Part III

, canto 2, line 407, where persons are mentioned who "Can by their Pangs and _Aches_ find All turns and changes of the wind."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S _Dispensary_.]

[Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the "Miscellanies": "His only coat, where dust confused with rain, Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.]

[Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in "The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition of Pope, 8vo, 1751.--_W. E. B._]

ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK 1710

Whoever pleases to inquire Why yonder steeple wants a spire, The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1] The philosophic cause will show. Once on a time a western blast, At least twelve inches overcast, Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all, Which came with a prodigious fall; And, tumbling topsy-turvy round, Lit with its bottom on the ground: For, by the laws of gravitation, It fell into its proper station. This is the little strutting pile You see just by the churchyard stile; The walls in tumbling gave a knock, And thus the steeple got a shock; From whence the neighbouring farmer calls The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2] The vicar once a-week creeps in, Sits with his knees up to his chin; Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, Till the small ragged flock is met. A traveller, who by did pass, Observed the roof behind the grass; On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, And saw the parson creeping out: Was much surprised to see a crow Venture to build his nest so low. A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought The crib was down, the blackbird caught. A third, who lost his way by night, Was forced for safety to alight, And, stepping o'er the fabric roof, His horse had like to spoil his hoof. Warburton[3] took it in his noddle, This building was design'd a model; Or of a pigeon-house or oven, To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in. Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict, And every one was pleased that heard it; All that you make this stir about Is but a still which wants a spout. The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd More probably than all the rest; He said, but that it wanted room, It might have been a pigmy's tomb. The doctor's family came by, And little miss began to cry, Give me that house in my own hand! Then madam bade the chariot stand, Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, Pray, reach that thing here to the child: That thing, I mean, among the kale; And here's to buy a pot of ale. The clerk said to her in a heat, What! sell my master's country seat, Where he comes every week from town! He would not sell it for a crown. Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother; In half an hour thou'lt make another. Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss A finer house ten times than this; The dean will give me willow sticks, And Joe my apron-full of bricks.

[Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, for venerable white locks.--_Scott_. He had a claim on the Irish Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire for a collector's place.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.]

[Footnote 4: Stella.]

[Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.]

[Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.]

A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1]

_Scene, the Royal Exchange_

CORYDON

Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, While other girls confess the genial spring, And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, And throw each useless chafing-dish away; Why sits my Phillis discontented here, Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play?

PHILLIS

Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; Then how you swore, how many vows you made! Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, Waft the soft accents to the gods above. Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame.

CORYDON

When I forget the favour you bestow'd, Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road: Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, And mass be sung where operas are seen. The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum.

PHILLIS

But what to me does all that love avail, If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, Each night with wine and wenches you regale? My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, And with shrill voice invite them as they go. Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine, And unregarded wave upon the twine. The week flies round, and when my profit's known, I hardly clear enough to change a crown.

CORYDON

Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, And ruddy peaches them; as first in place Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, And ice on that: so Phillis does appear In playhouse and in Park, above the rest Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest.

PHILLIS

And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, And views me hourly with a scornful eye.

CORYDON

She might as well with bright Cleora vie.

PHILLIS

With this large petticoat I strive in vain To hide my folly past, and coming pain; 'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, Observe the symptoms I had once before: A second babe at Wapping must be placed, When I scarce bear the charges of the last.

CORYDON

What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, Five shillings, and a coral for his gums; To-morrow I intend him something more.

PHILLIS

I sent a frock and pair of shoes before.

CORYDON

However, you shall home with me to-night, Forget your cares, and revel in delight, I have in store a pint or two of wine, Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine.

And now on either side, and all around, The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, And ties her hood, preparing to be gone.

L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T.

[Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals," and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."--_Scott_.]

A CONFERENCE

BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1]

CHARIOT

My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;-- Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together.

CHAIR

By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry. By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; He that makes love to me, must make it in French. Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit? Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix: Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat. Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat, And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat. You may think that you make a figure most shining, But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining. Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry, To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry? If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to.

