BOOK I

, ODE XVI

Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine, Whose verses far his rays outshine, Look down upon your quondam foe; O! let me never write again, If e'er I disoblige you, Dean, Should you compassion show.

Take those iambics which I wrote, When anger made me piping hot, And give them to your cook, To singe your fowl, or save your paste The next time when you have a feast; They'll save you many a book.

To burn them, you are not content; I give you then my free consent, To sink them in the harbour; If not, they'll serve to set off blocks, To roll on pipes, and twist in locks; So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your physic take, I must entreat you then to make A proper application; 'Tis what I've done myself before, With Dan's fine thoughts and many more, Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do? It makes the weak the strong pursue, A goose attack a swan; It makes a woman, tooth and nail, Her husband's hands and face assail, While he's no longer man.

Though some, we find, are more discreet, Before the world are wondrous sweet, And let their husbands hector: But when the world's asleep, they wake, That is the time they choose to speak: Witness the curtain lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find: All day you could conceal your mind; But when St. Patrick's chimes Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse, When I engaged for better for worse,) You scolded with your rhymes.

Have done! have done! I quit the field, To you as to my wife, I yield: As she must wear the breeches: So shall you wear the laurel crown, Win it and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

[Footnote 1: Recantation.--_W. E. B._]

A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN

You will excuse me, I suppose, For sending rhyme instead of prose. Because hot weather makes me lazy, To write in metre is more easy. While you are trudging London town, I'm strolling Dublin up and down; While you converse with lords and dukes, I have their betters here, my books: Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease, I choose companions as I please. I'd rather have one single shelf Than all my friends, except yourself; For, after all that can be said, Our best acquaintance are the dead. While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1] I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina. While you are starving there in state, I'm cramming here with butchers' meat. You say, when with those lords you dine, They treat you with the best of wine, Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay; Why, so can we, as well as they. No reason then, my dear good Dean, But you should travel home again. What though you mayn't in Ireland hope To find such folk as Gay and Pope; If you with rhymers here would share But half the wit that you can spare, I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days, You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays. Our weather’s good, our sky is clear; We've every joy, if you were here; So lofty and so bright a sky Was never seen by Ireland's eye! I think it fit to let you know, This week I shall to Quilca go; To see M'Faden's horny brothers First suck, and after bull their mothers; To see, alas! my wither'd trees! To see what all the country sees! My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves, My servants such a pack of thieves; My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks, My house in common to all folks, No cabbage for a single snail, My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail; My no green peas, my few green sprouts; My mother always in the pouts; My horses rid, or gone astray; My fish all stolen or run away; My mutton lean, my pullets old, My poultry starved, the corn all sold. A man come now from Quilca says, "_They_'ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;" But, what must fret and vex me more, He says, "_They_ stole the keys before. _They_'ve stol'n the knives from all the forks; And half the cows from half the sturks." Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, "_They_'ve stol'n the sturks from half the cows:" With many more accounts of woe, Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go: 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

[Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.--_Dublin Edition._]

[Footnote 2: _They_ is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, "They have stolen it." _Dublin Edition._--_W. E. B._]

AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT 1727

I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em, To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1] Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2] I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret, That's just disengaged from the toils of a net: An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted, With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted: Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies, Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes; And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died, And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried. My wine will inspire you with joy and delight, 'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright; An emblem of one that you love, I suppose, Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4] Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope, We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope; When we are together there's nothing that is dull, There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall. We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast, Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.

Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers; you have a pencil in your pocket.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country house.]

[Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health. She died the January following.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.," iii, 407.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable women in the world.--_F._]

ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1] WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD

N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR. SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728

Fair ladies, number five, Who in your merry freaks, With little Tom contrive To feast on ale and steaks;

While he sits by a-grinning, To see you safe in Sot's Hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole;

Alas! I never thought A priest would please your palate; Besides, I'll hold a groat He'll put you in a ballad;

Where I shall see your faces, On paper daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like graces, Than Venus like an owl.

And we shall take you rather To be a midnight pack Of witches met together, With Beelzebub in black.

It fills my heart with woe, To think such ladies fine Should be reduced so low, To treat a dull divine.

Be by a parson cheated! Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By captains and by majors.

See how corruption grows, While mothers, daughters, aunts, Instead of powder'd beaux, From pulpits choose gallants.

If we, who wear our wigs With fantail and with snake, Are bubbled thus by prigs; Z----ds! who would be a rake?

Had I a heart to fight, I'd knock the Doctor down; Or could I read or write, Egad! I'd wear a gown.

Then leave him to his birch;[3] And at the Rose on Sunday, The parson safe at church, I'll treat you with burgundy.

[Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for beef-steaks.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.--_F._]

THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BEAU

WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD BY DR. SHERIDAN

You little scribbling beau, What demon made you write? Because to write you know As much as you can fight.

For compliment so scurvy, I wish we had you here; We'd turn you topsy-turvy Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on The man and place we chose; We're sure a single parson Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us vassals, Good Mr. Wig and Wings, To silver clocks and tassels; You would, you Thing of Things!

Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set; And you, in some by-lane, Have gain'd a paltry grisette;

Shall we, of sense refined, Your trifling nonsense bear, As noisy as the wind, As empty as the air?

We hate your empty prattle; And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle, Than twenty fops like you.

THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER

Why, how now, dapper black! I smell your gown and cassock, As strong upon your back, As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock.

To write such scurvy stuff! Fine ladies never do't; I know you well enough, And eke your cloven foot.

Fine ladies, when they write, Nor scold, nor keep a splutter: Their verses give delight, As soft and sweet as butter.

But Satan never saw Such haggard lines as these: They stick athwart my maw, As bad as Suffolk cheese.

[Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland, who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the Journal.--_W. E. B._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728

All you that would refine your blood, As pure as famed Llewellyn, By waters clear, come every year To drink at Ballyspellin.

Though pox or itch your skins enrich With rubies past the telling, 'Twill clear your skin before you've been A month at Ballyspellin.

If lady's cheek be green as leek When she comes from her dwelling, The kindling rose within it glows When she's at Ballyspellin.

The sooty brown, who comes from town, Grows here as fair as Helen; Then back she goes, to kill the beaux, By dint of Ballyspellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling: And Mars might make a fair mistake, Were he at Ballyspellin.

We men submit as they think fit, And here is no rebelling: The reason's plain; the ladies reign, They're queens at Ballyspellin.

By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms, They have the way of quelling Such desperate foes as dare oppose Their power at Ballyspellin.

Cold water turns to fire, and burns I know, because I fell in A stream, which came from one bright dame Who drank at Ballyspellin.

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, To bring their Anne or Nell in, With so much grace, I'm sure no place Can vie with Ballyspellin.

No politics, no subtle tricks, No man his country selling: We eat, we drink; we never think Of these at Ballyspellin.

The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind, Do all come here pell-mell in; And they are sure to work their cure By drinking Ballyspellin.

Though dropsy fills you to the gills, From chin to toe though swelling, Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt A cure at Ballyspellin.

Death throws no darts through all these parts, No sextons here are knelling; Come, judge and try, you'll never die, But live at Ballyspellin.

Except you feel darts tipp'd with steel, Which here are every belle in: When from their eyes sweet ruin flies, We die at Ballyspellin.

Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care, Your sight, your taste, your smelling, Your ears, your touch, transported much Each day at Ballyspellin.

Within this ground we all sleep sound, No noisy dogs a-yelling; Except you wake, for Celia's sake, All night at Ballyspellin.

There all you see, both he and she, No lady keeps her cell in; But all partake the mirth we make, Who drink at Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone; I think I've none, Unless I should bring Hell in; But, since I'm here to Heaven so near, I can't at Ballyspellin!

[Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, "whither Sheridan had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady." See note to the "Answer," _post_, p. 371.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Ross.--_Dublin Edition._]

ANSWER.[1] BY DR. SWIFT

Dare you dispute, you saucy brute, And think there's no refelling Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise You give to Ballyspellin?

Howe'er you flounce, I here pronounce, Your medicine is repelling; Your water's mud, and sours the blood When drunk at Ballyspellin.

Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs, You thither are compelling, Will back be sent worse than they went, From nasty Ballyspellin.

Llewellyn why? As well may I Name honest Doctor Pellin; So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes, To bring in Ballyspellin.

No subject fit to try your wit, When you went colonelling: But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues, You met at Ballyspellin.

Our lasses fair, say what you dare, Who sowins[2] make with shelling, At Market-hill more beaux can kill, Than yours at Ballyspellin.

Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript, To wash herself our well in, A bum so white ne'er came in sight At paltry Ballyspellin.

Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear; Of Holland not an ell in, No, not a rag, whate'er your brag, Is found at Ballyspellin.

