book ii

, epist. 1, 387.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299, 304, _ut supra.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 27: "Fertur Prometheus, addere principi Limo coactus particulam undique Desectam, et insani leonis Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro." HORAT., _Carm._ I, xvi.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 28: "---- super et Garamantas et Indos, Proferet imperium; ---- ---- jam nunc et Caspia regna Responsis horrent divom." Virg., _Aen._, vi.]

[Footnote 29: "---- genibus minor."]

[Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of Wales, father of George III.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 31: "Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem." Virg., _Aen._, vi, 847.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."]

VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND. BY DR. J. SICAN[1]

(Horace speaking.)

You've read, sir, in poetic strain, How Varus and the Mantuan swain Have on my birth-day been invited, (But I was forced in verse to write it,) Upon a plain repast to dine, And taste my old Campanian wine; But I, who all punctilios hate, Though long familiar with the great, Nor glory in my reputation, Am come without an invitation; And, though I'm used to right Falernian, I'll deign for once to taste Iërnian; But fearing that you might dispute (Had I put on my common suit) My breeding and my politesse, I visit in my birth-day dress: My coat of purest Turkey red, With gold embroidery richly spread; To which I've sure as good pretensions, As Irish lords who starve on pensions. What though proud ministers of state Did at your antichamber wait; What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns, Have at your levee paid attendance, And Peterborough and great Ormond, With many chiefs who now are dormant, Have laid aside the general's staff, And public cares, with you to laugh; Yet I some friends as good can name, Nor less the darling sons of fame; For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as Either your Bolingbroke or Harley, Though they made Lewis beg a parley; And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero, I'll match him with my Drusus Nero. You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope; But Virgil is as good, I hope. I own indeed I can't get any To equal Helsham and Delany; Since Athens brought forth Socrates, A Grecian isle, Hippocrates; Since Tully lived before my time, And Galen bless'd another clime. You'll plead, perhaps, at my request, To be admitted as a guest, "Your hearing's bad!"--But why such fears? I speak to eyes, and not to ears; And for that reason wisely took The form you see me in, a book. Attack'd by slow devouring moths, By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths; By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose; I found my boasted wit and fire In their rude hands almost expire: Yet still they but in vain assail'd; For, had their violence prevail'd, And in a blast destroy'd my frame, They would have partly miss'd their aim; Since all my spirit in thy page Defies the Vandals of this age. 'Tis yours to save these small remains From future pedant's muddy brains, And fix my long uncertain fate, You best know how--"which way?"--TRANSLATE.

[Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in Italy.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, _ante_, p. 48.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and Horace.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace, done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote: "O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain, And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain." _Dict. Nat. Biog.--W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733

"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined, How vice and folly have debased mankind; Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: While bold and free the glowing colours strike; Blame not the picture, if the picture's like."

ON PSYCHE[1]

At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire: So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; But ever with prudence takes care of the main. To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; For her taste is almost as refined as her wit. To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and Stella.--_W. E. B._]

THE DEAN AND DUKE 1734

James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends; James is beduked; of course their friendship ends: But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke, For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke. Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks, Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2] His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain With bands of fiddlers to extend his train. Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel, The duke and dean seem near upon a level. O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free. A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown: Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown. Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king: O! would his majesty but add a string!

[Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers' edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his _Canonical_ pillars.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure of his speculative investments.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.--_N_.]

WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734

Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures.

THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED

DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone. ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own. DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown. ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn. Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, You may have company enough. DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell, Than if it rang out for my knell. ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well. DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start, Than at the rumbling of a cart. ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f--t. DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack! No more I hear a woman's clack. ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill, Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; But louder than a bell, or thunder: That does, I own, increase my wonder.

THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING

On rainy days alone I dine Upon a chick and pint of wine. On rainy days I dine alone, And pick my chicken to the bone; But this my servants much enrages, No scraps remain to save board-wages. In weather fine I nothing spend, But often spunge upon a friend; Yet, where he's not so rich as I, I pay my club, and so good b'ye.

EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER

"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM"

Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus, Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet. Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam: Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput. Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta; Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem.

VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN

APPLES

Come buy my fine wares, Plums, apples, and pears. A hundred a penny, In conscience too many: Come, will you have any? My children are seven, I wish them in Heaven; My husband a sot, With his pipe and his pot, Not a farthing will gain them, And I must maintain them.

