Herostratus, ii, 275. + Hill, Birkbeck, "Letters of Swift," i, 43. + Hobbes' "Leviathan" referred to, i, 274. + Hogarth, i, 265. + Holles, Henrietta Cavendish, i, 87. + Holyhead, Verses written at, i, 292. + Hoppy, Epilogue to benefit of, i, 130. + Horace. <i>See</i> Classics. + Hort, Satire on, i, 241; + Epigram on, ii, 297. + Houghton, magnificence of, i, 216. + Howard, Mrs., her finances, i, 156; + Countess of Suffolk, 252, 275. + Howth, ii, 381. + Hoyle on Quadrille, i, 254. + "Hudibras," cited, i, 70, 71, 168. + Hume, "History of England," i, 318; ii, 222. + Hutcheson, Hartley, ii, 273, 274. + + "Intelligencer," Paddy's character of, i, 312. + "Intelligencer," cited, ii, 227. + Ireland, verses to, from Horace, ii, 219. + Iris, ii, 329. + Ixion, ii, 382. + + Jackson, Dan, i, 96, 137; ii, 325, 332, 333, 335. + Jamaica, referred to, i, 152; + a place of exile, 201. + Janus, addressed, i, 293; ii, 43. + Jason, i, 294. + Joan of France, i, 70. + Johnson, "Life of Dryden," i, 16; + his "Life of Montague," 321; + his "Vanity of Human Wishes," 49. + Johnson (Mrs.), Stella, i, 82. + Jonson, Ben, "Bartholomew Fair," i, 41. + Journal to Stella, cited, i, 81, 92; ii, 133. + + Kendal, Duchess of, ii, 202. + Ker, Colonel, ii, 274. + King, Dr., Archbishop of Dublin, i, 92, 133; + Songs upon, ii, 289; + Poem to, 291. + King's anecdotes of his own times, ii, 113. + Kingsbury, Dr., ii, 297. + Kite, Serjeant, Epigram to, ii, 255; + Verses to, 256. + Knoggin, ii, 321. + Kvnigsmark, i, 331; ii, 150, 151. + + Leigh, Tom, ii, 2.99. + Lewis, Lord Oxford's Secretary, ii, 159, 168. + Limbo, as a pawn shop, i, 168. + Lindsay, i, 182, 187. + Lintot, i, 255, 267. + "Lousiad, The," ii, 70. + + Macartney, General, ii, 174. + Macbeth, cited, i, 199. + Macmorrogh, Dermot, mentioned, ii, 222. + Maevius, ii, 30. + Malahide, famous for oysters, i, 287. + Malone, "Life of Dryden," i, 16. + Mambrino and Almonte, ii, 153. + Manley, Mrs. de la Riviere, ii, 152. + Marble Hill, built by Mrs. Howard, i, 155. + Market Hill, ii, 89, no, 116. + Marlborough, Duke of, ii, 135; + satirized as Midas, 153; + Elegy on death of, 187. + Masham, Mrs., ii, 150. + Mather, Charles, ii, 135. + Matrimonial advice, i, 210. + May Fair, Answer to lines from, i, 54. + Maypole, The, ii, 311. + Meath, Countess of, i, 85, 299. <i>See</i> Stopford. + Medea, ii, 47. + Megaera, i, 224. + Merlin's Cave, i, 192. + Middleton, Lord Chancellor, ii, 294. + Milton, cited, i, 195. + "Mingere cum bombis," i, 207. + Mirmont, Marquis de, i, 157. + "Mob," Swift's dislike to the word, ii, 141. + Montague, i, 321. + Montaigne, cited, ii, 194. + Montezuma or Mutezuma, ii, 112. + Montrose, Marquis of, his epitaph on Charles I, ii, 291, 395. + Moor Park, i, 8, 27. + Moore, Jemmy, i, 253, 254. + Morgan, Marcus Antonius, ii, 270. + Mounthermer, daughter of Duke of Marlborough, i, 147. + + "Naboth's Vineyard," Swift's garden, ii, 132. + Namby Pamby, i, 288; ii, 254. + Narcissus, ii, 364. + Nero, his wish cited, ii, 194. + New style, ii, 151. + Nicknames of Lady Acheson, 94, 95, 106. + Nightingale, the, i, 341. + Northey, Sir Edward, ii, 167. + Notes and Queries, cited, i, 153, 291. + Nottingham, Earl of, ii, 148; + invitation to, from Toland, 156. + + "Orlando Furioso," cited, ii, 154. + Ormond, Duke of, ii, 143. + Ormond Quay, ii, 42. + O'Rourke's Irish Feast, i, 107. + Orrery, Earl of, his account of "Death and Daphne," ii, 54; + his remarks on the "Life of Swift," 402, 406. + Oudenarde, Dutch account of, ii, 130. + Overton, ii, 360. + Ovid. <i>See</i> Classics. + Oxford, Lord Treasurer, as Atlas, ii, 147, 167; + verses sent to him in the Tower, 182. + + Pallas and Arachne, referred to, i, 134. + Pam, Archbishop of Tuam, ii, 297. <i>See</i> Hort. + "Pantheon, The," account of, ii, 97. + Parliament in Ireland, i, 263. + Parthenope, ii, 60. + Partridge, i, 74, 113. + Pearce, architect, i, 338. + Peleus, referred to, i, 205. + Pella, i, 334. + Percy, "Reliques of English poetry," i, 71. + Peterborough, Pope's verses on, i, 48. + Phaethon, story of, ii, 184. + Phalanx, ii, 325. + Phillips, Ambrose, i, 83, 288. + Physicians, College of, ii, 55. + Piddle with, to, sense of, ii, 41. + Pilkington, Sir Thomas, ii, 176. + Pilkingtons, the, i, 232, 247. + Planchi, costume, i, 67. + Pluck a rose, i, 203; ii, 121. + Pope, cited or referred to, i, 34, 104, 191, 192, 216, 217, 247, 322. + Prendergast, Sir Thomas, ii, 235, 260, 266. + Priapus, ii, 337. + Prior, his "Journey to France," i, 103. + Prometheus, i, 277. + Pulteney, Earl of Bath, i, 253; ii, 250. + Pythagoras, precept of, i, 206. + + Queensberry, Duke and Duchess of, i, 215, 273. + + Rapparees, i, 185, 263. + Rathfarnam, ii, 364. + Raymond, Dr., Minister of Trim, i, 82. + "Rehearsal, The," i, 28, 43, 44. + Richmond Hermitage, i, 227. 