But Tom will prate at any rate, All other nymphs expelling: Because he gets a few grisettes At lousy Ballyspellin.

There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane, Just o'er against the Bell inn; Where can you meet a lass so sweet, Round all your Ballyspellin?

We have a girl deserves an earl; She came from Enniskellin; So fair, so young, no such among The belles of Ballyspellin.

How would you stare, to see her there, The foggy mists dispelling, That cloud the brows of every blowse Who lives at Ballyspellin!

Now, as I live, I would not give A stiver or a skellin, To towse and kiss the fairest miss That leaks at Ballyspellin.

Whoe'er will raise such lies as these Deserves a good cudgelling: Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts At dirty Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone to all but one, Which is, our trees are felling; As proper quite as those you write, To force in Ballyspellin.

[Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift was on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, "in a mere jest and innocent merriment," was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady and himself, "against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment, gratitude, or common manners." See "The History of the Second Solomon," "Prose Works," xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon passed, and the Dean and Sheridan resumed their intimate friendship.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, and other parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the shellings of oats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.--_F._]

AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS[1]

TO DR. HELSHAM [2]

Nov. 23, at night, 1731.

SIR,

When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick; I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick; And the patientest patient ever you knew sick; Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick. I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick: She mended at first, but now she's anew sick. Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick. Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick. Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick? Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew sick, And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick. Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick: For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick? Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick, Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick. Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick. My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick, And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick: But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick: And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick: For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick, And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick. Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick; But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick, And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick. So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick; You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick; So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a specimen of those _bagatelles_ for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.--_H._]

[Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath, Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminent physician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literary coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.--_W. E. B._.]

[Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's day was usually performed.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: _Vide_ Grattan, _inter_ Belchamp and Clonshogh.--_Dublin Edition._]

TO DR. SHERIDAN

Nov. 23, at night.

If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick. This night I came home with a very cold dew sick, And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick; But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick, Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER

The Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick: I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick, For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick, Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick: Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick: And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick, The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick, And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick. The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew sick; Had we two been there, it would have made me and you sick: A lady that long'd, is by eating of glue sick; Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick? I'm told that my wife is by winding a clew sick; The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick. There's a gamester in town, for a throw that he threw sick, And yet the whole trade of his dice he'll pursue sick; I've known an old miser for paying his due sick; At present I'm grown by a pinch of my shoe sick, And what would you have me with verses to do sick? Send rhymes, and I'll send you some others in lieu sick. Of rhymes I have plenty, And therefore send twenty.

Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23.

I desire you will carry both these to the Doctor together with his own; and let him know we are not persons to be insulted.

I was at Howth to-day, and staid abroad a-visiting till just now.

Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731.

"Can you match with me, Who send thirty-three? You must get fourteen more, To make up thirty-four: But, if me you can conquer, I'll own you a strong cur."[2]

This morning I'm growing, by smelling of yew, sick; My brother's come over with gold from Peru sick; Last night I came home in a storm that then blew sick; This moment my dog at a cat I halloo sick; I hear from good hands, that my poor cousin Hugh's sick; By quaffing a bottle, and pulling a screw sick: And now there's no more I can write (you'll excuse) sick; You see that I scorn to mention word music. I'll do my best, To send the rest; Without a jest, I'll stand the test. These lines that I send you, I hope you'll peruse sick; I'll make you with writing a little more news sick; Last night I came home with drinking of booze sick; My carpenter swears that he'll hack and he'll hew sick. An officer's lady, I'm told, is tattoo sick; I'm afraid that the line thirty-four you will view sick. Lord! I could write a dozen more; You see I've mounted thirty-four.

[Footnote 1: Time.--_Dublin Edition._]

[Footnote 2: The lines "thus marked" were written by Dr. Swift, at the bottom of Dr. Helsham's twenty lines; and the following fourteen were afterwards added on the same paper.--_N._]

A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR. UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH, UNTIL HIS OWN WAS BUILT[1]

An oaken broken elbow-chair; A caudle cup without an ear; A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead; A box of deal, without a lid; A pair of tongs, but out of joint; A back-sword poker, without point; A pot that's crack'd across, around, With an old knotted garter bound; An iron lock, without a key; A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey; A curtain, worn to half a stripe; A pair of bellows, without pipe; A dish, which might good meat afford once; An Ovid, and an old Concordance; A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter One is for meal, and one for water; There likewise is a copper skillet, Which runs as fast out as you fill it; A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all, And thus his household goods you have all. These, to your lordship, as a friend, 'Till you have built, I freely lend: They'll serve your lordship for a shift; Why not as well as Doctor Swift?

[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift's great surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the time.--_Scott._]

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1] 1733

To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to find A simile[2] for womankind, A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em.[3] Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud[4] presented to my view, And straight this parallel I drew: Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same? For who can tell at what they aim?[5] Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder: So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's[7] everlasting tongue, The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. Clouds weep, as they do, without pain; And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam:[8] And ladies never stay at home. The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9] Are not more solid nor more lasting. A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,[11] And all is clear when she has smiled. In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope the simile will strike,)[12] Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them, Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14] And frequently produce infection; So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbour's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron[15] will confess, That she herself is fond of dress. Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colours are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,[16] In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night? The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies, be not in a passion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change. In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapours rise, We see them dropping from your eyes. In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.[17] Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,[18] like rattling hail, Our ears on every side assail. Clouds, when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view. Thus, on comparison,[19] you see, In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name. Let me proclaim[20] it then aloud, That every woman is a cloud.

[Footnote 1: The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition:]

[Footnote 2: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a _smile_; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, si-mi-le. In English, a likeness.]

[Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.]

[Footnote 4: Not like a gun or pistol.]

[Footnote 5: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]

[Footnote 6: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.]

[Footnote 7: Xanti, a nick-name for Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience, he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her; and at the same time I assure them, it is not to lessen those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates, how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe? he retorted, and asked him, how he could bear the gaggling of his geese? Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replied his friend; so doth my wife bear children, said Socrates.--_Diog. Laert._

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue? he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad.--_Plat. De Capiend. ex host. utilit._

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went in to them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?--_Plat. de ira cohibenda._

I could give many more instances of her termagancy, and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honourable station of matrimony.]

[Footnote 8: Ramble.]

[Footnote 9: Not vomiting.]

[Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.]

[Footnote 11: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or harm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.]

[Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.]

[Footnote 13: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig, called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.]

[Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.]

[Footnote 15: Motherly woman.] [Footnote 16: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.]

[Footnote 17: Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day.--Vid. the shopkeepers' books.]

[Footnote 18: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.]

[Footnote 19: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.]

[Footnote 20: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.]

AN ANSWER TO A SCANDALOUS POEM

Wherein the Author most audaciously presumes to cast an indignity upon their highnesses the Clouds, by comparing them to a woman. Written by DERMOT O'NEPHELY, Chief Cape of Howth.[1]

BY DR. SWIFT

ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE CLOUDS

N.B. The following answer to that scurrilous libel against us, should have been published long ago in our own justification: But it was advised, that, considering the high importance of the subject, it should be deferred until the meeting of the General Assembly of the Nation.

[Two passages within crotchets are added to this poem, from a copy found amongst Swift's papers. It is indorsed, "Quære, should it go." And a little lower, "More, but of no use."]

