Part II

242 A Fable of the Lion 244 On the Irish Bishops 246 Horace, Odes IV, ix 248 On Walpole and Pulteney 250 Brother Protestants 252 Bettesworth's Exultation 254 Epigram to Serjeant Kite 255 The Yahoo's Overthrow 256 On the Archbishop of Cashel and Bettesworth 259 On the Irish Club 259 On Noisy Tom 260 On Dr. Rundle 261 Epigram 263 The Legion Club 264 On a Printer's being sent to Newgate 272 Vindication of the Libel 272 A Friendly Apology 274 Ay and No 275 A Ballad 276 A Wicked Treasonable Libel 277 Epigrams against Carthy 278-283 Poetical Epistle to Sheridan 283 Lines written on a Window 284 Lines written underneath by Sheridan 285 The Upstart 285 On the Arms of the Town of Waterford 286 Translation 287 Verses on Blenheim 287 An Excellent New Song 288 An Excellent New Song upon the Archbishop of Dublin 289 To the Archbishop of Dublin 291 To the Citizens 292 Punch's Petition to the Ladies 294 Epigram 296 Epigram on Josiah Hort 297 Epigram 297

TRIFLES

George Rochfort's Verses 298 A Left-handed Letter 298 To the Dean of St. Patrick's 300 To Mr. Thomas Sheridan 301 Ad Amicum Eruditum Thomam Sheridan 302 To the Dean of St. Patrick's 305 To the Dean of St. Patrick's 306 An Answer by Delany 306 A Reply by Sheridan 307 Another Reply by Sheridan 308 To Thomas Sheridan 309 Swift to Sheridan 310 An Answer by Sheridan 310 To Dr. Sheridan 311 The Answer by Dr. Sheridan 312 Dr. Sheridan to Dr. Swift 313 The Dean's Answer 314 Dr. Sheridan's Reply to the Dean 314 To the Same by Dr. Sheridan 315 The Dean of St. Patrick's to Thomas Sheridan 316 To the Dean of St. Patrick's 317 The Dean to Thomas Sheridan 318 To Dr. Sheridan 320 1 P.S. 321 2 P.S. 321 3 P.S. 321 Dr. Sheridan's Answer 322 Dr. Swift's Reply 322 A Copy of a Copy of Verses 323 George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Answer 324 George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Invitation 326 To George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq 328 To Mr. Thomas Sheridan 330 On Dr. Sheridan's Circular Verses 331 On Dan Jackson's Picture 332 On the Same Picture 332 On the Same 333 On the Same Picture 333 On the Same Picture 333 Dan Jackson's Defence 335 Mr. Rochfort's Reply 336 Dr. Delany's Reply 338 Sheridan's Reply 339 A Rejoinder 340 Another Rejoinder 342 Sheridan's Submission 343 The Pardon 344 The Last Speech and Dying Words of Daniel Jackson 345 To the Rev. Daniel Jackson 347 Sheridan to Swift 349 Sheridan to Swift 350 Swift to Sheridan 350 Mary the Cook Maid's Letter 351 A Portrait from the Life 352 On Stealing a Crown when the Dean was asleep 353 The Dean's Answer 353 A Prologue to a Play 354 The Epilogue 355 The Song 355 A New Year's Gift for the Dean of St. Patrick's 356 To Quilca 358 The Blessings of a Country Life 359 The Plagues of a Country Life 359 A Faithful Inventory 359 Palinodia 361 A Letter to the Dean 362 An Invitation to Dinner 364 On the Five Ladies at Sot's Hole 365 The Five Ladies' Answer to the Beau 367 The Beau's Reply 368 Dr. Sheridan's Ballad on Ballyspellin 368 Answer by Dr. Swift 371 An Epistle to two Friends 373 To Dr. Sheridan 374 Dr. Helsham's Answer 374 A True and Faithful Inventory 376 A New Simile for the Ladies 377 An Answer to a Scandalous Poem 381 Peg Radcliffe the Hostess's Invitation 386 Verses by Sheridan 387