ASPARAGUS

Ripe 'sparagrass Fit for lad or lass, To make their water pass: O, 'tis pretty picking With a tender chicken!

ONIONS

Come, follow me by the smell, Here are delicate onions to sell; I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer, You'll feed like a farmer; For this is every cook's opinion, No savoury dish without an onion; But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd: Or else you may spare Your mistress a share, The secret will never be known: She cannot discover The breath of her lover, But think it as sweet as her own.

OYSTERS

Charming oysters I cry: My masters, come buy, So plump and so fresh, So sweet is their flesh, No Colchester oyster Is sweeter and moister: Your stomach they settle, And rouse up your mettle: They'll make you a dad Of a lass or a lad; And madam your wife They'll please to the life; Be she barren, be she old, Be she slut, or be she scold, Eat my oysters, and lie near her, She'll be fruitful, never fear her.

HERRINGS

Be not sparing, Leave off swearing. Buy my herring Fresh from Malahide,[1] Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.

[Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for oysters.--_F_.]

ORANGES

Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale; Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup, They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup.

ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL

INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1]

Happiest of the spaniel race, Painter, with thy colours grace: Draw his forehead large and high, Draw his blue and humid eye; Draw his neck so smooth and round, Little neck with ribbons bound! And the muscly swelling breast, Where the Loves and Graces rest; And the spreading even back, Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; And the tail that gently twines, Like the tendrils of the vines; And the silky twisted hair, Shadowing thick the velvet ear; Velvet ears, which, hanging low, O'er the veiny temples flow. With a proper light and shade, Let the winding hoop be laid; And within that arching bower, (Secret circle, mystic power,) In a downy slumber place Happiest of the spaniel race; While the soft respiring dame, Glowing with the softest flame, On the ravish'd favourite pours Balmy dews, ambrosial showers. With thy utmost skill express Nature in her richest dress, Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, Orchards by those rivers blowing; Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, And the gay enamell'd mead; Where the linnets sit and sing, Little sportlings of the spring; Where the breathing field and grove Soothe the heart and kindle love. Here for me, and for the Muse, Colours of resemblance choose, Make of lineaments divine, Daply female spaniels shine, Pretty fondlings of the fair, Gentle damsels' gentle care; But to one alone impart All the flattery of thy art. Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, Which complete the desperate face; Let the spotted wanton dame Feel a new resistless flame! Let the happiest of his race Win the fair to his embrace. But in shade the rest conceal, Nor to sight their joys reveal, Lest the pencil and the Muse Loose desires and thoughts infuse.

[Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret, daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.--_W. E. B_.]

EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS

SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726

I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN

We fly from luxury and wealth, To hardships, in pursuit of health; From generous wines, and costly fare, And dozing in an easy-chair; Pursue the goddess Health in vain, To find her in a country scene, And every where her footsteps trace, And see her marks in every face; And still her favourites we meet, Crowding the roads with naked feet. But, oh! so faintly we pursue, We ne'er can have her full in view.

II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND

The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd, Dims and obscures our sight; So, when our passions Love has stirr'd, It darkens Reason's light.

III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, WARWICKSHIRE

Fool, to put up four crosses at your door, Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four.

IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER

The church and clergy here, no doubt, Are very near a-kin; Both weather-beaten are without, And empty both within.

V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER

My landlord is civil, But dear as the d--l: Your pockets grow empty With nothing to tempt ye; The wine is so sour, 'Twill give you a scour, The beer and the ale Are mingled with stale. The veal is such carrion, A dog would be weary on. All this I have felt, For I live on a smelt.

VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER

The walls of this town Are full of renown, And strangers delight to walk round 'em: But as for the dwellers, Both buyers and sellers, For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.

VII. ANOTHER WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE

Thanks to my stars, I once can see A window here from scribbling free! Here no conceited coxcombs pass, To scratch their paltry drabs on glass; Nor party fool is calling names, Or dealing crowns to George and James.

VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS

The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast,[1] Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawl'd by every rake, His breast again would cover, And fairly bid the devil take The diamond and the lover.

[Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii, 497.--_W. E. B._]

IX. ANOTHER

By Satan taught, all conjurors know Your mistress in a glass to show, And you can do as much: In this the devil and you agree; None e'er made verses worse than he, And thine, I swear, are such.

X. ANOTHER

That love is the devil, I'll prove when required; Those rhymers abundantly show it: They swear that they all by love are inspired, And the devil's a damnable poet.

XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1]

O Neptune! Neptune! must I still Be here detain'd against my will? Is this your justice, when I'm come Above two hundred miles from home; O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains, Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains, Only your godship to implore, To let me kiss your other shore? A boon so small! but I may weep, While you're like Baal, fast asleep.

[Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works," vol. xi.--_W. E. B_.]

TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726

Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; To oblige your crony Swift, Bring our dame a new year's gift; She has got but half a face; Janus, since thou hast a brace, To my lady once be kind; Give her half thy face behind. God of Time, if you be wise, Look not with your future eyes; What imports thy forward sight? Well, if you could lose it quite. Can you take delight in viewing This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin, When thy retrospection vast Sees the glorious ages past? Happy nation, were we blind, Or had only eyes behind! Drown your morals, madam cries, I'll have none but forward eyes; Prudes decay'd about may tack, Strain their necks with looking back. Give me time when coming on; Who regards him when he's gone? By the Dean though gravely told, New-years help to make me old; Yet I find a new-year's lace Burnishes an old-year's face. Give me velvet and quadrille, I'll have youth and beauty still.

[Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores Instituunt."--HOR., _Sat_., ii, vi, 20.]

[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_H_.]

A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD

WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE

Jason, the valiant prince of Greece, From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece; We comb the wool, refine the stuff, For modern Jasons, that's enough. Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1] Old Jason would have less to brag on.

[Footnote 1: England.--_H_.]

TO A FRIEND WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS

The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night And fortune help the murderer in his flight; The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, Yet safe from injured innocence escape; And calumny, by working under ground, Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound. What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road, Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd? Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, And buy distinction at the dearest rate.

[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 160, the poem entitled "On Censure."--_W. E. B._.]

CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1]

Lesbia for ever on me rails, To talk of me she never fails. Now, hang me, but for all her art, I find that I have gain'd her heart. My proof is this: I plainly see, The case is just the same with me; I curse her every hour sincerely, Yet, hang me but I love her dearly.

[Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat. Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo." _Catulli Carmina, xcii.--W. E. B._]

ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY

I marched three miles through scorching sand, With zeal in heart, and notes in hand; I rode four more to Great St. Mary, Using four legs, when two were weary: To three fair virgins I did tie men, In the close bands of pleasing Hymen; I dipp'd two babes in holy water, And purified their mother after. Within an hour and eke a half, I preach'd three congregations deaf; Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded, I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded. My emblem, the laborious sun, Saw all these mighty labours done Before one race of his was run. All this perform'd by Robert Hewit: What mortal else could e'er go through it!

TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE

Queen of wit and beauty, Betty, Never may the Muse forget ye, How thy face charms every shepherd, Spotted over like a leopard! And thy freckled neck, display'd, Envy breeds in every maid; Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; Or a tawny speckled pippin, Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping. And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd. Sets of phrases, cut and dry, Evermore thy tongue supply; And thy memory is loaded With old scraps from plays exploded; Stock'd with repartees and jokes, Suited to all Christian folks: Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, Blunder'd out a thousand times; Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, Which can ne'er be worse for wearing. Picking wit among collegians, In the playhouse upper regions; Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery. But thy merit is thy failing, And thy raillery is railing. Thus with talents well endued To be scurrilous and rude; When you pertly raise your snout, Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; This among Hibernian asses For sheer wit and humour passes. Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, Swears you have a world of wit.

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1]

Who can believe with common sense, A bacon slice gives God offence; Or, how a herring has a charm Almighty vengeance to disarm? Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, Does he regard on what we dine?

[Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which are translated above: "Peut-on croire avec bon sens Qu'un lardon le mil en colère, Ou, que manger un hareng, C'est un secret pour lui plaire? En sa gloire envelopé, Songe-t-il bien de nos soupés?"--_H_.]

EPIGRAM[1]

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, He took to the street, and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some sober advice-- But Tom is a person of honour so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife.

[Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by Stella.--_Forster_.]

EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1]

When Margery chastises Ned, She calls it combing of his head; A kinder wife was never born: She combs his head, and finds him horn.

[Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's volume.--_Forster._]

JOAN CUDGELS NED

Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, She dares not say her life's her own. Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, And every day she combs his head.

VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS

Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise With lofty branches to the skies, Have large proportion'd roots that grow With equal longitude below: Two bards that now in fashion reign, Most aptly this device explain: If this to clouds and stars will venture, That creeps as far to reach the centre; Or, more to show the thing I mean, Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen A skill'd mechanic, that has stood High on a length of prostrate wood, Who hired a subterraneous friend To take his iron by the end; But which excell'd was never found, The man above or under ground. The moral is so plain to hit, That, had I been the god of wit, Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, Should Young and Philips drudge together.

EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2]

Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly. Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy; For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.

Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.

Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.

Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried: To live without both full three days he tried; But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.

Dick left a pattern few will copy after: Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter. Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate.

Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, And here rest----_sic transit gloria mundi_!

[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived her but two days.--_F_. The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy Stopford's Chair." See _ante_, p.85.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest daughter.--_F._]

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT

My latest tribute here I send, With this let your collection end. Thus I consign you down to fame A character to praise or blame: And if the whole may pass for true, Contented rest, you have your due. Give future time the satisfaction, To leave one handle for detraction.

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY

Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? To act such an opera once in a year, So offensive to every true Protestant ear, With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets!

[The rest is wanting.]

AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION

The furniture that best doth please St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these: The knife and fork with which I eat; And next the pot that boils the meat; The next to be preferr'd, I think, Is the glass in which I drink; The shelves on which my books I keep And the bed on which I sleep; An antique elbow-chair between, Big enough to hold the Dean; And the stove that gives delight In the cold bleak wintry night: To these we add a thing below, More for use reserved than show: These are what the Dean do please; All superfluous are but these.

EPITAPH INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

H. S. E.

[*text centered] CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY, Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE, Et BRUCE, è nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques, Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus; Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus. Siquidem a GULIELMO III° ad ordines foederati Belgii Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius Rebus, non Britanniae tantùm, sed totius fere Europae (Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit, Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata, Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre, In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit. Fuit à sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae E proregibus Hiberniae secundus, Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens, Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus Forestae de Dean. Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset, Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo. Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera, Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius Quòd veritatem evangelicam seriò amplexus; Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus, Adversùs omnes aequus et benevolus, In Christo jam placidè obdormit Cum eodem olim regnaturus unà. Natus VIII° April. MDCXLIX. denatus XXIV° Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII.

EPITAPH

ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1]

[*text centered] Hic infra situm est corpus FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG. ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690. DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam atque etiam petierunt, UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent: Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos, diu ac saepè orando nil profecêre; Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt, Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes, Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres delitescunt "Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos, Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos." A.D. 1731.

[Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne, July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own expense.--_N_.]

[Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellulâ tanti ductoris cineres delitescunt."--_N._]

VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND

As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.--_Scott._

AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET

A lady, wise as well as fair, Whose conscience always was her care, Thoughtful upon a point of moment, Would have the text as well as comment: So hearing of a grave divine, She sent to bid him come to dine. But, you must know he was not quite So grave as to be unpolite: Thought human learning would not lessen The dignity of his profession: And if you'd heard the man discourse, Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. He long had bid the court farewell, Retreating silent to his cell; Suspected for the love he bore To one who sway'd some time before; Which made it more surprising how He should be sent for thither now. The message told, he gapes, and stares, And scarce believes his eyes or ears: Could not conceive what it should mean, And fain would hear it told again. But then the squire so trim and nice, 'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; And would not fail to wait upon her. His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, Away he trudges into town; Passes the lower castle yard, And now advancing to the guard, He trembles at the thoughts of state; For, conscious of his sheepish gait, His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. What was the message I received? Why certainly the captain raved? To dine with her! and come at three! Impossible! it can't be me. Or maybe I mistook the word; My lady--it must be my lord. My lord 's abroad; my lady too: What must the unhappy doctor do? "Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"--"No." "Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." Am I awake, or do I dream? I'm sure he call'd me by my name; Named me as plain as he could speak; And yet there must be some mistake. Why, what a jest should I have been, Had now my lady been within! What could I've said? I'm mighty glad She went abroad--she'd thought me mad. The hour of dining now is past: Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff, I think I'm very fairly off. My lady now returning home, Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" He had not heard of him--"Pray see, 'Tis now a quarter after three." The captain walks about, and searches Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; Examines all the servants round, In vain--no doctor's to be found. My lady could not choose but wonder; "Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; I'll try his manners once again; If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, My son shall never see a college." The captain was a man of reading, And much good sense, as well as breeding; Who, loath to blame, or to incense, Said little in his own defence. Next day another message brought; The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, Panting--and faltering--humm'd and ha'd, "Her ladyship was gone abroad: The captain too--he did not know Whether he ought to stay or go;" Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, My lady, pitying his confusion, Call'd her good nature to relieve him; Told him, she thought she might believe him; And would not only grant his suit, But visit him, and eat some fruit, Provided, at a proper time, He told the real truth in rhyme; 'Twas to no purpose to oppose, She'd hear of no excuse in prose. The Doctor stood not to debate, Glad to compound at any rate; So, bowing, seemingly complied; Though, if he durst, he had denied. But first, resolved to show his taste, Was too refined to give a feast; He'd treat with nothing that was rare, But winding walks and purer air; Would entertain without expense, Or pride or vain magnificence: For well he knew, to such a guest The plainest meals must be the best. To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare Simplicity alone is rare; While high, and nice, and curious meats Are really but vulgar treats. Instead of spoils of Persian looms, The costly boast of regal rooms, Thought it more courtly and discreet To scatter roses at her feet; Roses of richest dye, that shone With native lustre, like her own; Beauty that needs no aid of art Through every sense to reach the heart. The gracious dame, though well she knew All this was much beneath her due, Liked everything--at least thought fit To praise it _par manière d'acquit_. Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear The scorching sun, or chilling air; Disturb'd alike at both extremes, Whether he shows or hides his beams: Though seeming pleased at all she sees, Starts at the ruffling of the trees, And scarce can speak for want of breath, In half a walk fatigued to death. The Doctor takes his hint from hence, T' apologize his late offence: "Madam, the mighty power of use Now strangely pleads in my excuse; If you unused have scarcely strength To gain this walk's untoward length; If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, Through long disuse of solitude; If, long confined to fires and screens, You dread the waving of these greens; If you, who long have breathed the fumes Of city fogs and crowded rooms, Do now solicitously shun The cooler air and dazzling sun; If his majestic eye you flee, Learn hence t' excuse and pity me. Consider what it is to bear The powder'd courtier's witty sneer; To see th' important man of dress Scoffing my college awkwardness; To be the strutting cornet's sport, To run the gauntlet of the court, Winning my way by slow approaches, Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches, From the first fierce cockaded sentry, Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry; To pass so many crowded stages, And stand the staring of your pages: And after all, to crown my spleen, Be told--'You are not to be seen:' Or, if you are, be forced to bear The awe of your majestic air. And can I then be faulty found, In dreading this vexatious round? Can it be strange, if I eschew A scene so glorious and so new? Or is he criminal that flies The living lustre of your eyes?"

[Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.--_Scott._]

THE BIRTH OF MANLY VIRTUE

INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1] 1724

Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.--VIRG., _Aen._, v, 344.

Once on a time, a righteous sage, Grieved with the vices of the age, Applied to Jove with fervent prayer-- "O Jove, if Virtue be so fair As it was deem'd in former days, By Plato and by Socrates, Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, Only for want of outward shape; Make then its real excellence, For once the theme of human sense; So shall the eye, by form confined, Direct and fix the wandering mind, And long-deluded mortals see, With rapture, what they used to flee!" Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, And bids him bless and mend the earth. Behold him blooming fresh and fair, Now made--ye gods--a son and heir; An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2] But prodigies are wrought to prove Nothing impossible to Jove. Virtue was for this sex design'd, In mild reproof to womankind; In manly form to let them see The loveliness of modesty, The thousand decencies that shone With lessen'd lustre in their own; Which few had learn'd enough to prize, And some thought modish to despise. To make his merit more discern'd, He goes to school--he reads--is learn'd; Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, He shines distinguish'd in a college; Resolved nor honour, nor estate, Himself alone should make him great. Here soon for every art renown'd, His influence is diffused around; The inferior youth to learning led, Less to be famed than to be fed, Behold the glory he has won, And blush to see themselves outdone; And now, inflamed with rival rage, In scientific strife engage, Engage; and, in the glorious strife The arts new kindle into life. Here would our hero ever dwell, Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: Contented to be truly great, In Virtue's best beloved retreat; Contented he--but Fate ordains, He now shall shine in nobler scenes, Raised high, like some celestial fire, To shine the more, still rising higher; Completely form'd in every part, To win the soul, and glad the heart. The powerful voice, the graceful mien, Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; The outward form and inward vie, His soul bright beaming from his eye, Ennobling every act and air, With just, and generous, and sincere. Accomplish'd thus, his next resort Is to the council and the court, Where Virtue is in least repute, And interest the one pursuit; Where right and wrong are bought and sold, Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; Here Manly Virtue, even here, Pleased in the person of a peer, A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, Who talk'd of justice and of truth, Of innocence the surest guard, Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; That he alone deserved esteem, Who was the man he wish'd to seem; Call'd it unmanly and unwise, To lurk behind a mean disguise; (Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, 'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) Call'd want of shame a want of sense, And found, in blushes, eloquence. Thus acting what he taught so well, He drew dumb merit from her cell, Led with amazing art along The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; And, while he made her value known, Yet more display'd and raised his own. Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, He rises to the highest stations; For where high honour is the prize, True Virtue has a right to rise: Let courtly slaves low bend the knee To Wealth and Vice in high degree: Exalted Worth disdains to owe Its grandeur to its greatest foe. Now raised on high, see Virtue shows The godlike ends for which he rose; For him, let proud Ambition know The height of glory here below, Grandeur, by goodness made complete! To bless, is truly to be great! He taught how men to honour rise, Like gilded vapours to the skies, Which, howsoever they display Their glory from the god of day, Their noblest use is to abate His dangerous excess of heat, To shield the infant fruits and flowers, And bless the earth with genial showers. Now change the scene; a nobler care Demands him in a higher sphere:[3] Distress of nations calls him hence, Permitted so by Providence; For models, made to mend our kind, To no one clime should be confined; And Manly Virtue, like the sun, His course of glorious toils should run: Alike diffusing in his flight Congenial joy, and life, and light. Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, And Discord in his presence dies; Oppression hides with guilty dread, And Merit rears her drooping head; The arts revive, the valleys sing, And winter softens into spring: The wondering world, where'er he moves, With new delight looks up, and loves; One sex consenting to admire, Nor less the other to desire; While he, though seated on a throne, Confines his love to one alone; The rest condemn'd with rival voice Repining, do applaud his choice. Fame now reports, the Western isle Is made his mansion for a while, Whose anxious natives, night and day, (Happy beneath his righteous sway,) Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer, To bless him, and to keep him there; And claim it as a debt from Fate, Too lately found, to lose him late.

[Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works," vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of Lord Chesterfield."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of age.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, with Denmark, and with the Czar.--_H._]

ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729

As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, Above the door, at country fair, Betokens entertainment there; So bays on poets' brows have been Set, for a sign of wit within. And as ill neighbours in the night Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; The laurel so, by poets worn, Is by the teeth of Envy torn; Envy, a canker-worm, which tears Those sacred leaves that lightning spares. And now, t'exemplify this moral: Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, (Which, measured on his head, was found Not long enough to reach half round, But, like a girl's cockade, was tied, A trophy, on his temple-side,) Paddy repined to see him wear This badge of honour in his hair; And, thinking this cockade of wit Would his own temples better fit, Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, Pelts him by turns with verse and prose Hums like a hornet at his nose. At length presumes to vent his satire on The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron. The eagle in the tale, ye know, Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest Securely in the thunderer's breast: In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, The spiteful insect stung the god.

[Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even from Delany. Hence this poem.--_W. E. B._]

AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1]

Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare, Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat. MART., _Epig._, lib. ix, 22.

Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; When next your generous soul shall condescend T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine: Nor with less praise the conversation guide, Than in the public councils you decide: Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) With soft concessions shortening the dispute; Then close with kind inquiries of my state, "How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, There are not many better in the nation! This, with your other things, must yield you clear Some six--at least five hundred pounds a-year." Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, And, if you please, my lady shall decide. "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; But you'll forgive me, if I own the event Is short, is very short, of your intent: At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, My income less, and my expenses more." "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector! A dignitary! with a city lecture! What glebes--what dues--what tithes--what fines--what rent! Why, doctor!--will you never be content?" "Would my good Lord but cast up the account, And see to what my revenues amount;[2] My titles ample; but my gain so small, That one good vicarage is worth them all: And very wretched, sure, is he that's double In nothing but his titles and his trouble. And to this crying grievance, if you please, My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, Where every step endangers every bone; And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, Two churches--twelve Hibernian miles asunder: With complicated cures, I labour hard in, Beside whole summers absent from--my garden! But that the world would think I play'd the fool, I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3] What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake! There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4] There's not a better steerer in the realm; I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."-- "Doctor--a glorious scheme to ease your grief! When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief. You cannot fail of being happy there, The lake will be the Lethe of your care: The scheme is for your honour and your ease: And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please. Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, And you've enough to gratify them all: You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: And what would a philosopher have more? You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks--" "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books-- Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, Are there no wants I should regard beside? Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? Who can be happy--who should wish to live, And want the godlike happiness to give? That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: I had it once--and I'm debarr'd it now. Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!" "'Tis true--but, doctor, let us wave all that-- Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?" "Excuse me, good my lord--I won't be sounded, Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, (Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)-- My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe-- I'd wish besides--to build and to bestow."

[Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who thought he was too amply provided for.--_Scott._ See the "Vindication," "Prose Works," vii, p. 244.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret," amounted only to £300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, p. 245.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, Esq.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of Erin.--_F._]

[Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the incumbent.--_H._]

AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE

FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD. BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY

As Jove will not attend on less, When things of more importance press: You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, That you, a low Hibernian bard, Should cool your heels a while, and wait Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; And would my lord vouchsafe to grant This one poor humble boon I want, Free leave to play his secretary, As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." And, after several readings over, It shines most in the marble cover. How could so fine a taste dispense With mean degrees of wit and sense? Nor will my lord so far beguile The wise and learned of our isle; To make it pass upon the nation, By dint of his sole approbation. The task is arduous, patrons find, To warp the sense of all mankind: Who think your Muse must first aspire, Ere he advance the doctor higher. You've cause to say he meant you well: That you are thankful, who can tell? For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) Of his intent: you mean your merit. Ah! _quanto rectius, tu adepte, Qui nil moliris tarn inepte_?[2] Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, "When thou thy humble lay dost offer To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: Content with what his bounty gave, No larger income dost thou crave." But you must have cascades, and all Iërne's lake, for your canal, Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] It's pity that he can't bestow you Twelve commoners in caps to row you. Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] Held monarchs labouring at the oar; And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. How different is this from Smedley! (His name is up, he may in bed lie) "Who only asks some pretty cure, In wholesome soil and ether pure: The garden stored with artless flowers, In either angle shady bowers: No gay parterre with costly green Must in the ambient hedge be seen; But Nature freely takes her course, Nor fears from him ungrateful force: No shears to check her sprouting vigour, Or shape the yews to antic figure." But you, forsooth, your all must squander On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; And when you've been at vast expenses In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; Nor farther buildings, farther planting: No wonder, when you raise and level, Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. Here a convenient box you found, Which you demolish'd to the ground: Then built, then took up with your arbour, And set the house to Rupert Barber. You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. You change a circle to a square, Then to a circle as you were: Who can imagine whence the fund is, That you _quadrata_ change _rotundis_? To Fame a temple you erect, A Flora does the dome protect; Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow You place the Muses and Apollo; There shining 'midst his train, to grace Your whimsical poetic place. These stories were of old design'd As fables: but you have refined The poets mythologic dreams, To real Muses, gods, and streams. Who would not swear, when you contrive thus, That you're Don Quixote redivivus? Beneath, a dry canal there lies, Which only Winter's rain supplies. O! couldst thou, by some magic spell, Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6] Here may it reassume its stream, And take a greater Patrick's name! If your expenses rise so high; What income can your wants supply? Yet still you fancy you inherit A fund of such superior merit, That you can't fail of more provision, All by my lady's kind decision. For, the more livings you can fish up, You think you'll sooner be a bishop: That could not be my lord's intent, Nor can it answer the event. Most think what has been heap'd on you To other sort of folk was due: Rewards too great for your flim-flams, Epistles, riddles, epigrams. Though now your depth must not be sounded, The time was, when you'd have compounded For less than Charley Grattan's school! Five hundred pound a-year's no fool! Take this advice then from your friend, To your ambition put an end, Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe, Before you build and you bestow. Be modest, nor address your betters With begging, vain, familiar letters. A passage may be found,[7] I've heard, In some old Greek or Latian bard, Which says, "Would crows in silence eat Their offals, or their better meat, Their generous feeders not provoking By loud and inharmonious croaking, They might, unhurt by Envy's claws, Live on, and stuff to boot their maws."

[Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth,"