Presumptuous bard! how could you dare A woman with a cloud compare? Strange pride and insolence you show Inferior mortals there below. And is our thunder in your ears So frequent or so loud as theirs? Alas! our thunder soon goes out; And only makes you more devout. Then is not female clatter worse, That drives you not to pray, but curse? We hardly thunder thrice a-year; The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear; But every sublunary dowdy, The more she scolds, the more she's cloudy. [How useful were a woman's thunder, If she, like us, would burst asunder! Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her, And, whisp'ring, wish'd the devil burst her: For hourly thund'ring in his face, She ne'er was known to burst a lace.] Some critic may object, perhaps, That clouds are blamed for giving claps; But what, alas! are claps ethereal, Compared for mischief to venereal? Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches, Or from your noses dig out notches? We leave the body sweet and sound; We kill, 'tis true, but never wound. You know a cloudy sky bespeaks Fair weather when the morning breaks; But women in a cloudy plight, Foretell a storm to last till night. A cloud in proper season pours His blessings down in fruitful showers; But woman was by fate design'd To pour down curses on mankind. When Sirius[2] o'er the welkin rages, Our kindly help his fire assuages; But woman is a cursed inflamer, No parish ducking-stool can tame her: To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her; Like fireworks, she can burn in water. For fickleness how durst you blame us, Who for our constancy are famous? You'll see a cloud in gentle weather Keep the same face an hour together; While women, if it could be reckon'd, Change every feature every second. Observe our figure in a morning, Of foul or fair we give you warning; But can you guess from women's air One minute, whether foul or fair? Go read in ancient books enroll'd What honours we possess'd of old. To disappoint Ixion's[3] rape Jove dress'd a cloud in Juno's shape; Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore, No goddess could have pleased him more; No difference could he find between His cloud and Jove's imperial queen; His cloud produced a race of Centaurs, Famed for a thousand bold adventures; From us descended _ab origine_, By learned authors, called _nubigenae_; But say, what earthly nymph do you know, So beautiful to pass for Juno? Before Æneas durst aspire To court her majesty of Tyre, His mother begg'd of us to dress him, That Dido might the more caress him: A coat we gave him, dyed in grain, A flaxen wig, and clouded cane, (The wig was powder'd round with sleet, Which fell in clouds beneath his feet) With which he made a tearing show; And Dido quickly smoked the beau. Among your females make inquiries, What nymph on earth so fair as Iris? With heavenly beauty so endow'd? And yet her father is a cloud. We dress'd her in a gold brocade, Befitting Juno's favourite maid. 'Tis known that Socrates the wise Adored us clouds as deities: To us he made his daily prayers, As Aristophanes declares; From Jupiter took all dominion, And died defending his opinion. By his authority 'tis plain You worship other gods in vain; And from your own experience know We govern all things there below. You follow where we please to guide; O'er all your passions we preside, Can raise them up, or sink them down, As we think fit to smile or frown: And, just as we dispose your brain, Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain. Compare us then to female race! We, to whom all the gods give place! Who better challenge your allegiance Because we dwell in higher regions. You find the gods in Homer dwell In seas and streams, or low as Hell: Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp, No higher climb than mount Olymp. Who makes you think the clouds he pierces? He pierce the clouds! he kiss their a--es; While we, o'er Teneriffa placed, Are loftier by a mile at least: And, when Apollo struts on Pindus, We see him from our kitchen windows; Or, to Parnassus looking down, Can piss upon his laurel crown. Fate never form'd the gods to fly; In vehicles they mount the sky: When Jove would some fair nymph inveigle, He comes full gallop on his eagle; Though Venus be as light as air, She must have doves to draw her chair; Apollo stirs not out of door, Without his lacquer'd coach and four; And jealous Juno, ever snarling, Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin: But we can fly where'er we please, O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas: From east to west the world we roam, And in all climates are at home; With care provide you as we go With sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow. You, when it rains, like fools, believe Jove pisses on you through a sieve: An idle tale, 'tis no such matter; We only dip a sponge in water, Then squeeze it close between our thumbs, And shake it well, and down it comes; As you shall to your sorrow know; We'll watch your steps where'er you go; And, since we find you walk a-foot, We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout. 'Tis but by our peculiar grace, That Phoebus ever shows his face; For, when we please, we open wide Our curtains blue from side to side; And then how saucily he shows His brazen face and fiery nose; And gives himself a haughty air, As if he made the weather fair! 'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads, The violets ope their purple heads; The roses blow, the cowslip springs; 'Tis sung; but we know better things. 'Tis true, a woman on her mettle Will often piss upon a nettle; But though we own she makes it wetter, The nettle never thrives the better; While we, by soft prolific showers, Can every spring produce you flowers. Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning, Compare her radiant eyes to lightning; And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd, That lightning comes but from a cloud. But gods like us have too much sense At poets' flights to take offence; Nor can hyperboles demean us; Each drab has been compared to Venus. We own your verses are melodious; But such comparisons are odious. [Observe the case--I state it thus: Though you compare your trull to us, But think how damnably you err When you compare us clouds to her; From whence you draw such bold conclusions; But poets love profuse allusions. And, if you now so little spare us, Who knows how soon you may compare us To Chartres, Walpole, or a king, If once we let you have your swing. Such wicked insolence appears Offensive to all pious ears. To flatter women by a metaphor! What profit could you hope to get of her? And, for her sake, turn base detractor Against your greatest benefactor. But we shall keep revenge in store If ever you provoke us more: For, since we know you walk a-foot, We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout; Or may we never thunder throw, Nor souse to death a birth-day beau. We own your verses are melodious; But such comparisons are odious.]

[Footnote 1: The highest point of Howth is called the Cape of Howth.-- _F._]

[Footnote 2: The Dogstar.--Hyginus, "Astronomica."]

[Footnote 3: Who murdered his father-in-law, and was taken into heaven and purified by Jove, but when, after he had begot the Centaurs from the cloud, he boasted of his imaginary success with Juno, Jupiter hurled him into Tartarus, where he was bound to a perpetually revolving wheel. "Volvitur Ixion: et se sequiturque fugitque." Ovid, "Metam.," iv, 460. Tibullus tells the tale in one distich, lib. I, iii: "Illic Junonem tentare Ixionis ausi Versantur celeri noxia membra rota."--_W. E. B._]

PEG RADCLIFFE THE HOSTESS'S INVITATION

To the Reverend Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D. written with a design to be spoken by her on his arrival at Glassnevin, Dr. Delany having complimented him with a house there. From the London and Dublin Magazine for June, 1735. The lines are probably by Delany or Sheridan.

Though the name of this place may make you to frown, Your Deanship is welcome to _Glassnevin_ town; [1]A glass and no wine, to a man of your taste, Alas! is enough, sir, to break it in haste; Be that as it will, your presence can't fail To yield great delight in drinking our ale; Would you but vouchsafe a mug to partake, And as we can brew, believe we can bake. The life and the pleasure we now from you hope, The famed Violante can't show on the rope; Your genius and talents outdo even Pope. Then while, sir, you live at Glassnevin, and find The benefit wish'd you, by friends who are kind; One night in the week, sir, your favour bestow, To drink with Delany and others your know: They constantly meet at Peg Radcliffe's together, Talk over the news of the town and the weather; Reflect on mishaps in church and in state, Digest many things as well as good meat; And club each alike that no one may treat. This if you will grant without coach or chair, You may, in a trice, cross the way and be there; For Peg is your neighbour, as well as Delany, A housewifely woman full pleasing to any.

[Footnote 1: A pun on _Glassnevin_--_Glass--ne, no, and_ vin, _wine._--_Scott._]

VERSES BY SHERIDAN

When to my house you come, dear Dean, Your humble friend to entertain, Through dirt and mire along the street, You find no scraper for your feet; At which you stamp and storm and swell, Which serves to clean your feet as well. By steps ascending to the hall, All torn to rags by boys and ball, With scatter'd fragments on the floor; A sad, uneasy parlour door, Besmear'd with chalk, and carved with knives, (A plague upon all careless wives,) Are the next sights you must expect, But do not think they are my neglect. Ah that these evils were the worst! The parlour still is farther curst. To enter there if you advance, If in you get, it is by chance. How oft by turns have you and I Said thus--"Let me--no--let me try-- This turn will open it, I'll engage"-- You push me from it in a rage. Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling, Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling, At length it opens--in we go-- How glad are we to find it so! Conquests through pains and dangers please, Much more than those attain'd with ease. Are you disposed to take a seat; The instant that it feels your weight, Out goes its legs, and down you come Upon your reverend deanship's bum. Betwixt two stools, 'tis often said, The sitter on the ground is laid; What praise then to my chairs is due, Where one performs the feat of two! Now to the fire, if such there be, At present nought but smoke we see. "Come, stir it up!"--"Ho, Mr. Joker, How can I stir it without a poker?" "The bellows take, their batter'd nose Will serve for poker, I suppose." Now you begin to rake--alack The grate has tumbled from its back-- The coals all on the hearth are laid-- "Stay, sir--I'll run and call the maid; She'll make the fire again complete-- She knows the humour of the grate." "Pox take your maid and you together-- This is cold comfort in cold weather." Now all is right again--the blaze Suddenly raised as soon decays. Once more apply the bellows--"So-- These bellows were not made to blow-- Their leathern lungs are in decay, They can't even puff the smoke away." "And is your reverence vext at that, Get up, in God's name, take your hat; Hang them, say I, that have no shift; Come blow the fire, good Doctor Swift. If trifles such as these can tease you, Plague take those fools that strive to please you. Therefore no longer be a quarrel'r Either with me, sir, or my parlour. If you can relish ought of mine, A bit of meat, a glass of wine, You're welcome to it, and you shall fare As well as dining with the mayor." "You saucy scab--you tell me so! Why, booby-face, I'd have you know I'd rather see your things in order, Than dine in state with the recorder. For water I must keep a clutter, Or chide your wife for stinking butter; Or getting such a deal of meat As if you'd half the town to eat. That wife of yours, the devil's in her, I've told her of this way of dinner Five hundred times, but all in vain-- Here comes a rump of beef again: O that that wife of yours would burst-- Get out, and serve the boarders first. Pox take 'em all for me--I fret So much, I shall not eat my meat-- You know I'd rather have a slice." "I know, dear sir, you are not nice; You'll have your dinner in a minute, Here comes the plate and slices in it-- Therefore no more, but take your place-- Do you fall to, and I'll say grace."