VERSES ADDRESSED TO SWIFT AND TO HIS MEMORY

To Dr. Swift on his Birth-Day 390 On Dr. Swift 390 To the Rev. Dr. Swift, Dean of St. Patrick's, a Birth-Day Poem, Nov. 30, 1736 391 Epigrams occasioned by Dr. Swift's intended Hospital for Idiots and Lunatics 393 On the Dean of St. Patrick's Birth-Day 394 An Epistle to Robert Nugent, Esq. 396 On the Drapier, by Dr. Dunkin 399 Epitaph proposed for Dr. Swift 400 To the Memory of Dr. Swift 401 A Schoolboy's Theme 403 Verses on the Battle of the Books 404 On Dr. Swift's leaving his Estate to Idiots 404 On several Petty Pieces lately published against Dean Swift 405 On Faulkner's Edition of Swift 405 Epigram on Lord Orrery's Remarks 406 To Dr. Delany, on his Book entitled "Observations on Lord Orrery's Remarks" 406 Epigram on Faulkner 407 An Inscription 407 An Epigram occasioned by the above 407 Index 409

POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT

POEMS ADDRESSED TO VANESSA AND STELLA

CADENUS AND VANESSA[1] 1713

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, _vide_ 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 _grand monde_: 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 _sans_ 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, _Coram Regina, prox' die Martis,_ 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.

[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. Planché's "British Costume," 395._W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: See the verses "On Censure," vol. i, p.160.--_W. E. B._]

TO LOVE[1]

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.

[Footnote 1: Found in Miss Vanhomrigh's desk, after her death, in the handwriting of Dr. Swift.--_H._]

A REBUS. BY VANESSA

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.]

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

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.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY MARCH 13, 1718-19

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.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.[1] 1719-20

WRITTEN A.D. 1720-21.--_Stella_.

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.

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's own copy transcribed in her volume.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Rascal.--_Stella_.]

[Footnote 3: They.--_Stella_.]

TO STELLA, WHO COLLECTED AND TRANSCRIBED HIS POEMS 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 Mævius, 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 Ætna'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.

[Footnote 1: At Bridewell; see vol. i, "A Beautiful Young Nymph," at p. 201.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: A cant word for a rhyme.--_W. E. B._]

TO STELLA VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS 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.

STELLA TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1721

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.

TO STELLA ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1721-2

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.

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE BY DR. DELANY

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.

EPITAPH BY THE SAME

Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenaea sepulchro, Immortale genus, nee peritura jacet; Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo: Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY: 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 _semel'n anno ridet Apollo_. 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.

[Footnote 1: The Poet Laureate.]

[Footnote 2: "Mrs. Brent, my housekeeper, famous in print for digging out the great bottle." "I dine _tête a tête_ 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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: She had a cast in her eyes.--_Swift._]

[Footnote 4: The butler.]

[Footnote 5: The footman.]

[Footnote 6: Mrs. Dingley.]

[Footnote 7: The valet.]

STELLA AT WOOD PARK, A HOUSE OF CHARLES FORD, ESQ., NEAR DUBLIN 1723

--cuicumque nocere volebat, Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.[1]

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 _fumette_. 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.

[Footnote 1: Horat., "Epist.," i, 18, 31.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: In its proper sense--to pick at table, to feed squeamishly. "With entremets to piddle with at hand." BYRON, _Don Juan.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The constant companion of Stella.]

[Footnote 4: Where the two ladies lodged.]

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR BEC [1] 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.

[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.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: Country-house of Dr. Sheridan.]

DINGLEY AND BRENT[1] 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.]

TO STELLA

WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH, 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.

VERSES BY STELLA

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!

A RECEIPT TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5

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.

[Footnote 1: The celebrated sorceress, daughter of Æetes, King of Colchis, who assisted Jason in obtaining possession of the Golden Fleece.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Carried off by Jupiter under the form of a bull. Ovid, "Met." ii, 836.]

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5

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.--_Swift_. This pathetic note was in Swift's writing in his own copy of the "Miscellanies," edit. 1727-32.--_W. E. B._]

BEC'S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726

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!

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley.]

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog. See next page.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Mercury.--Virg., "Aeneid," iv.]

ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER,

MRS. DINGLEY'S LAP-DOG

Pray steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's, Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY

MARCH 13, 1726-7

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.

DEATH AND DAPHNE

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!'" --_Remarks on the Life of Swift_, Lond., 1752, p. 126.

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.

[Footnote 1: Megaera, one of three Furies, beautifully described by Virgil, "Aeneid," xii, 846.--. _W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Periwigs with long tails.]

