Part 23

Ridway robb’d Duncote of three hundred pounds; Ridway was taken and condemned to die: But for his money was a courtier found, Begged Ridway’s pardon: Duncote now doth cry, Robbed both of money and the law’s relief, The courtier is become the greater thief.

_On Suicide: from_ MARTIAL. BY MR. SEWELL.

When all the blandishments of life are gone, The coward creeps to death, the brave lives on.

_A Dialogue between two very bad Poets._ BY MR. CONCANEN.

Says Richard[5] to Joe,[6] thou’rt a very sad dog, And thou canst write verses no more than a log; Says Joseph to Dick, prithee, ring-rhyme, get hence: Sure my verse, at least, is as good as thy sense. Was e’er such a contest recorded in song? The one’s in the right, and the other’s not wrong.

[5] Savage.

[6] Mitchel.

_To a Painter drawing a Lady’s Picture._ BY MR. DENNIS.

He[7] who great Jove’s artillery aped so well, By real thunder and true lightning fell; How then durst thou, with equal danger try To counterfeit the lightning of her eye? Painter, desist; or soon the event will prove That Love’s as jealous of his arms as Jove.

[7] Salmoneus.

_The Choice._

Too conscious of her worth, a noble maid Baulked many a lover, and her mind out-strayed, While yet a peer, less doubting than the rest, Defied her coldness, and attacked her breast. A spaniel whelp, and spaniel lord, declare Their vows to serve, and hope to please the fair; The cautious nymph, still fearing a trepan, Their fortune, wit, and worth, did nicely scan; Then, as the reason of the case is clear, Embraced the puppy, and dismissed the peer.

_On a certain Writer._

Half of your book is to an index grown; You give your book contents, your readers none.

_On a Flower painted by_ VARELST. BY MR. PRIOR.

When famed Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafed the growing work to view; Finding the painter’s science at a stand, The goddess snatched the pencil from his hand, And, finishing the piece, she smiling said, Behold one work of mine, which ne’er shall fade.

_An Epitaph on Little Stephen, a noted Fiddler in the County of Suffolk._

Stephen and Time Are now both even; Stephen beat Time, Now Time beats Stephen.

_On Giles and Joan._

Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be? The observing neighbours no such mood can see; Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever, But that his Joan doth too: and Giles would never, By his free will, be in Joan’s company; No more would Joan he should: Giles riseth early, And having got him out of doors is glad; The like is Joan: but turning home is sad; And so is Joan: oft-times when Giles doth find Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind; All this doth Joan; or, that his long-earned life Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife: In all affections she concurreth still; If now with man and wife to will and nill The self same things, a note of concord be, I know no couple better can agree.

_To a Sempstress._

Oh, what bosom but must yield, When, like Pallas, you advance, With a thimble for your shield, And a needle for your lance! Fairest of the stitching train, Ease my passion by your art; And in pity to my pain, Mend the hole that’s in my heart.

_On a Certain Poet._

Thy verses are eternal, O my friend! For he who reads them, reads them to no end.

_A Distich, written under the sign of the King’s Head and Bell in Dublin, at the host’s request._

BY DEAN SWIFT.

May the king live long; Dong, ding, ding, dong.

_On seeing a Miser at Vauxhall Gardens._

Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To calm the tyrant, and relieve the opprest: But Vauxhall’s concert’s more attracting power Unlocked Sir Richard’s pocket at threescore: Oh! strange effect of music’s matchless force, To attract a shilling from a miser’s purse!

_To a Lady who had very bad teeth._

Ovid, who bids the ladies laugh, Spoke only to the young and fair; For thee his counsel were not safe, Who of sound teeth have scarce a pair.

If thou the glass or me believe, Shun mirth, as foplings do the wind; At Cibber’s face affect to grieve, And let thy eyes alone be kind.

If thou art wise see dismal plays, And to sad stories lend thy ear; With the afflicted spend thy days, And laugh not above once a year.