VERSES ADDRESSED TO SWIFT AND TO HIS MEMORY

TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY[1]

While I the godlike men of old, In admiration wrapt, behold; Revered antiquity explore, And turn the long-lived volumes o'er; Where Cato, Plutarch, Flaccus, shine In every excellence divine; I grieve that our degenerate days Produce no mighty soul like these: Patriot, philosopher, and bard, Are names unknown, and seldom heard. "Spare your reflection," Phoebus cries; "'Tis as ungrateful as unwise: Can you complain, this sacred day, That virtues or that arts decay? Behold, in Swift revived appears: The virtues of unnumber'd years; Behold in him, with new delight, The patriot, bard, and sage unite; And know, Iërne in that name Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame."

[Footnote 1: Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at the time when she wished to be introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr. Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment.--_Scott._]

ON DR. SWIFT 1733

No pedant Bentley proud, uncouth, Nor sweetening dedicator smooth, In one attempt has ever dared To sap, or storm, this mighty bard, Nor Envy does, nor ignorance, Make on his works the least advance. For _this_, behold! still flies afar Where'er his genius does appear; Nor has _that_ aught to do above, So meddles not with Swift and Jove. A faithful, universal fame In glory spreads abroad his name; Pronounces Swift, with loudest breath, Immortal grown before his death.

TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S A BIRTH-DAY POEM. NOV. 30, 1736

To you, my true and faithful friend, These tributary lines I send, Which every year, thou best of deans, I'll pay as long as life remains; But did you know one half the pain What work, what racking of the brain, It costs me for a single clause, How long I'm forced to think and pause; How long I dwell upon a proem, To introduce your birth-day poem, How many blotted lines; I know it, You'd have compassion for the poet. Now, to describe the way I think, I take in hand my pen and ink; I rub my forehead, scratch my head, Revolving all the rhymes I read. Each complimental thought sublime, Reduced by favourite Pope to rhyme, And those by you to Oxford writ, With true simplicity and wit. Yet after all I cannot find One panegyric to my mind. Now I begin to fret and blot, Something I schemed, but quite forgot; My fancy turns a thousand ways, Through all the several forms of praise, What eulogy may best become The greatest dean in Christendom. At last I've hit upon a thought---- Sure this will do---- 'tis good for nought---- This line I peevishly erase, And choose another in its place; Again I try, again commence, But cannot well express the sense; The line's too short to hold my meaning: I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the Dean in. O for a rhyme to glorious birth! I've hit upon't----The rhyme is earth---- But how to bring it in, or fit it, I know not, so I'm forced to quit it. Again I try--I'll sing the man-- Ay do, says Phoebus, if you can; I wish with all my heart you would not; Were Horace now alive he could not: And will you venture to pursue, What none alive or dead could do? Pray see, did ever Pope or Gay Presume to write on his birth-day; Though both were fav'rite bards of mine, The task they wisely both decline. With grief I felt his admonition, And much lamented my condition: Because I could not be content Without some grateful compliment, If not the poet, sure the friend Must something on your birth-day send. I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more: "Let every patriot him adore." Alack-a-day, there's nothing in't-- Such stuff will never do in print. Pray, reader, ponder well the sequel; I hope this epigram will take well. In others, life is deem'd a vapour, In Swift it is a lasting taper, Whose blaze continually refines, The more it burns the more it shines. I read this epigram again, 'Tis much too flat to fit the Dean. Then down I lay some scheme to dream on Assisted by some friendly demon. I slept, and dream'd that I should meet A birth-day poem in the street; So, after all my care and rout, You see, dear Dean, my dream is out.

EPIGRAMS OCCASIONED BY DR. SWIFT'S INTENDED HOSPITAL FOR IDIOTS AND LUNATICS

I

The Dean must die--our idiots to maintain! Perish, ye idiots! and long live the Dean!

II

O Genius of Hibernia's state, Sublimely good, severely great, How doth this latest act excel All you have done or wrote so well! Satire may be the child of spite, And fame might bid the Drapier write: But to relieve, and to endow, Creatures that know not whence or how Argues a soul both good and wise, Resembling Him who rules the skies, He to the thoughtful mind displays Immortal skill ten thousand ways; And, to complete his glorious task, Gives what we have not sense to ask!

III

Lo! Swift to idiots bequeaths his store: Be wise, ye rich!--consider thus the poor!

IV

Great wits to madness nearly are allied, This makes the Dean for kindred _thus_ provide.

ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTH-DAY BEING NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S DAY

Between the hours of twelve and one, When half the world to rest were gone, Entranced in softest sleep I lay, Forgetful of an anxious day; From every care and labour free, My soul as calm as it could be. The queen of dreams, well pleased to find An undisturb'd and vacant mind, With magic pencil traced my brain, And there she drew St. Patrick's Dean: I straight beheld on either hand Two saints, like guardian angels, stand, And either claim'd him for their son, And thus the high dispute begun: St. Andrew, first, with reason strong, Maintain'd to him he did belong. "Swift is my own, by right divine, All born upon this day are mine." St. Patrick said, "I own this true So far he does belong to you: But in my church he's born again, My son adopted, and my Dean. When first the Christian truth I spread, The poor within this isle I fed, And darkest errors banish'd hence, Made knowledge in their place commence: Nay more, at my divine command, All noxious creatures fled the land. I made both peace and plenty smile, Hibernia was my favourite isle; Now his--for he succeeds to me, Two angels cannot more agree. His joy is, to relieve the poor; Behold them weekly at his door! His knowledge too, in brightest rays, He like the sun to all conveys, Shows wisdom in a single page, And in one hour instructs an age When ruin lately stood around Th'enclosures of my sacred ground, He gloriously did interpose, And saved it from invading foes; For this I claim immortal Swift As my own son, and Heaven's best gift. The Caledonian saint, enraged, Now closer in dispute engaged. Essays to prove, by transmigration, The Dean is of the Scottish nation; And, to confirm the truth, he chose The loyal soul of great Montrose; "Montrose and he are both the same, They only differ in the name: Both heroes in a righteous cause, Assert their liberties and laws; He's now the same Montrose was then, But that the sword is turn'd a pen, A pen of so great power, each word Defends beyond the hero's sword." Now words grew high--we can't suppose Immortals ever come to blows, But lest unruly passion should Degrade them into flesh and blood, An angel quick from Heaven descends, And he at once the contest ends: "Ye reverend pair, from discord cease, Ye both mistake the present case; One kingdom cannot have pretence To so much virtue! so much sense! Search Heaven's record; and there you'll find That he was born for all mankind."

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.[1]

WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT. BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D.

To gratify thy long desire, (So love and piety require,) From Bindon's colours you may trace The patriot's venerable face. The last, O Nugent! which his art Shall ever to the world impart; For know, the prime of mortal men, That matchless monarch of the pen, (Whose labours, like the genial sun, Shall through revolving ages run, Yet never, like the sun, decline, But in their full meridian shine,) That ever honour'd, envied sage, So long the wonder of the age, Who charm'd us with his golden strain, Is not the shadow of the Dean: He only breathes Boeotian air-- "O! what a falling off was there!" Hibernia's Helicon is dry, Invention, Wit, and Humour die; And what remains against the storm Of Malice but an empty form? The nodding ruins of a pile, That stood the bulwark of this isle? In which the sisterhood was fix'd Of candid Honour, Truth unmix'd, Imperial Reason, Thought profound, And Charity, diffusing round In cheerful rivulets to flow Of Fortune to the sons of woe? Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift, Endued with each exalted gift, But lo! the pure ethereal flame Is darken'd by a misty steam: The balm exhausted breathes no smell, The rose is wither'd ere it fell. That godlike supplement of law, Which held the wicked world in awe And could the tide of faction stem, Is but a shell without the gem. Ye sons of genius, who would aim To build an everlasting fame, And in the field of letter'd arts, Display the trophies of your parts, To yonder mansion turn aside, And mortify your growing pride. Behold the brightest of the race, And Nature's honour, in disgrace: With humble resignation own, That all your talents are a loan; By Providence advanced for use, Which you should study to produce Reflect, the mental stock, alas! However current now it pass, May haply be recall'd from you Before the grave demands his due, Then, while your morning star proceeds, Direct your course to worthy deeds, In fuller day discharge your debts; For, when your sun of reason sets, The night succeeds; and all your schemes Of glory vanish with your dreams. Ah! where is now the supple train, That danced attendance on the Dean? Say, where are those facetious folks, Who shook with laughter at his jokes, And with attentive rapture hung, On wisdom, dropping from his tongue; Who look'd with high disdainful pride On all the busy world beside, And rated his productions more Than treasures of Peruvian ore? Good Christians! they with bended knees Ingulf'd the wine, but loathe the lees, Averting, (so the text commands,) With ardent eyes and upcast hands, The cup of sorrow from their lips, And fly, like rats, from sinking ships. While some, who by his friendship rose To wealth, in concert with his foes Run counter to their former track, Like old Actæon's horrid pack Of yelling mongrels, in requitals To riot on their master's vitals; And, where they cannot blast his laurels, Attempt to stigmatize his morals; Through Scandal's magnifying glass His foibles view, but virtues pass, And on the ruins of his fame Erect an ignominious name. So vermin foul, of vile extraction, The spawn of dirt and putrefaction, The sounder members traverse o'er, But fix and fatten on a sore. Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile His wit, his humour, and his style; Since all the monsters which he drew Were only meant to copy you; And, if the colours be not fainter, Arraign yourselves, and not the painter. But, O! that He, who gave him breath, Dread arbiter of life and death: That He, the moving soul of all, The sleeping spirit would recall, And crown him with triumphant meeds, For all his past heroic deeds, In mansions of unbroken rest, The bright republic of the bless'd! Irradiate his benighted mind With living light of light refined; And there the blank of thought employ With objects of immortal joy! Yet, while he drags the sad remains Of life, slow-creeping through his veins, Above the views of private ends, The tributary Muse attends, To prop his feeble steps, or shed The pious tear around his bed. So pilgrims, with devout complaints, Frequent the graves of martyr'd saints, Inscribe their worth in artless lines, And, in their stead, embrace their shrines.

[Footnote 1: Created Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, Dec. 20, 1766.--_Scott._]

ON THE DRAPIER. BY DR. DUNKIN.[1]

Undone by fools at home, abroad by knaves, The isle of saints became the land of slaves, Trembling beneath her proud oppressor's hand; But, when thy reason thunder'd through the land, Then all the public spirit breathed in thee, And all, except the sons of guilt, were free. Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife! You gave her freedom, as she gave you life! Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well, And with those rights for which you stand, he fell.

[Footnote 1: See the translation of Carberiae Rupes in vol. i, p. 143. In the select Poetical Works of Dr. Dunkin, published at Dublin in 1770, are four well-chosen compliments to the Dean on his birth-day, and a very humorous poetical advertisement for a copy of Virgil Travestie, which, at the Dean's request, Dr. Dunkin had much corrected, and afterwards lost. After offering a small reward to whoever will restore it, he adds,

"Or if, when this book shall be offer'd to sale, Any printer will stop it, the bard will not fail To make over the issues and profits accruing From thence to the printer, for his care in so doing; Provided he first to the poet will send it, That where it is wrong, he may alter and mend it."--_N._]

EPITAPH PROPOSED FOR DR. SWIFT. 1745

HIC JACET DEMOCRITVS ILLE NEOTERICVS, RABELAESIVS NOSTER, IONATHAN SWIFT, S.T.P. HVIVS CATHEDRALIS NVPER DECANVS; MOMI, MVSARVM, MINERVAE, ALVMNVS PERQVAM DILECTVS; INSVLSIS, HYPOCRITIS, THEOMACHIS, IVXTA EXOSVS; QVOS TRIBVTIM SVMMO CVM LEPORE DERISIT, DENVDAVIT, DEBELLAVIT. PATRIAE INFELICIS PATRONVS IMPIGER, ET PROPVGNATOR PRIMORES ARRIPVIT, POPVLVMQVE INTERRITVS, VNI SCILICET AEQVVS VIRTVTI. HANC FAVILLAM SI QVIS ADES, NEC PENITVS EXCORS VIDETVR, DEBITA SPARGES LACRYMA.

EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN. 1754

Two geniuses one age and nation grace! Pride of our isles, and boast of human race! Great sage! great bard! supreme in knowledge born! The world to mend, enlighten, and adorn. Truth on Cimmerian darkness pours the day! Wit drives in smiles the gloom of minds away! Ye kindred suns on high, ye glorious spheres, Whom have ye seen, in twice three thousand years, Whom have ye seen, like these, of mortal birth; Though Archimede and Horace blest the earth? Barbarians, from th' Equator to the Poles, Hark! reason calls! wisdom awakes your souls! Ye regions, ignorant of Walpole's name; Ye climes, where kings shall ne'er extend their fame; Where men, miscall'd, God's image have defaced, Their form belied, and human shape disgraced! Ye two-legg'd wolves! slaves! superstition's sons! Lords! soldiers! holy Vandals! modern Huns! Boors, mufties, monks; in Russia, Turkey, Spain! Who does not know SIR ISAAC, and THE DEAN?

TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR SWIFT

When wasteful death has closed the Poet's eyes, And low in earth his mortal essence lies; When the bright flame, that once his breast inspired, Has to its first, its noblest seat retired; All worthy minds, whom love of merit sways, Should shade from slander his respected bays; And bid that fame, his useful labours won, Pure and untainted through all ages run. Envy's a fiend all excellence pursues, But mostly poets favour'd by the Muse; Who wins the laurel, sacred verse bestows, Makes all, who fail in like attempts, his foes; No puny wit of malice can complain, The thorn is theirs, who most applauses gain. Whatever gifts or graces Heaven design'd To raise man's genius, or enrich his mind, Were Swift's to boast--alike his merits claim The statesman's knowledge, and the poet's flame; The patriot's honour, zealous to defend His country's rights--and _faithful to the end_; The sound divine, whose charities display'd He more by virtue than by forms was sway'd; Temperate at board, and frugal of his store, Which he but spared, to make his bounties more: The generous friend, whose heart alike caress'd, The friend triumphant, or the friend distress'd; Who could, unpain'd, another's merit spy, Nor view a rival's fame with jaundiced eye; Humane to all, his love was unconfined, And in its scope embraced all human kind; Sharp, not malicious, was his charming wit, And less to anger than reform he writ; Whatever rancour his productions show'd, From scorn of vice and folly only flow'd; He thought that fools were an invidious race, And held no measures with the vain or base. Virtue so clear! who labours to destroy, Shall find the charge can but himself annoy: The slanderous theft to his own breast recoils, Who seeks renown from injured merit's spoils; All hearts unite, and Heaven with man conspires To guard those virtues she herself admires. O sacred bard!--once ours!--but now no more, Whose loss, for ever, Ireland must deplore, No earthly laurels needs thy happy brow, Above the poet's are thy honours now: Above the patriot's, (though a greater name No temporal monarch for his crown can claim.) From noble breasts if envy might ensue, Thy death is all the brave can envy you. You died, when merit (to its fate resign'd) Saw scarce one friend to genius left behind, When shining parts did jealous hatred breed, And 'twas a crime in science to succeed, When ignorance spread her hateful mist around, And dunces only an acceptance found. What could such scenes in noble minds beget, But life with pain, and talents with regret? Add that thy spirit from the world retired, Ere hidden foes its further grief conspired; No treacherous friend did stories yet contrive, To blast the Muse he flatter'd when alive,[1] Or sordid printer (by his influence led) Abused the fame that first bestow'd him bread. Slanders so mean, had he whose nicer ear Abhorr'd all scandal, but survived to hear, The fraudful tale had stronger scorn supplied, And he (at length) with more disdain had died, But since detraction is the portion here Of all who virtuous durst, or great, appear, And the free soul no true existence gains, While earthly particles its flight restrains, The greatest favour grimful Death can show, Is with swift dart to expedite the blow. So thought the Dean, who, anxious for his fate, Sigh'd for release, and deem'd the blessing late. And sure if virtuous souls (life's travail past) Enjoy (as churchmen teach) repose at last, There's cause to think, a mind so firmly good, Who vice so long, and lawless power, withstood, Has reach'd the limits of that peaceful shore, Where knaves molest, and tyrants awe, no more; These blissful seats the pious but attain, Where incorrupt, immortal spirits reign. There his own Parnell strikes the living lyre. And Pope, harmonius, joins the tuneful choir; His Stella too, (no more to forms confined, For heavenly beings all are of a kind,) Unites with his the treasures of her mind, With warmer friendships bids their bosoms glow, Nor dreads the rage of vulgar tongues below. Such pleasing hope the tranquil breast enjoys, Whose inward peace no conscious crime annoys; While guilty minds irresolute appear, And doubt a state their vices needs must fear.

R----T B----N.

Dublin, Nov. 4, 1755.