[Footnote 3: Where the College of Physicians was situated at that time. See Cunningham's "Handbook of London."--_W. E. B._]

DAPHNE

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.

RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. 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.e._ 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."

PETHOX THE GREAT. 1723

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.

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Americus Vespuccius, the discoverer of America in 1497. See Hakluyts "Navigations, Voyages, etc.," vii, 161; viii, 449.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: See Lucretius, "De Rer. Nat.," lib. i.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Bubo, the owl.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

ON A PEN. 1724

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.

ON GOLD

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.

ON THE POSTERIORS

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.

ON A HORN

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.

ON A CORKSCREW

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.

THE GULF OF ALL HUMAN POSSESSIONS 1724

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 Æolus 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.

[Footnote 1: Ovid, "Metam.," i, 383.]

LOUISA[1] TO STREPHON. 1724

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, _phtheirhiasis_ morbus pedicularis. With this piece may be read Peter Pindar's epic, "The Lousiad."--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla's body was so corrupted with these vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: _pasan esthêta kai loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei._ "Vita Syllae," xxxvi.--_W. E. B._]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

A MAYPOLE. 1725

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.

ON THE MOON

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.

ON A CIRCLE

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.

ON INK

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.

ON THE FIVE SENSES

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.

FONTINELLA[1] TO FLORINDA

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.]

AN ECHO

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.

ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS;

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.

ON TIME

Ever eating, never cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying, Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last.

ON THE GALLOWS

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.

ON THE VOWELS

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.

ON SNOW

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.

ON A CANNON

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.

ON A PAIR OF DICE

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.

ON A CANDLE

TO LADY CARTERET

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.

TO LADY CARTERET

BY DR. DELANY

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.

ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT

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.

TO LADY CARTERET

BY DR. SWIFT

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.

ANSWERED BY DR. SHERIDAN

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?

A RIDDLE

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.

ANSWER, BY MR. F----R

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.

A LETTER TO DR. HELSHAM

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]

_Wednesday Night_.

I writ all these before I went to bed. Pray explain them for me, because I cannot do it.

[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.]

PROBATUR ALITER

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.]

POEMS COMPOSED AT MARKET HILL

ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1] 1727

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."

[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.]

TO DEAN SWIFT BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728

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.

DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND

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] _Skinnybonia, Snipe_, and _Lean?_ 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.--_W. E. B._]

ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL

Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I; Though none can tell which of us first shall die.

ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT

We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature, May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.

EPITAPH IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

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.

MY LADY'S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN

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 she’s 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!

[Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.]

[Footnote 2: See _ante_, p.94 _W.--W. E. B_.]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728

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.

[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.]

THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED:

WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN[1] SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR MALT-HOUSE. 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.--_First Edition_.

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 _mopus_; 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 _purtest,_ 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 _creter_, 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 _clo'es._ 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 _scholard_, 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."

[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.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 11: Nicknames for my lady, see _ante_, pp. 94, 95.--_W. E. B._]

DRAPIER'S-HILL.[1] 1730

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.

[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.--_W. E. B._]

THE DEAN'S REASONS

FOR NOT BUILDING AT DRAPIER'S-HILL

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.]

THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL 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.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.]

[Footnote 2: Colonel Henry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[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," _ante_, p.107. _--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's.]

[Footnote 6: A parody on the phrase, "As brave as his sword."--_Scott_.]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: The butler.]

[Footnote 10: The housekeeper.]

[Footnote 11: The agent.]

ROBIN AND HARRY.[1] 1730

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.

[Footnote 1: A lively account of these two gentlemen occurs in Dr. King's Anecdotes of his Own Times, p. 137 _et seq_., who confirms the peculiarities which Swift has enumerated in the text.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: The title of Dryden's Play, founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra.--_W. E. B._]

A PANEGYRIC ON THE DEAN

IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730

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."

[Footnote 1: The Lady of Sir Arthur Acheson.]

[Footnote 2: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's house where the author passed two summers.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[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 _ante_, 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 _ante_, "My Lady's Lamentation," p. 97.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 12: Lady Acheson was daughter of Philip Savage, M. P. for Wexford, and Chancellor of the Exchequer in Ireland.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 13: Understood here as _dainty, particular.--W. E. B._]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 27: Fragments of stone.]

[Footnote 28: Virg., "Aeneidos," lib. vi.]