_On an old Maid’s Marriage._

Celia, a coquet in her prime, The vainest, ficklest thing alive; Behold the strange effects of time! Marries and doats at forty-five.

Thus weathercocks, that for awhile Have turned about with every blast, Grown old, and destitute of oil, Rust to a point, and fix at last.

_A Cure for Love._

Of two reliefs to cure a love-sick mind, Flavia prescribes despair; I urge, be kind; Flavia, be kind: the remedy’s as sure; ’Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest cure.

_Under the Picture of a Beau._

This vain thing set up for a man, But see what fate attends him; The powdering barber first began, The barber-surgeon ends him.

_On a Gentleman drinking the Health of an unkind Mistress._

Why dost thou wish that she may live, Whose living beauties make thee grieve! Thou wouldst more wisely wish her kind, That she may change her cruel mind; Thy present wish but this can gain, That she may live, and thou complain.

_On a Prize-Fighter._

His thrusts like lightning flew, yet subtle death Parried them all, and beat him out of breath.

_The Penance._

When Phillis confessed, the father was rash, And so, without further reflection, Her delicate skin he condemned to the lash, While himself would bestow the correction. Her husband, who heard this, opposed it by urging, That he, in regard to her weakness, And to save her soft back, would himself bear the scourging With humble submission and meekness. She piously cried, when the priest gave accord, To show what devotion was in her, He’s able and lusty, pray cheat not the Lord, For, alas! I’m a very great sinner.

_On a Gentleman who died the day after his Lady._

She first departed; he for one day tried To live without her: liked it not, and died.

_On a Welchman._

A Welchman coming late into an inn, Asked the maid what meat there was within? Cow-heels, she answered, and a breast of mutton; But, quoth the Welchman, since I am no glutton, Either of these shall serve: to-night the breast, The heels i’ th’ morning, then light meat is best; At night he took the breast and did not pay, I’ th’ morning took his heels, and ran away.

_The Fate of Poets._

Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead, Through which the living Homer begged his bread.

_On an old Woman with false Hair._

The golden hair that Galla wears Is hers: who would have thought it! She swears ’tis hers,―and true she swears; For I know where she bought it.

_On another old Woman._ BY MR. PRIOR.

From her own native France, as old Alison past, She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice; That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste, Her lady’s complexion and eye-brows at Calais.

_An Epitaph._

Here lies honest Strephon with Mary his bride, Who merrily lived and cheerfully died; They laughed and they loved, and drank while they were able, But now they are forced to knock under the table. This marble, which formerly served them to drink on, Now covers their bodies,―and sad thing to think on!― That do what one can to moisten our clay, ’Twill one day be ashes, and moulder away.

_On an ugly old Woman in the Dark._ FROM MARTIAL.

Whilst in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue; What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured! But, when the candle entered, I was cured.

_On a beautiful and ingenious young Lady._

Minerva, one day, pray let nobody doubt it, Rid an airing from Oxford six miles, or about it, Where she ’spied a young damsel so blooming and fair, That, ah, Venus! she cried, is your ladyship there? Pray is not yon Oxford?―and lately you sware, Neither you, nor aught like you, should ever come there: Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defied? The virgin drew near her, and, smiling replied, ―My goddess! what have you your pupil forgot? ―Your pardon, my dear,―Is it you, Molly Scot?

_To a Lady who married her Footman._ COLONEL P―.

Dear cousin, think it no reproach, (Thy virtue shines the more,) To take black John into the coach He rode behind before.

_On stealing a Pound of Candles._

Light-fingered Catch, to keep his hand in ure, Stole anything; of this you may be sure, That he thinks all his own which once he handles, For practice-sake did steal a pound of candles; Was taken in the fact: Oh, foolish wight! To steal such things as needs must come to light.

_On a very plain Lady, that patched much._

Your homely face, Flippanta, you disguise, With patches, numerous as Argus’ eyes; I own that patching’s requisite to you, For more we are pleased, if less your face we view; Yet I advise, if my advice you’d ask, Wear but one patch; but be that patch a mask.

_The Dart._

Whene’er I look, I may descry A little face peep through that eye; Sure that’s the boy, who wisely chose His throne among such beams as those, Which, if his quiver chance to fall, May serve for darts to kill withal.

_To L―, the Miser._

When thou art asked to sup abroad, Thou swear’st thou hast but newly dined; That eating late does over-load The stomach and the mind.

Then thou wilt drink ’till every star Be swallowed by the rising sun; Such charms hath wine we pay not for, And mirth at others’ charge begun.

Who shuns his club, yet flies to every treat, Does not a supper, but a reck’ning hate.

_On Jealousy._ BY A LADY.

Oh! shield me from his rage, celestial powers, This tyrant that embitters all my hours. Ah, love, you’ve poorly played the monarch’s part, You conquered, but you can’t defend my heart. So blessed was I, throughout the happy reign, I thought this monster banished from thy train; But you would raise him to support your throne, And now he claims your empire as his own: Or tell me, tyrants, have you both agreed, There where one reigns, the other shall succeed?

_On Julia’s throwing a Snow-Ball._

Julia, young wanton, flung the gathered snow, Nor feared I burning from the watery blow: ’Tis cold, I cried; but, ah! too soon I found, Sent by that hand, it dealt a scorching wound. Resistless fair! we fly thy power in vain, Who turn’st to fiery darts the frozen rain. Burn, Julia, burn like me, and that desire With water which thou kindlest quench with fire.

_To Zelinda._

The poet and the painter safely dare To form an image of the proudest fair: Your brighter charms, by lavish nature wrought, Transcend the painter’s skill, the poet’s thought.

_Occasioned by seeing some verses on Cælia, written on a pane of Glass._

Well hast thou drawn, fond youth, in properest place, The short-lived beauties of false Cælia’s face. When words’ obscurities thy sense o’er-shade, The place gives light to what thou wouldst have said. Bright as this lucid glass her eyes now seem, Like this, breathed on by fell disease, grown dim. Like glass is every strongest vow she makes, Brittle as that, as easily she breaks; Such is her honour. Short her fame, we find, Which cracked, must perish by the first high wind.

_On a Riding-House turned into a Chapel._ BY MR. FARQUHAR.

A chapel of a riding-house is made, Thus we once more see Christ in manger laid, Where still we find the jockey trade supplied, The laymen bridled, and the clergy ride.

_On Chloe._

Here Chloe lies, Whose once bright eyes Set all the world on fire: And not to be Ungrateful, she Did all the world admire.

_Written extempore, on the Duke of Devonshire’s House at Chatsworth._

Qualiter in mediis quam non speraverat urbem, Attonitus, Venetam navita cernit aquis; Sic improviso emergens et montibus imis, Attollis sese Devoniana Domus.

_And thus translated by_ COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.

Not sailors view with more astonished eyes, In open seas Venetian towers arise, Than from the mountains strangers, with delight, See unexpected Chatsworth charm the sight.

* * * * *

George came to the crown without striking a blow: Ah! quoth the Pretender, would I could do so.

_On the Clare-market and other Orators._

To wonder now at Balaam’s ass, is weak: Is there a day that asses do not speak?

_The Numskull._

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there’s nobody at home.

_Sylvia._

Sylvia makes a sad complaint she has lost her lover; Why nothing strange I in that news discover. Nay, then thou’rt dull; for here the wonder lies, She had a lover once!―Don’t that surprise?

_On a Painter, who stabbed a man fastened to a Cross, that he might draw the picture of the Crucifixion more naturally._

While his Redeemer on his canvas dies, Stabbed at his feet his brother weltering lies. The daring artist, cruelly serene. Views the pale cheek, and the distorted mien; He drains off life by drops, and deaf to cries, Examines every spirit as it flies; He studies torment, dives in mortal woe, To rouse up every pang repeats his blow; Each rising agony, each dreadful grace, Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour’s face. Oh, glorious theft! O nobly wicked draught! With its full charge of death each feature fraught! Such wondrous force the magic colours boast, From his own skill he starts, in horror lost.

_On a handsome Idiot._ BY MR. CONGREVE.

When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air, I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, As bold as his who snatched celestial fire; But soon as e’er the beauteous idiot spoke, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke, Like balm the trickling nonsense healed my wound, And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound.

_On a dumb Boy, very beautiful, and of great quickness of parts._

WRITTEN BY A LADY.

I sing the boy, who, gagged and bound, Has been by nature robbed of sound; Yet has she found a generous way, One loss by many gifts to pay. His voice, indeed, she close confined, But blest him with a speaking mind; And every muscle of his face Discourses with peculiar grace: The ladies tattling o’er their tea, Might learn to charm by copying thee. If silence thus can man become, All women beauties would be dumb. Then, happy boy, no more complain, Nor think thy loss of speech a pain: Nature has used thee like good liquor, And corked thee but to make thee quicker.

_Written on the Chamber Door of King Charles II._

BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

Here lies the mutton-eating king, Whose word no man relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.

_Mankind Punished._

The crimes of men began to grow so great, That how to punish justly puzzled Fate; Heaven sighed at last, that to his sons so dear A punishment’s decreed, and so severe: Go, says eternal justice, hell-hounds, go, And execute my dread commands below; Fix your rapacious claws on every door, Despoil the rich, and poorer make the poor; Pity not age, add to his weight of years, And fill the wretched widow’s eyes with tears; Disturb their sleep, and poison every dish, Nor let them taste, without a doubt, a wish: The judge supreme, who each effect foresaw, Cried, Havock, and let loose the dogs of law.

_To a young Gentleman who loved to drive hard with a sorry pair of Horses._

BY MR. PRIOR.

Thy nags, the leanest things alive, So very hard thou lov’st to drive, I heard thy anxious coachman say It cost thee more in whips than hay.

_Solid Worth in a Wife._

When Loveless married Lady Jenny, Whose beauty was the ready penny; I chose her, said he, like old plate, Not for the fashion, but the weight.

_Epitaph on a Miser._

Reader, beware immoderate love of pelf: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robbed himself.

_On a crooked Woman._

Nature in pity has denied you shape, Else how should mortals Flavia’s chain escape? Your radiant aspect, and your rosy bloom, Without this form would bring a general doom: At once our ruin and relief we see, At sight are captives, and at sight are free.

_Phillis’s Age._

How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task; For she really has two ages.

Stiff in brocade, and pinched in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let Envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one.

Paint, patches, jewels, laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied. And Phillis is full forty-three.

_On Timothy Mum, a Tapster._

Here Tim the tapster lies, who drew good beer, But now, drawn to his end, he draws no more; Yes, still he draws from every friend a tear, Water he draws, who drew good beer before.

_On seeing an engraved Portrait of the late Dr. Cheyne ill done._

Nature and Vandergutch in this agree, Unfinished she has left him, so has he.

_On the death of Mary, Countess of Pembroke._

Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother: Death, ere thou hast killed another, Fair, and learned, good as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee.

_To a bad Fiddler._

Old Orpheus played so well he moved old Nick, Whilst thou mov’st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.

_Written on a Glass with the Earl of Chesterfield’s diamond pencil._

Accept a miracle instead of wit; See two dull lines by Stanhope’s pencil writ.

_The real Affliction._

Doris, a widow, past her prime, Her spouse long dead, her wailing doubles; Her real griefs increase by time, And what abates, improves her troubles. Those pangs her prudent hopes suppressed, Impatient now she cannot smother: How should the helpless woman rest? One’s gone―nor can she get another.

_To an old Woman who used Paint._

Leave off thy paint, perfumes, and youthful dress, And nature’s failing honestly confess; Double we see those faults which art would mend, Plain downright ugliness would less offend.

_To Flirtilla._

In church, the prayer-book and the fan displayed, And the solemn curtesies, show the wily maid; At plays, the leering looks, and wanton airs, And nods, and smiles, are fondly meant for snares. Alas! vain charmer, you no lovers get; There you seem hypocrite, and here coquet.

_On a picture of Mrs. Arabella Hunt, drawn playing on a lute, after her death._

Were there on earth another voice like thine, Another hand so blessed with skill divine, The late afflicted world some hopes might have, And harmony retrieve thee from the grave.

_On a Bursar of a certain college in Oxford cutting down the Trees near the said college for his own use._

Indulgent nature to each creature shows A secret instinct to discern its foes: The goose, a silly bird, avoids the fox; Lambs fly from wolves, and sailors steer from rocks; The thief the gallows, as his fate foresees, And bears the like antipathy to trees.

_On the death of Mrs. B―, who died soon after her marriage._

Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless’d, Three months of rapture crowned with endless rest. Merit like yours was heaven’s peculiar care, You loved,―yet tasted happiness sincere. To you the sweets of love were only shown; The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown; You had not yet the fatal change deplored, The tender lover for the imperious lord; Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings, Nor wept the coldness from possession sprung: Above your sex distinguished in your fate, You trusted―yet experienced no deceit. Soft were your hours, and winged with pleasures flew, No vain repentance gave a sigh to you; And if superior bliss heaven can bestow, With fellow angels you enjoy it now.

_The Emperor Adrian’s Death-bed Verses to his Soul imitated._

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing To take thy flight the Lord knows whither?

Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, Lie all neglected, all forgot; And pensive, wavering, melancholy, Thou dread’st and hopest thou know’st not what.

_To Celia, with a Snuff-box, having a Looking-Glass in the Lid._

Let others Venus and the Graces place, Or Cupid, god of love, these toys to grace; Deign, charmer, but to cast those sparkling eyes On this fair mirror, lo! with glad surprise, A fairer form than Venus shall arise. Smile but my fair, and view ten thousand loves, Cheerful as light, and soft as cooing doves: Beauty and love with thee for ever stay, Soon as thou closest the lid both fly away.

_To Oliver Cromwell._

A peaceful sway the great Augustus bore; O’er what great Julius gained by arms before; Julius was all with martial trophies crowned; Augustus for his peaceful arts renowned: Rome calls them great, and makes them deities; That, for his valour; this, his policies: You, mighty prince, than both are greater far, Who rule in peace that world you gained in war; You sure from heaven a finished hero fell, Who thus alone two Pagan Gods excel.

_Inscription for a Fountain, adorned with Queen Anne’s and the late Duke of Marlborough’s Images, and the chief Rivers of the World round the work._

Ye active streams! where’er your waters flow, Let distant climes and farthest nations know, What ye from Thames and Danube have been taught, How Anne commanded and how Marlborough fought.

_On Blood’s stealing the Crown._

When daring Blood, his rent to have regained, Upon the English diadem distrained; He chose the cassock, surcingle, and gown, The fittest mark for one who robs the crown: But his Lay Pity underneath prevailed, And while he saved the keeper’s life, he failed. With the priest’s vestment, had he but put on The prelate’s cruelty, the crown had gone.

_A Declaration of Love._

You I love, nor think I joke, More than ivy does the oak; More than fishes do the flood; More than savage beasts the wood; More than merchants do their gain; More than misers to complain; More than widows do their weeds; More than friars do their beads; More than Cynthia to be praised; More than courtiers to be raised; More than lawyers do the bar; More than ’prentice boys a fair; More than topers t’other bottle; More than women tittle-tattle; More than jailors do a fee; More than all things I love thee.

_Written in the ‘Nouveaux Intérêts des Princes de l’Europe.’_

Blest be the princes who have fought For pompous names, or wide dominion; Since by their error we are taught, That happiness is but opinion.

_On Snuff._

Jove once resolved, the females to degrade, To propagate their sex without their aid; His brain conceived, and soon the pangs and throes He felt, nor could th’ unnatural birth disclose; At last, when tried, no remedy would do, The god took snuff, and out the goddess flew.

_On a Fan, in which was painted the story of Cephalus and Procris, with this motto_, Aura veni.