[Footnote 1: Compare the Earl of Orrery's "Verses to Swift on his birthday" (vol. i, 228) with his "Remarks on the Life and writings of Swift." And see _post_, p. 406. The next line refers to Faulkner.--_W. E. B._]

A SCHOOLBOY'S THEME

The following lines were enclosed in a letter from Mr. Pulteney, (afterwards Earl of Bath,) to Swift, in which he says--"You must give me leave to add to my letter a copy of verses at the end of a declamation made by a boy at Westminster school on this theme,--_Ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?_"

Dulce, Decane, decus, flos optime gentis Hibernae Nomine quique audis, ingenioque celer: Dum lepido indulges risu, et mutaris in horas, Quò nova vis animi, materiesque rapit? Nunc gravis astrologus, coelo dominaris et astris, Filaque pro libitu Partrigiana secas. Nunc populo speciosa hospes miracula promis, Gentesque aequoreas, aëriasque creas. Seu plausum captat queruli persona Draperi, Seu levis a vacuo tabula sumpta cado. Mores egregius mira exprimis arte magister, Et vitam atque homines pagina quaeque sapit; Socraticae minor est vis et sapientia chartae, Nec tantum potuit grande Platonis opus.

VERSES ON THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS

BY MR. JAMES STERLING, OF THE COUNTY OF MEATH

While the Dean with more wit than man ever wanted, Or than Heaven to any man else ever granted, Endeavours to prove, how the ancients in knowledge Have excell'd our adepts of each modern college; How by heroes of old our chiefs are surpass'd In each useful science, true learning, and taste. While thus he behaves, with more courage than manners, And fights for the foe, deserting our banners; While Bentley and Wotton, our champions, he foils, And wants neither Temple's assistance, nor Boyle's; In spite of his learning, fine reasons, and style, --Would you think it?--he favours our cause all the while: We raise by his conquest our glory the higher, And from our defeat to a triumph aspire; Our great brother-modern, the boast of our days, Unconscious, has gain'd for our party the bays: St. James's old authors, so famed on each shelf, Are vanquish'd by what he has written himself.

ON DR. SWIFT'S LEAVING HIS ESTATE TO IDIOTS

Swift, wondrous genius, bright intelligence, Pities the orphan's, idiot's want of sense; And rich in supernumerary pelf, Adopts posterity unlike himself. To one great individual wit's confined! Such eunuchs never propagate their kind. Thus nature's prodigies bestow the gifts Of fortune, their descendants are no Swifts. When did prime statesman, for a sceptre fit His ministerial successor beget? No age, no state, no world, can hope to see Two SWIFTS or WALPOLES in one family.

ON SEVERAL PETTY PIECES

LATELY PUBLISHED AGAINST DEAN SWIFT, NOW DEAF AND INFIRM

Thy mortal part, ingenious Swift! must die, Thy fame shall reach beyond mortality! How puny whirlings joy at thy decline, Thou darling offspring of the tuneful nine! The noble _lion_ thus, as vigour passes, The fable tells us, is abused by _asses_.

ON FAULKNER'S EDITION OF SWIFT

Ornamented with an Engraving of the Dean, by Vertue.

In a little dark room at the back of his shop, Where poets and scribes have dined on a chop, Poor Faulkner sate musing alone thus of late, "Two volumes are done--it is time for the plate; Yes, time to be sure;--but on whom shall I call To express the great Swift in a compass so small? Faith, _Vertue_ shall do it, I'm pleased at the thought, Be the cost what it will--the copper is bought." Apollo o'erheard, (who as some people guess, Had a hand in the work, and corrected the press;) And pleased, he replied, "Honest George, you are right, The thought was my own, howsoe'er you came by't. For though both the wit and the style is my gift, 'Tis VERTUE alone can design us a SWIFT."

EPIGRAM ON LORD ORRERY'S REMARKS ON SWIFT'S LIFE AND WRITINGS

A sore disease this scribbling itch is! His Lordship, in his Pliny seen,[1] Turns Madam Pilkington in breeches, And now attacks our Patriot Dean.

What! libel his friend when laid in ground: Nay, good sir, you may spare your hints, His parallel at last is found, For what he writes George Faulkner prints.

Had Swift provoked to this behaviour, Yet after death resentment cools, Sure his last act bespoke his favour, He built an hospital--for fools.

[Footnote 1: Lord Orrery translated the letters of the younger Pliny.--_Scott._]

TO DOCTOR DELANY

ON HIS BOOK ENTITLED "OBSERVATIONS ON LORD ORRERY'S REMARKS"

Delany, to escape your friend the Dean, And prove all false that Orrery had writ, You kindly own his Gulliver profane, Yet make his puns and riddles sterling wit.

But if for wrongs to Swift you would atone, And please the world, one way you may succeed, Collect Boyle's writings and your own, And serve them as you served THE DEED.

EPIGRAM

On Faulkner's displaying in his shop the Dean's bust in marble, (now placed in the great aisle of St. Patrick's church), while he was publishing Lord Orrery's Remarks.

Faulkner! for once you have some judgment shown, By representing Swift transform'd to stone; For could he thy ingratitude have known, Astonishment itself the work had done!

AN INSCRIPTION

Intended for a compartment in Dr. Swift's monument, designed by Cunningham, on College Green, Dublin.

Say, to the Drapier's vast unbounded fame, What added honours can the sculptor give? None.--'Tis a sanction from the Drapier's name Must bid the sculptor and his marble live.

June 4, 1765.

AN EPIGRAM OCCASIONED BY THE ABOVE INSCRIPTION

Which gave the Drapier birth two realms contend; And each asserts her poet, patriot, friend: Her mitre jealous Britain may deny; That loss Iërne's laurel shall supply; Through life's low vale, she, grateful, gave him bread; Her vocal stones shall vindicate him dead.

W. B. J. N.

1766.

INDEX

ACHESON, SIR ARTHUR, ii, 89; verses by, to Swift, 92; verses to, by Swift, 93. Acheson, Lady, Lamentation by, ii, 95, 115; twelve articles addressed to, 125. Addison, i, 322. Address to the Citizens, ii, 292. Agistment, ii, 264, 271. Aislaby, John, ii, 164. Alcides, Hercules, ii, 71. Alexander, Earl of Stirling, ii, 89. Allen, John, ii, 269. Allen, Lord, Traulus, i, 344; ii, 239, 242, 243. Ambrec, Mary, i, 71. Amherst, Caleb d'Anvers, i. 224. Amphion, i, 245. Anne, Queen, her "Coronation medal," i, 50; death of, 261; mentioned, ii, 144. Apollo's edict, i, 105. Arbuthnot, i, 191, 254. Aretine (Aretino), ii, 323. Astraea, i, 183. Athenian Society, i, 16. Atherton, a bishop of Waterford, account of, i, 191. Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, his trial, ii, 196.

Baldwin, Richard, ii, 263. Ballyspellin, ii, 368, 371. Bangor, Bishop of, ii, 299. Barber, Mrs., her poems, i, 231. Barracks, i, 263. Bath referred to, i, 117. Bath, Order of the, revived, ii, 203. Battus, i, 272. Baviad and Maeviad, i, 273. Bavius and Maevius, i, 273. Beaumont (Poet Joe), i. 81. Bec, Mrs. Dingley, ii, 43. Bec's birthday, ii, 49. Bedel, Bishop, ii, 285. Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, i, 166, 243. Berkeley, Lord and Lady, i, 36, 39, 40, 41, 42. Betterton, actor, i. 129. Bettesworth, lines on, ii, 252; account of, 256; his visit to Swift, 257. Bingham, ii, 269. Blackall, Dr., ii, 138. Blackmore, i, 275. Blenheim, ii, 287. Blount, Patty, i, 157. Blue-Boys Hospital, i, 327. Blueskins, who stabbed Jon. Wild, i, 225. Bolingbroke, i, 253; his disgust at Oxford's and Swift's levity, ii, 170. Bolton, Archbishop, i, 243. Bossu, i, 271. Boulter, Primate, ii, 277. Boyle, Lord Orrery, ii, 129. Boyle, Viscount Blessington, ii, 129. Brass, nickname for Walpole, i, 226; ii, 204, 224. "Break no squares," i, 51; note on, ii, 126. Brent, Mrs., ii, 39. Briareus, ii, 167, 328. Bridewell described, i, 201, 265; ii, 29. Broderick, Lord Middleton, ii, 200. Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester, i, 284. Brydges, Duke of Chandos, i, 283. Buckley, Samuel, ii, 171. Burgersdicius, ii, 360. Burnet, referred to, i, 188. Bush, Secretary to Lord Berkeley, i, 42.

Cambyses, ii, 328. Carey, Walter, ii, 267. Caroline, Queen, the busts in Richmond Hermitage, i, 227; and Dr. Clarke, 337. Carruthers' Pope, i, 283. Carteret, Lord, i, 258; character of, 308, 309; Epistle to, by Delany, 314. Carteret, Lady, Apology to, i, 304. Carthy, Charles, his translations of Horace, ii, 278, 283. Cassandra, ii, 329. Censure, ii, 17. Charles XII of Sweden, i, 140. Chartres, mentioned, i, 191; described, 252. Chesterfield, i, 283. Chesterfield, Lord, letter to Voltaire enclosing Day of Judgment, i, 213. "Chesterfield, Life of," referred to, ii, 203. Chetwode MS., referred to, i, 98. Chevy Chase, cited in Baucis and Philemon, i, 65. Church, Swift's love for, ii, 164. Cibber, Colley, i, 129, 255, 266. Clarendon, referred to, i, 188. Clarke, Dr., i, 337.

Classics, Greek and Roman authors cited, imitated, and paraphrased: Catullus, i, 295. Cicero, i, 20; ii, 61. Horace, cited, i, 34, 225, 245, 273, 277, 293, 317, 320; ii, 40, 61, 124, 136, 170, 185, 291, 337, 345, 361; imitated, i, 92; ii, 159, 167, 175, 182, 219, 248, 260, 279. Hyginus, ii, 153, 206, 382. Juvenal, i, 75; ii, 343. Lucian, i, 76. Lucretius, i, 137; ii, 60. Martial, i, 75; ii, 287, 296. Ovid, i, 17, 21, 88, 89, 117, 122, 124, 134, 183, 205, 334; ii, 47, 60, 68, 71, 153, 185, 272, 296, 383. Petronius, imitation, i, 148 Pliny, "Hist. Nat.," i, 46, 47, 212. Plutarch, cited, ii, 71. Priscian, ii, 344. Seneca, ii, 194. Suetonius, ii, 194. Tacitus, ii, 221. Tibullus, ii, 383. Virgil, i, 77, So, 120, 270, 278; ii, 51, 55, 123, 124, 206, 266, 267, 294, 328, 359. Vitruvius Pollio, i, 74.

Clements, ii, 270. "Clem," Barry, at Gaulstown, i, 140. Coffee-houses frequented by the clergy, ii, 163. Coke, Sir E., his precepts, i, 181. Colberteen lace, i, 67; ii, 11. Colloguing, ii, 321. Compter, described, i, 201. Compton, Sir Spencer, ridiculed in Williams' works, i, 219. Compton, Sir Spencer, i, 219; ii, 224. _See_ Wilmington. Concanen, i, 276. Congreve, Ode to, i, 24, 30, 321, 322. Corbet, Dean of St. Patrick's, i, 147. Country Life, description of, at Gaulstown House, i, 137. Cracherode, i, 305. "Craftsman, The," i, 224. Craggs, ii, 167. Creech, i, 281. "Crisis, The," ii, 175, 176. Croke, Sir A., editor of the "Regimen Sanitatis," i, 207. Cross-bath described, i, 118. Crosse, ii, 263. Crowe, William, Parody on his address to Queen Anne, ii, 127. Cunningham's "Handbook of London" cited, i, 201. Curll, bookseller, i, 154, 253.

Daphne, fable of, i, 88. Daphne, ii, 57. Deafness of Swift, i, 149, 150. Deanery House, Verses on a window at the, i, 98. Delany, Patrick, account of, i, 93; to Swift when deaf, 149; and Lord Carteret, Libel on, 320; Fable by, 338; Verses by, ii, 37, 38; mentioned, 298. Delany's villa described, i, 141. Delawar, ii, 165. Delos, i, 17. Demar, Usurer, Elegy on, i, 96; Epitaph on, 97. Democritus, i, 224. Demoniac, ii, 264. _See_ Legion Club. Denham, i, 106, 203, 257. Dennis, i, 271; his fear of the French, ii, 176. Deucalion, ii, 68. Dictionary of National Biography referred to, i, 232, 282. Disraeli, "Curiosities of Literature," cited, i, 79. Dolly, Lady Meath, i, 299. Domitian, ii, 272. Domvile, ii, 273. "Don Quixote," cited, ii, 154. Dorinda, poetical name for Dorothy, i, 32. Dorothy, Sir W. Temple's wife, i, 32. Dorset, Duke of, ii, 277, 297. Dramatis Personae at Gaulstown House, i, 137. Drapier's Hill, ii, 106. Drapier's Letters, referred to, i, 251; ii, 200, 201. Drummond of Hawthornden, ii, 89. Dryden, Swift's malevolence to, i, 16, 272; Malone's life of, 16, 43; his "All for Love," ii, 114. Duck, Stephen, Epigram on, and account of, i, 192; mentioned, 255, 269. Dunkin, Dr., ii, 399. Dunster, i, 281. Dunton, John, i, 16.

Edgar, King, i, 318. Elrington, English actor, i, 128, 129. English Mall, i, 70. Epigram, French, i, 297. Epilogue to play for distressed weavers, i, 133. Europa, ii, 47. Excise on wines and tobacco defeated, i, 237.

Fagot, Fable of the, ii, 166. Farnham School, i, 27. Faulkner, George, imprisoned at the instance of Bettesworth, ii, 261, 272. Fielding's "Life of Jon. Wild," i, 225. Finch, Mrs., Verses to, as Ardelia, i, 52. Finch, Lord Nottingham, ii, 148, 164. Fitzpatrick, Brigadier, i, 243. Flammeum, i, 204. Flamsteed, i, 113. Flecknoe, i, 275. Fleet Ditch, i, 78, 201; illustration of, referred to, 80. Floyd, Dame, i, 40, 50. Forbes, Lady Catherine, i, 107. Ford, Charles, Verses on, i, 145; ii, 40. Ford, Matthew, i, 145. Forster, "Life of Swift," i, 43, 55; his notes on Baucis and Philemon, 62. "Freeholder, The," ii, 189. French, Humphrey, ode from Horace addressed to, ii, 248.

Gadbury, i, 113. Garraway's auction room, i, 125. Gaulstown House, described by Delany, i, 136. Gay, "Shepherd's week," i, 83; Epistle to, satirizing Sir R. Walpole, 214; post of gentleman usher offered to, 215; referred to, 104, 273, 322. George I, death of, i, 155; disputes with his son, 331. George II, i, 331; ii, 130. Godolphin, lampoon on, ii, 133; satirized by Pope, 136. Gorgon, ii, 270. Grafton, Lord Lieutenant, ii, 295. Greek play, account of, at Sheridan's school, ii, 326. Grierson, Mrs. Constantia, i, 232. Grimston, i, 275. Guiscard, his attack on Harley, ii, 148. Gulliveriana, cited, Scott's note from, corrected, i, 130. Gulliver's Travels referred to, i, 239. Gyges, story of, i, 20. Hakluyt, ii, 60. Halifax, good, ii, 183. Hamet, Cid, Ben Eng'li, ii, 133. Hamilton's Bawn, described, ii, 101. Harcourt, Lord Chancellor, i, 259; ii, 167. Harding, the printer, i, 163; ii, 288, 292. Harley, Lord Oxford, ii, 159. Harley, Lord, son of Lord Oxford, i, 87. Harris, Mrs. Frances, her Petition, i, 36, 40. Helsham, Dr. Richard, ii, 85, 307, 309, 373. Henley, i, 256. Herostratus, ii, 275. Hill, Birkbeck, "Letters of Swift," i, 43. Hobbes' "Leviathan" referred to, i, 274. Hogarth, i, 265. Holles, Henrietta Cavendish, i, 87. Holyhead, Verses written at, i, 292. Hoppy, Epilogue to benefit of, i, 130. Horace. _See_ Classics. Hort, Satire on, i, 241; Epigram on, ii, 297. Houghton, magnificence of, i, 216. Howard, Mrs., her finances, i, 156; Countess of Suffolk, 252, 275. Howth, ii, 381. Hoyle on Quadrille, i, 254. "Hudibras," cited, i, 70, 71, 168. Hume, "History of England," i, 318; ii, 222. Hutcheson, Hartley, ii, 273, 274.

"Intelligencer," Paddy's character of, i, 312. "Intelligencer," cited, ii, 227. Ireland, verses to, from Horace, ii, 219. Iris, ii, 329. Ixion, ii, 382.

Jackson, Dan, i, 96, 137; ii, 325, 332, 333, 335. Jamaica, referred to, i, 152; a place of exile, 201. Janus, addressed, i, 293; ii, 43. Jason, i, 294. Joan of France, i, 70. Johnson, "Life of Dryden," i, 16; his "Life of Montague," 321; his "Vanity of Human Wishes," 49. Johnson (Mrs.), Stella, i, 82. Jonson, Ben, "Bartholomew Fair," i, 41. Journal to Stella, cited, i, 81, 92; ii, 133.

Kendal, Duchess of, ii, 202. Ker, Colonel, ii, 274. King, Dr., Archbishop of Dublin, i, 92, 133; Songs upon, ii, 289; Poem to, 291. King's anecdotes of his own times, ii, 113. Kingsbury, Dr., ii, 297. Kite, Serjeant, Epigram to, ii, 255; Verses to, 256. Knoggin, ii, 321. Königsmark, i, 331; ii, 150, 151.

Leigh, Tom, ii, 2.99. Lewis, Lord Oxford's Secretary, ii, 159, 168. Limbo, as a pawn shop, i, 168. Lindsay, i, 182, 187. Lintot, i, 255, 267. "Lousiad, The," ii, 70.

Macartney, General, ii, 174. Macbeth, cited, i, 199. Macmorrogh, Dermot, mentioned, ii, 222. Maevius, ii, 30. Malahide, famous for oysters, i, 287. Malone, "Life of Dryden," i, 16. Mambrino and Almonte, ii, 153. Manley, Mrs. de la Riviere, ii, 152. Marble Hill, built by Mrs. Howard, i, 155. Market Hill, ii, 89, no, 116. Marlborough, Duke of, ii, 135; satirized as Midas, 153; Elegy on death of, 187. Masham, Mrs., ii, 150. Mather, Charles, ii, 135. Matrimonial advice, i, 210. May Fair, Answer to lines from, i, 54. Maypole, The, ii, 311. Meath, Countess of, i, 85, 299. _See_ Stopford. Medea, ii, 47. Megaera, i, 224. Merlin's Cave, i, 192. Middleton, Lord Chancellor, ii, 294. Milton, cited, i, 195. "Mingere cum bombis," i, 207. Mirmont, Marquis de, i, 157. "Mob," Swift's dislike to the word, ii, 141. Montague, i, 321. Montaigne, cited, ii, 194. Montezuma or Mutezuma, ii, 112. Montrose, Marquis of, his epitaph on Charles I, ii, 291, 395. Moor Park, i, 8, 27. Moore, Jemmy, i, 253, 254. Morgan, Marcus Antonius, ii, 270. Mounthermer, daughter of Duke of Marlborough, i, 147.

"Naboth's Vineyard," Swift's garden, ii, 132. Namby Pamby, i, 288; ii, 254. Narcissus, ii, 364. Nero, his wish cited, ii, 194. New style, ii, 151. Nicknames of Lady Acheson, 94, 95, 106. Nightingale, the, i, 341. Northey, Sir Edward, ii, 167. Notes and Queries, cited, i, 153, 291. Nottingham, Earl of, ii, 148; invitation to, from Toland, 156.

"Orlando Furioso," cited, ii, 154. Ormond, Duke of, ii, 143. Ormond Quay, ii, 42. O'Rourke's Irish Feast, i, 107. Orrery, Earl of, his account of "Death and Daphne," ii, 54; his remarks on the "Life of Swift," 402, 406. Oudenarde, Dutch account of, ii, 130. Overton, ii, 360. Ovid. _See_ Classics. Oxford, Lord Treasurer, as Atlas, ii, 147, 167; verses sent to him in the Tower, 182.

Pallas and Arachne, referred to, i, 134. Pam, Archbishop of Tuam, ii, 297. _See_ Hort. "Pantheon, The," account of, ii, 97. Parliament in Ireland, i, 263. Parthenope, ii, 60. Partridge, i, 74, 113. Pearce, architect, i, 338. Peleus, referred to, i, 205. Pella, i, 334. Percy, "Reliques of English poetry," i, 71. Peterborough, Pope's verses on, i, 48. Phaethon, story of, ii, 184. Phalanx, ii, 325. Phillips, Ambrose, i, 83, 288. Physicians, College of, ii, 55. Piddle with, to, sense of, ii, 41. Pilkington, Sir Thomas, ii, 176. Pilkingtons, the, i, 232, 247. Planché, costume, i, 67. Pluck a rose, i, 203; ii, 121. Pope, cited or referred to, i, 34, 104, 191, 192, 216, 217, 247, 322. Prendergast, Sir Thomas, ii, 235, 260, 266. Priapus, ii, 337. Prior, his "Journey to France," i, 103. Prometheus, i, 277. Pulteney, Earl of Bath, i, 253; ii, 250. Pythagoras, precept of, i, 206.

Queensberry, Duke and Duchess of, i, 215, 273.

Rapparees, i, 185, 263. Rathfarnam, ii, 364. Raymond, Dr., Minister of Trim, i, 82. "Rehearsal, The," i, 28, 43, 44. Richmond Hermitage, i, 227. 228. Richmond Lodge, i, 155. Riding, description of a, i, 153. Rochfort, George, ii, 298. _See_ Trifles. Roper, Abel, ii, 173. Rymer, i, 271.

St. Patrick's Well, i, 319; ii. 221. Salerno, School of Medicine, i, 207. Salmoneus, ii, 206. Savage, Philip, ii, 119. Sawbridge, Dean, i, 189. "Schola Salernitana," i, 207. Scroggs, i, 261. Sharpe, Dr. John, Archbishop of York, ii, 163. Sheridan, "Life of Swift," ii, 169. Sherlock, i, 165. Sican, Dr. J., i, 280. Sican, Mrs., i, 282. Singleton, ii, 253. Smedley, Dean, i, 317, 345, 348, 350. Smollett, ii, 130. Smythe, i, 276. Somers, ii, 167, 178. Somerset, Duchess of, satire on, ii, 150, 165. Sot's Hole, ii, 365. "Spectator, The," ii, 287. State Trials, ii, 196. Steele, i, 322; ii, 171, 175. Sterne, Bishop of Clogher, i, 98. Stopford, Dorothy, i, 85. Strand, the, ii, 311. Suckling, Sir John, ii, 129. Suffolk, Countess of, i, 155. Swift, his ill-feeling to Dryden, i, 16, 43, 272; his love for Congreve, 24; his regard for Temple, 29, 32; terms his own calling a _trade_, 39; his quarrel with Lord Berkeley, 42; his regard for Delany, 93, 304, 314, 339; his deafness, 149; "now deaf, 1740," ii, 49; his hatred of Tighe, i, 186; ii, 227, 235, 239; Ireland, a place of exile, i, 261; his schemes for effecting a change to England, ii, 168; and Serjeant Bettesworth, ii, 252, 254, 256. Sylla, ii, 71. Symmachus, i, 316.

Tar water, Fielding's use of, i, 166. "Tatler, The," i, 28, 78, 103, 129. Telling noses, horse dealer's term, i, 216. Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, ii, 246. Thatched House Tavern, i, 146. Tholsel, the, ii, 276. Throp, Roger, ii, 268. Tiger, the lap dog, ii, 50, 51. Tighe, Richard, i, 186; ii, 226; (Pistorides, Dick Fitzbaker), 235, 236, 237, 238, 268. Tisdall, ii, 368. "Toast, The," ii, 297. Toupees, wigs then in fashion, i, 233. Trapp, Dr., i, 103. Trisilian, i, 261. Troynovant, i, 272.

Umbo, ii, 325. Urbs intacta manet, ii, 286, 287.

Vanbrugh, his indebtedness to Molière, i, 59; "architect at Blenheim," 74; ii, 287. Vanessa, Hester Vanhomrigh, ii, 1, 23, 24, 25. Van Lewen, Mrs., i, 232. Vespasian, ii, 273. Vespuccio, ii, 60. Virgil. _See_ Classics. Voiture, poet and letter writer, i, 94, 95, 96. Vole, the, i, 254. Voltaire, Charles XII, i, 49.

Wall, Archdeacon, i. 81. Waller, John, ii, 268. Walpole, Horace, his fable of "Funeral of the Lioness," cited, , 227; his Reminiscences cited, ii, 278. Walpole, Sir Robert, i, 253, 337. Walter Peter, character of, i, 217. Waters, properly Walter, i, 217. Welsted, i, 272. Wharton, Earl of, character of, ii, 128, 132, 146, 183. Wheatley's "London past and present," cited, i, 201. Wheeler, Sir George, great traveller, i, 167. Whig faction, i, 259. Whitshed, Chief Justice, i, 261; ii, 192, 200, 217, 218. Wild, Jonathan, i, 164. Wilks, actor, i, 129. Williams, Sir Chas. Hanbury, cited, i, 217, 219. Will's coffee-house, i, 28, 267, 272. Wilmington, Earl of, i, 219; ii, 224. _See_ Compton. Winchelsea, Countess of, i, 52. Wollaston, i, 256. Wood, i, 260; and his halfpence, ii, 201, 203, 205, 206, 207, 209, 211, 215, 218. Woolston, account of, i, 188, 256. Wynne, Owen, ii, 269; John, ii, 269.

Xanti (Xantippe), ii, 378.

Young, his satires, i, 264; his pension, 273.