[Footnote 29: "Cynthius aurem Vellit et admonuit."--VIRG., _Ecloga_ vi, 3.]

[Footnote 30: "Post mediam noctem visus, cum somnia vera."--HOR., _Sat_, 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., _Aen_., 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.]

TWELVE ARTICLES[1]

I LEST it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read.

II By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavour.

III When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.

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.

VI When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.

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.

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]

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.

[Footnote 1: Addressed to Lady Acheson.--_W. E. B._]

[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." _Don Juan_, Canto XIII, st. xxv. See Mr. Coleridge's note on this; Byron's Works, edit. 1903.--_W. E. B._]

POLITICAL POETRY

PARODY

ON THE RECORDER OF BLESSINGTON'S ADDRESS TO QUEEN ANNE

_Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington's Address to her Majesty, as copied from the London Gazette_.

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 _your own family_, 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.

MR. WILLIAM CROWE'S ADDRESS TO HER MAJESTY, TURNED INTO METRE

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.

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Murragh Boyle, first Viscount Blessington, author of a tragedy, "The Lost Princess." He died in 1712.--_W. E. B._]

JACK FRENCHMAN'S LAMENTATION[1]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG

To the Tune of "I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2]

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 _Burgundy_, 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 _Bruges_ and Ghent To _Monsieur_ we lent, With interest they shall repay 'em; While _Paris_ may sing, With her sorrowful king, _Nunc dimittis_ instead of _Te Deum_.

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 _Lewis[5]_ perplex'd, What general next! Thou hast hitherto changed in vain; He has beat 'em all round, If no new one’s found, He shall beat 'em over again.

We'll let _Tallard_ out, If he'll take t'other bout; And much he's improved, let me tell ye, With _Nottingham_ 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.

[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."--_Scott_.]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[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.--_Scott_.]

[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, _125.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Louis XIV.]

[Footnote 6: A cant word for false dice.--_Scott_.]

THE GARDEN PLOT

1709

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.--_W. E. B._]

SID HAMET'S ROD

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.--_W. E. B._]

THE VIRTUES OF SID HAMET[1] THE MAGICIAN'S ROD. 1710[2]

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 _gudgeons_ 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.

[Footnote 1: Cid Hamet Ben Eng'li, the supposed inspirer of Cervantes. See "Don Quixote," last chapter.--_W. E. B._]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The _virgula divina_, said to be attracted by minerals.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 4: Supposed to allude to the Union.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 5: Mercury's Caduceus, by which he could settle all disputes and differences.--_W. E. B._]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: An eminent toyman in Fleet Street.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 8: The allusion is to Godolphin's name, Sidney, and to his staff of office.--_W. E. B._]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[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."]

THE FAMOUS SPEECH-MAKER OF ENGLAND

OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 17IO

Risum teneatis?--HORAT., _Ars Poetica_, 5.

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.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Offspring Blackall. He was made Bishop of Exeter in 1707, and died in 1716.--_Scott_.]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

PARODY ON THE RECORDER'S SPEECH

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, 1711

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.

THE RECORDER'S SPEECH EXPLAINED BY THE TORIES

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.

THE SPEECH

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!

BALLAD

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.

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the year 1641, when the great rebellion broke out. _Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Lord Wharton.]

ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE[1]

TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD 1710

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."--_Scott_. See "Prose Works," v, 391.--_W. E. B_. ]

LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY'S BEING STABBED, AND ADDRESSED TO HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1]

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.--_W. E. B._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG

BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST PEACE. 1711

An orator _dismal_ of _Nottinghamshire,_ Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire, Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place, Is come up, _vi et armis_, 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."

THE SPEECH

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 _Not-in-game._ 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 _Not-in-game._ 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 _Not-in-game._ 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 _Not-in-game._ 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 _Dismal's_ my name, And be a true Whig, while I'm _Not-in-game._

[Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham's family name.]

[Footnote 2: This was the Earl's Christian name.]

THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1] "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."--_Swift_.

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.--_W. E. B._

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]

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.--_Scott_.]

[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 _Mortimer_.]

[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, _post_, 165. ]

[embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.]

CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD 1711-12

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.

[Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la Rivière 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, _edit. 1786.--W. E. B._]

THE FABLE OF MIDAS.[1] 1711-12

Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.

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.

[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.--_W. E. B._]

[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,