CHARIOT

Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; Is it your French breeding has made you so pert? Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: Who is it that values your ---- or your fox? Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed His bloody red hand to her bloody red head. You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; And although it may pass for gold on a ninny, Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea. Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket. I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; Your velvet was wore before in a mant, On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,-- The fire she carries hath changed its colour. Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare. We know how your lady was on you befriended; You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; She is two or three years above being out. Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour On one he can't hope of e'er making _bigger_.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery." See, _post_, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."--_W. E. B._]

TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1] OCTOBER 31, 1713

Among the numbers who employ Their tongues and pens to give you joy, Dear Harley! generous youth, admit What friendship dictates more than wit. Forgive me, when I fondly thought (By frequent observations taught) A spirit so inform'd as yours Could never prosper in amours. The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, With all acquired and natural parts, Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, Was an unfortunate gallant. Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, The nymph had soon been brought to yield; Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; For such is all the sex's flight, They fly from learning, wit, and light; They fly, and none can overtake But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. How then, dear Harley, could I guess That you should meet, in love, success? For, if those ancient tales be true, Phoebus was beautiful as you; Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, For wit and learning spoil'd his face. And since the same resemblance held In gifts wherein you both excell'd, I fancied every nymph would run From you, as from Latona's son. Then where, said I, shall Harley find A virgin of superior mind, With wit and virtue to discover, And pay the merit of her lover? This character shall Ca'endish claim, Born to retrieve her sex's fame. The chief among the glittering crowd, Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, (As fools are insolent and vain) Madly aspired to wear her chain; But Pallas, guardian of the maid, Descending to her charge's aid, Held out Medusa's snaky locks, Which stupified them all to stocks. The nymph with indignation view'd The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; For Pallas, with celestial light, Had purified her mortal sight; Show'd her the virtues all combined, Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, Display their various nets for hearts: Their looks are all by method set, When to be prude, and when coquette; Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, Their only pride is to refuse. But, when a goddess would bestow Her love on some bright youth below, Round all the earth she casts her eyes; And then, descending from the skies, Makes choice of him she fancies best, And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. Thus the bright empress of the morn[3] Chose for her spouse a mortal born: The goddess made advances first; Else what aspiring hero durst? Though, like a virgin of fifteen, She blushes when by mortals seen; Still blushes, and with speed retires, When Sol pursues her with his fires. Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen Struck with Endymion's graceful mien Down from her silver chariot came, And to the shepherd own'd her flame. Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, And chaster than the Queen of Night Descended from her sphere to find A mortal of superior kind.

[Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven; hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.--_W. E. B._]

PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716

Desponding Phyllis was endu'd With ev'ry talent of a prude: She trembled when a man drew near; Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: If o'er against her you were placed, She durst not look above your waist: She'd rather take you to her bed, Than let you see her dress her head; In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, Repeat the absolution loud: In church, secure behind her fan, She durst behold that monster man: There practis'd how to place her head, And bite her lips to make them red; Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling. And heave her bosom unaware, For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare. At length a lucky lover came, And found admittance to the dame, Suppose all parties now agreed, The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, The vicar and the ring bespoke: Guess, how could such a match be broke? See then what mortals place their bliss in! Next morn betimes the bride was missing: The mother scream'd, the father chid; Where can this idle wench be hid? No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; Because her father used to say, The girl had such a bashful way! Now John the butler must be sent To learn the road that Phyllis went: The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; For John must neither light nor stop, But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, And bring her back alive or dead. See here again the devil to do! For truly John was missing too: The horse and pillion both were gone! Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John. Old Madam, who went up to find What papers Phyl had left behind, A letter on the toilet sees, "To my much honour'd father--these--" ('Tis always done, romances tell us, When daughters run away with fellows,) Fill'd with the choicest common-places, By others used in the like cases. "That long ago a fortune-teller Exactly said what now befell her; And in a glass had made her see A serving-man of low degree. It was her fate, must be forgiven; For marriages were made in Heaven: His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, She'd do't if 'twere to do again: Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin; For John was come of honest kin. Love never thinks of rich and poor; She'd beg with John from door to door. Forgive her, if it be a crime; She'll never do't another time. She ne'er before in all her life Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife." One argument she summ'd up all in, "The thing was done and past recalling; And therefore hoped she should recover His favour when his passion's over. She valued not what others thought her, And was--his most obedient daughter." Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: Away they rode in homely sort, Their journey long, their money short; The loving couple well bemir'd; The horse and both the riders tir'd: Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; Phyl cried! and John began to curse: Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, When first she ventured out with him; John wish'd that he had broke a leg, When first for her he quitted Peg. But what adventures more befell 'em, The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd: How oft she broke her marriage vows, In kindness to maintain her spouse, Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; For now the surgeon must be paid, To whom those perquisites are gone, In Christian justice due to John. When food and raiment now grew scarce, Fate put a period to the farce, And with exact poetic justice; For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore.

[Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.--_Swift_.]

HORACE,