228. + Richmond Lodge, i, 155. + Riding, description of a, i, 153. + Rochfort, George, ii, 298. <i>See</i> Trifles. + Roper, Abel, ii, 173. + Rymer, i, 271. + + St. Patrick's Well, i, 319; ii. 221. + Salerno, School of Medicine, i, 207. + Salmoneus, ii, 206. + Savage, Philip, ii, 119. + Sawbridge, Dean, i, 189. + "Schola Salernitana," i, 207. + Scroggs, i, 261. + Sharpe, Dr. John, Archbishop of York, ii, 163. + Sheridan, "Life of Swift," ii, 169. + Sherlock, i, 165. + Sican, Dr. J., i, 280. + Sican, Mrs., i, 282. + Singleton, ii, 253. + Smedley, Dean, i, 317, 345, 348, 350. + Smollett, ii, 130. + Smythe, i, 276. + Somers, ii, 167, 178. + Somerset, Duchess of, satire on, ii, 150, 165. + Sot's Hole, ii, 365. + "Spectator, The," ii, 287. + State Trials, ii, 196. + Steele, i, 322; ii, 171, 175. + Sterne, Bishop of Clogher, i, 98. + Stopford, Dorothy, i, 85. + Strand, the, ii, 311. + Suckling, Sir John, ii, 129. + Suffolk, Countess of, i, 155. + Swift, his ill-feeling to Dryden, i, 16, 43, 272; + his love for Congreve, 24; + his regard for Temple, 29, 32; + terms his own calling a <i>trade</i>, 39; + his quarrel with Lord Berkeley, 42; + his regard for Delany, 93, 304, 314, 339; + his deafness, 149; + "now deaf, 1740," ii, 49; + his hatred of Tighe, i, 186; ii, 227, 235, 239; + Ireland, a place of exile, i, 261; + his schemes for effecting a change to England, ii, 168; + and Serjeant Bettesworth, ii, 252, 254, 256. + Sylla, ii, 71. + Symmachus, i, 316. + + Tar water, Fielding's use of, i, 166. + "Tatler, The," i, 28, 78, 103, 129. + Telling noses, horse dealer's term, i, 216. + Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, ii, 246. + Thatched House Tavern, i, 146. + Tholsel, the, ii, 276. + Throp, Roger, ii, 268. + Tiger, the lap dog, ii, 50, 51. + Tighe, Richard, i, 186; ii, 226; + (Pistorides, Dick Fitzbaker), 235, 236, 237, 238, 268. + Tisdall, ii, 368. + "Toast, The," ii, 297. + Toupees, wigs then in fashion, i, 233. + Trapp, Dr., i, 103. + Trisilian, i, 261. + Troynovant, i, 272. + + Umbo, ii, 325. + Urbs intacta manet, ii, 286, 287. + + Vanbrugh, his indebtedness to Molihre, i, 59; + "architect at Blenheim," 74; ii, 287. + Vanessa, Hester Vanhomrigh, ii, 1, 23, 24, 25. + Van Lewen, Mrs., i, 232. + Vespasian, ii, 273. + Vespuccio, ii, 60. + Virgil. <i>See</i> Classics. + Voiture, poet and letter writer, i, 94, 95, 96. + Vole, the, i, 254. + Voltaire, Charles XII, i, 49. + + Wall, Archdeacon, i. 81. + Waller, John, ii, 268. + Walpole, Horace, his fable of "Funeral of the Lioness," cited, , 227; + his Reminiscences cited, ii, 278. + Walpole, Sir Robert, i, 253, 337. + Walter Peter, character of, i, 217. + Waters, properly Walter, i, 217. + Welsted, i, 272. + Wharton, Earl of, character of, ii, 128, 132, 146, 183. + Wheatley's "London past and present," cited, i, 201. + Wheeler, Sir George, great traveller, i, 167. + Whig faction, i, 259. + Whitshed, Chief Justice, i, 261; ii, 192, 200, 217, 218. + Wild, Jonathan, i, 164. + Wilks, actor, i, 129. + Williams, Sir Chas. Hanbury, cited, i, 217, 219. + Will's coffee-house, i, 28, 267, 272. + Wilmington, Earl of, i, 219; ii, 224. <i>See</i> Compton. + Winchelsea, Countess of, i, 52. + Wollaston, i, 256. + Wood, i, 260; + and his halfpence, ii, 201, 203, 205, 206, 207, 209, 211, 215, 218. + Woolston, account of, i, 188, 256. + Wynne, Owen, ii, 269; John, ii, 269. + + Xanti (Xantippe), ii, 378. + + Young, his satires, i, 264; + his pension, 273. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13621 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |