Chapter 1

"A bold virago, stout and tall, As Joan of France, or English Mall." The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii, 239.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.--_Dublin Edition_.]

THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE 1708

When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play, And call'd to take the cards away, Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, How Miss pick'd every painted card, And, busy both with hand and eye, Soon rear'd a house two stories high. Van's genius, without thought or lecture Is hugely turn'd to architecture: He view'd the edifice, and smiled, Vow'd it was pretty for a child: It was so perfect in its kind, He kept the model in his mind. But, when he found the boys at play And saw them dabbling in their clay, He stood behind a stall to lurk, And mark the progress of their work; With true delight observed them all Raking up mud to build a wall. The plan he much admired, and took The model in his table-book: Thought himself now exactly skill'd, And so resolved a house to build: A real house, with rooms and stairs, Five times at least as big as theirs; Taller than Miss's by two yards; Not a sham thing of play or cards: And so he did; for, in a while, He built up such a monstrous pile, That no two chairmen could be found Able to lift it from the ground. Still at Whitehall it stands in view, Just in the place where first it grew; There all the little schoolboys run, Envying to see themselves outdone. From such deep rudiments as these, Van is become, by due degrees, For building famed, and justly reckon'd, At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3] No wonder, since wise authors show, That best foundations must be low: And now the duke has wisely ta'en him To be his architect at Blenheim. But raillery at once apart, If this rule holds in every art; Or if his grace were no more skill'd in The art of battering walls than building, We might expect to see next year A mouse-trap man chief engineer.

[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 51, "The Reverse."--_W, E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De Architectura."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of his majesty's works.--_Scott_.]

A GRUB-STREET ELEGY

ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE THE ALMANACK MAKER.[1] 1708

Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest, Though we all took it for a jest: Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd, Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd. Strange, an astrologer should die Without one wonder in the sky; Not one of all his crony stars To pay their duty at his hearse! No meteor, no eclipse appear'd! No comet with a flaming beard! The sun hath rose and gone to bed, Just as if Partridge were not dead; Nor hid himself behind the moon To make a dreadful night at noon. He at fit periods walks through Aries, Howe'er our earthly motion varies; And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator, As if there had been no such matter. Some wits have wonder'd what analogy There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology; How Partridge made his optics rise From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. A list the cobbler's temples ties, To keep the hair out of his eyes; From whence 'tis plain the diadem That princes wear derives from them; And therefore crowns are now-a-days Adorn'd with golden stars and rays; Which plainly shows the near alliance 'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science. Besides, that slow-paced sign Böötes, As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis; But Partridge ended all disputes; He knew his trade, and call'd it _boots_.[3] The horned moon,[4] which heretofore Upon their shoes the Romans wore, Whose wideness kept their toes from corns, And whence we claim our shoeing-horns, Shows how the art of cobbling bears A near resemblance to the spheres. A scrap of parchment hung by geometry, (A great refiner in barometry,) Can, like the stars, foretell the weather; And what is parchment else but leather? Which an astrologer might use Either for almanacks or shoes. Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts, At once did practise both these arts: And as the boding owl (or rather The bat, because her wings are leather) Steals from her private cell by night, And flies about the candle-light; So learned Partridge could as well Creep in the dark from leathern cell, And in his fancy fly as far To peep upon a twinkling star. Besides, he could confound the spheres, And set the planets by the ears; To show his skill, he Mars could join To Venus in aspect malign; Then call in Mercury for aid, And cure the wounds that Venus made. Great scholars have in Lucian read, When Philip King of Greece was dead His soul and spirit did divide, And each part took a different side; One rose a star; the other fell Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5] Thus Partridge still shines in each art, The cobbling and star-gazing part, And is install'd as good a star As any of the Caesars are. Triumphant star! some pity show On cobblers militant below, Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, Torment by pissing out their lights, Or through a chink convey their smoke, Enclosed artificers to choke. Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, May'st follow still thy calling there. To thee the Bull will lend his hide, By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd; For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, And scrape her pitchy sides for wax: Then Ariadne kindly lends Her braided hair to make thee ends; The points of Sagittarius' dart Turns to an awl by heavenly art; And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, Will forge for thee a paring-knife. For want of room by Virgo's side, She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride, To take thee kindly in between; And then the Signs will be Thirteen.

[Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 _et seq.--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 3: See his Almanack.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver which distinguished the wearer as a senator. "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."--Juvenal, _Sat_. vii, 192; and Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.]

[Footnote 6: "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit." VIRG., _Georg._, i, 34.]

THE EPITAPH

Here, five feet deep, lies on his back A cobbler, starmonger, and quack; Who to the stars, in pure good will, Does to his best look upward still. Weep, all you customers that use His pills, his almanacks, or shoes; And you that did your fortunes seek, Step to his grave but once a-week; This earth, which bears his body's print, You'll find has so much virtue in't, That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell Whate'er concerns you full as well, In physic, stolen goods, or love, As he himself could, when above.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1709, AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER"[1]

Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, And softly stole to discompose her own; The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs, Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2] The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. The turnkey now his flock returning sees, Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3] The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.

[Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes, 1786.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: To find old nails.--_Faulkner_.]

[Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the prison.--_W. E. B._]

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER[1]

WRITTEN IN OCT., 1710; AND FIRST PRINTED IN "THE TATLER," NO. 238

Careful observers may foretell the hour, (By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage; Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3] Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this _devoted_ town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5] Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7] Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.

[Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41: "there never was such a Shower since Danäe's," etc.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost the right pronunciation, have _aches_ as one syllable; and then to complete the metre have foisted in "aches _will_ throb." Thus, what the poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81, edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," 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, BOOK IV, ODE IX ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718

Virtue conceal'd within our breast Is inactivity at best: But never shall the Muse endure To let your virtues lie obscure; Or suffer Envy to conceal Your labours for the public weal. Within your breast all wisdom lies, Either to govern or advise; Your steady soul preserves her frame, In good and evil times, the same. Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, Stand in your sacred presence awed; Your hand alone from gold abstains, Which drags the slavish world in chains. Him for a happy man I own, Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2] And happy he who wisely knows To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; Or, if it please the powers divine, Can suffer want and not repine. The man who infamy to shun Into the arms of death would run; That man is ready to defend, With life, his country or his friend.

[Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, _passim_; and an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: "Non possidentem multa vocaveris recte beatum: rectius occupat nomen beati, qui deorum muneribus sapienter uti duramque callet pauperiem pati, pejusque leto flagitium timet."]

TO MR. DELANY,[1]

OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING

To you whose virtues, I must own With shame, I have too lately known; To you, by art and nature taught To be the man I long have sought, Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, Placed you in life too far behind: Or, what I should repine at more, Placed me in life too far before: To you the Muse this verse bestows, Which might as well have been in prose; No thought, no fancy, no sublime, But simple topics told in rhyme. Three gifts for conversation fit Are humour, raillery, and wit: The last, as boundless as the wind, Is well conceived, though not defined; For, sure by wit is only meant Applying what we first invent. What humour is, not all the tribe Of logic-mongers can describe; Here only nature acts her part, Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: For wit and humour differ quite; That gives surprise, and this delight, Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, Only by affectation spoil'd; 'Tis never by invention got, Men have it when they know it not. Our conversation to refine, True humour must with wit combine: From both we learn to rally well, Wherein French writers most excel; [2]Voiture, in various lights, displays That irony which turns to praise: His genius first found out the rule For an obliging ridicule: He flatters with peculiar air The brave, the witty, and the fair: And fools would fancy he intends A satire where he most commends. But as a poor pretending beau, Because he fain would make a show, Nor can afford to buy gold lace, Takes up with copper in the place: So the pert dunces of mankind, Whene'er they would be thought refined, Because the diff'rence lies abstruse 'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, To show their parts will scold and rail, Like porters o'er a pot of ale. Such is that clan of boisterous bears, Always together by the ears; Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe That meet for nothing but to gibe; Who first run one another down, And then fall foul on all the town; Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, And call'd by excellence The Club. I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, All special friends, and always jar. The mettled and the vicious steed Do not more differ in their breed, Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, As rudeness is to repartee. If what you said I wish unspoke, 'Twill not suffice it was a joke: Reproach not, though in jest, a friend For those defects he cannot mend; His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, If named with scorn, gives just offence. What use in life to make men fret, Part in worse humour than they met? Thus all society is lost, Men laugh at one another's cost: And half the company is teazed That came together to be pleased: For all buffoons have most in view To please themselves by vexing you. When jests are carried on too far, And the loud laugh begins the war, You keep your countenance for shame, Yet still you think your friend to blame; For though men cry they love a jest, 'Tis but when others stand the test; And (would you have their meaning known) They love a jest when 'tis their own. You wonder now to see me write So gravely where the subject's light; Some part of what I here design Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; Who full of humour, fire, and wit, Not always judges what is fit, But loves to take prodigious rounds, And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, You must, although the point be nice, Venture to give him some advice; Few hints from you will set him right, And teach him how to be polite. Bid him like you, observe with care, Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; Nor indiscreetly to suppose All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose. To study the obliging jest, By reading those who teach it best; For prose I recommend Voiture's, For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. He'll find the secret out from thence, To rhyme all day without offence; And I no more shall then accuse The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse. If he be guilty, you must mend him; If he be innocent, defend him.

[Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died 1648.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively party, _post_, p. 137.--_W. E. B_.]

AN ELEGY[1]

ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720

Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound Redeem him from his prison underground. His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know His faithful steward in the shades below. He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: And by his looks, had he held out his palms, He might be thought an object fit for alms. So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself. Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; And under hand and seal, the Irish nation Were forc'd to own to him their obligation. He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, In half a minute is not worth a groat. His coffers from the coffin could not save, Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave. A golden monument would not be right, Because we wish the earth upon him light. Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. Old as he was, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; "[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; And, as he saw his darling money fail, Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." He who so long was current, 'twould be strange If he should now be cry'd down since his change. The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! A dismal banker must that banker be, Who gives no bills but of mortality!

[Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the company.--_C. Walker_.]

[Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.--_F_.]

EPITAPH ON THE SAME

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demar, the wealthy and the wise, His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest; The very chest in which, they say, His other self, his money, lay. And, if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe, that four in five Will think his better self alive.

[Footnote 1: "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd His money bags together sew'd And that he might securely rest," Variation--From the Chetwode MS.--_W. E. B_.]

TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT

You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him, because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S

Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request! Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, Instead of the deans, make the deanery double.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St. Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his hospitality. See Journal to Stella, _passim_, "Prose Works," vol. ii--_W. E. B._]

ON ANOTHER WINDOW[1]

A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd, Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed, Found out a new method at once of confessing, And making the most of so mighty a blessing: To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse, By making his patron preside in his house; And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense; So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine.

[Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as appears from the verses which follow.--_Scott_.]

APOLLO TO THE DEAN.[1] 1720

Right Trusty, and so forth--we let you know We are very ill used by you mortals below. For, first, I have often by chemists been told, (Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold; Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it, That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it. Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine, I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine; To me the good fellows apply for relief, Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef: Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards. That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think, And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink. But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd, I alone can inspire the poetical crowd: This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College, Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge. This every pretender in rhyme will admit, Without troubling his head about judgment or wit. These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom, And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em. They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls, And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls. But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany, Whom I for your sake have used better than any, And, of my mere motion, and special good grace, Intended in time to succeed in your place, On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came, With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name, To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass, Where for fear of the cold I never can pass, Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil, Of value five shillings, in English a pencil, Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write, While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light. My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath, That she stopt in her course to look at them both; That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding; And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading: That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day, But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey: And by the description, I certainly know, 'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago; Whom when I with the best of my talents endued, On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude: That some verses were writ with felonious intent, Direct to the North, where I never once went: That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane, But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again; Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4] And presently guessed the fancy was mine. She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen At night between Cavan Street and College Green. Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown, The reason is plain, they are none of his own; And observe while you live that no man is shy To discover the goods he came honestly by. If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it, And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it. Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark, There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark; And let them be seen by the world if he dare, I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware. But as for the poem he writ on your sash, I think I have now got him under my lash; My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow, And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow. Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread In all parts of the globe where your language is read. He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal, When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual: But the secret is this; I did lately intend To write a few verses on you as my friend: I studied a fortnight, before I could find, As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind, And resolved the next winter (for that is my time, When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme; Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus; When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us, Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick (For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,) And from my own stock provided with topics, He gets to a window beyond both the tropics, There out of my sight, just against the north zone, Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own; And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow: Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo? High treason by statute! yet here you object, He only stole hints, but the verse is correct; Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd; So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd. Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance, We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence. Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire, To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire; We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen, To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. And we order our subjects of every degree To believe all his verses were written by me: And under the pain of our highest displeasure, To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure. And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime, I'm too much revenged already by Time, In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases, But will now be her friend whenever she pleases. And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over.

[Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also with the copy transcribed by Stella.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 3: Diana.]

[Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran: "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line And found by the wit the Fancy was mine For none of his poems were ever yet shown Which he in his conscience could claim for his own." _Forster_.]

NEWS FROM PARNASSUS BY DR. DELANY

OCCASIONED BY "APOLLO TO THE DEAN" 1720

Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh. The poets assembled here on the eleventh, Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below; But declared that no bard should this honour inherit, Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit: Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case, For each bard believed he'd a right to the place; So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate, He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate: 'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose, Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose; Till at length he determined that every bard Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard. First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1] Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration: "Since the soul of great Milton was given to me, I hope the convention will quickly agree."-- "Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool? Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school? Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time, And given in return neither reason nor rhyme." To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you, I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you: Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd, Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd; That at my instigation, a poem you writ, Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit; That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice, Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice. Jove sent her to me, her power to try; The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny? She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire. Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher." The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding, For he merited much for his wit and his breeding. 'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him, He else might expect they should pay what they owe him. And therefore they prudently chose to discard The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward: The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance, "You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France: You bend your ambition to rise in the state; I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great." Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3] "The convention allows me a versificator." Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit; By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit. I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth, The greatest objection against you's your youth; Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside; If you live you shall certainly one day preside." Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets, "'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4] You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before; But give me the bard that can teach them to soar. Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess, Who lately attempted my style with success; Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit, And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit: Who makes it appear, by all he has writ, His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit; Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease, But excels even Virgil in elegant praise: Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due Yet writes in a manner entirely new; Though none with more ease their depths can explore, Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store; Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see, In scorning to borrow from any but me: It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays. This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift: The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No. 66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into blank verse.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a "formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a "pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and "Odyssey."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."--_N_.]

[Footnote 5: Diana.]

APOLLO'S EDICT OCCASIONED BY "NEWS FROM PARNASSUS"

Ireland is now our royal care, We lately fix'd our viceroy there. How near was she to be undone, Till pious love inspired her son! What cannot our vicegerent do, As poet and as patriot too? Let his success our subjects sway, Our inspirations to obey, And follow where he leads the way: Then study to correct your taste; Nor beaten paths be longer traced. No simile shall be begun, With rising or with setting sun; And let the secret head of Nile Be ever banish'd from your isle. When wretched lovers live on air, I beg you'll the chameleon spare; And when you'd make a hero grander, Forget he's like a salamander.[1] No son of mine shall dare to say, Aurora usher'd in the day, Or ever name the milky-way. You all agree, I make no doubt, Elijah's mantle is worn out. The bird of Jove shall toil no more To teach the humble wren to soar. Your tragic heroes shall not rant, Nor shepherds use poetic cant. Simplicity alone can grace The manners of the rural race. Theocritus and Philips be Your guides to true simplicity. When Damon's soul shall take its flight, Though poets have the second-sight, They shall not see a trail of light. Nor shall the vapours upwards rise, Nor a new star adorn the skies: For who can hope to place one there, As glorious as Belinda's hair? Yet, if his name you'd eternize, And must exalt him to the skies; Without a star this may be done: So Tickell mourn'd his Addison. If Anna's happy reign you praise, Pray, not a word of halcyon days: Nor let my votaries show their skill In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2] For know I cannot bear to hear The mimicry of "deep, yet clear." Whene'er my viceroy is address'd, Against the phoenix I protest. When poets soar in youthful strains, No Phaethon to hold the reins. When you describe a lovely girl, No lips of coral, teeth of pearl. Cupid shall ne'er mistake another, However beauteous, for his mother; Nor shall his darts at random fly From magazine in Celia's eye. With woman compounds I am cloy'd, Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3] For foreign aid what need they roam, Whom fate has amply blest at home? Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand, Has form'd a model for your land, Whom Jove endued with every grace; The glory of the Granard race; Now destined by the powers divine The blessing of another line. Then, would you paint a matchless dame, Whom you'd consign to endless fame? Invoke not Cytherea's aid, Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; Nor need you on the Graces call; Take qualities from Donegal.[4]

[Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," _ante_, p. 46.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.]

[Footnote 3: _Ante_, p. 50.]

[Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.--_Scott_.]

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST

Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he executed the following very spirited translation.--_W. E. B._

TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720

O'ROURKE'S noble fare Will ne'er be forgot, By those who were there, Or those who were not.

His revels to keep, We sup and we dine On seven score sheep, Fat bullocks, and swine.

Usquebaugh to our feast In pails was brought up, A hundred at least, And a madder[1] our cup.

O there is the sport! We rise with the light In disorderly sort, From snoring all night.

O how was I trick'd! My pipe it was broke, My pocket was pick'd, I lost my new cloak.

I'm rifled, quoth Nell, Of mantle and kercher,[2] Why then fare them well, The de'el take the searcher.

Come, harper, strike up; But, first, by your favour, Boy, give us a cup: Ah! this hath some savour.

O'Rourke's jolly boys Ne'er dreamt of the matter, Till, roused by the noise, And musical clatter,

They bounce from their nest, No longer will tarry, They rise ready drest, Without one Ave-Mary.

They dance in a round, Cutting capers and ramping; A mercy the ground Did not burst with their stamping.

The floor is all wet With leaps and with jumps, While the water and sweat Splish-splash in their pumps.

Bless you late and early, Laughlin O'Enagin![3] But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely. Margery Grinagin.[5]

Bring straw for our bed, Shake it down to the feet, Then over us spread The winnowing sheet.

To show I don't flinch, Fill the bowl up again: Then give us a pinch Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6]

Good lord! what a sight, After all their good cheer, For people to fight In the midst of their beer!

They rise from their feast, And hot are their brains, A cubit at least The length of their skeans.[7]

What stabs and what cuts, What clattering of sticks; What strokes on the guts, What bastings and kicks!

With cudgels of oak, Well harden'd in flame, A hundred heads broke, A hundred struck lame.

You churl, I'll maintain My father built Lusk, The castle of Slane, And Carrick Drumrusk:

The Earl of Kildare, And Moynalta his brother, As great as they are, I was nurst by their mother.[8]

Ask that of old madam: She'll tell you who's who, As far up as Adam, She knows it is true.

Come down with that beam, If cudgels are scarce, A blow on the weam, Or a kick on the a----se.

[Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the women.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: An Irish oath.--_F_.]

[Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.--_F_.]

[Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.--_F_.]

[Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,--_F_.]

[Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.--_F_.]

THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1719[1]

When first Diana leaves her bed, Vapours and steams her looks disgrace, A frowzy dirty-colour'd red Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:

But by degrees, when mounted high, Her artificial face appears Down from her window in the sky, Her spots are gone, her visage clears.

'Twixt earthly females and the moon, All parallels exactly run; If Celia should appear too soon, Alas, the nymph would be undone!

To see her from her pillow rise, All reeking in a cloudy steam, Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!

The soot or powder which was wont To make her hair look black as jet, Falls from her tresses on her front, A mingled mass of dirt and sweat.

Three colours, black, and red, and white So graceful in their proper place, Remove them to a different light, They form a frightful hideous face:

For instance, when the lily slips Into the precincts of the rose, And takes possession of the lips, Leaving the purple to the nose:

So Celia went entire to bed, All her complexion safe and sound; But, when she rose, the black and red, Though still in sight, had changed their ground.

The black, which would not be confined, A more inferior station seeks, Leaving the fiery red behind, And mingles in her muddy cheeks.

The paint by perspiration cracks, And falls in rivulets of sweat, On either side you see the tracks While at her chin the conflu'nts meet.

A skilful housewife thus her thumb, With spittle while she spins anoints; And thus the brown meanders come In trickling streams betwixt her joints.

But Celia can with ease reduce, By help of pencil, paint, and brush, Each colour to its place and use, And teach her cheeks again to blush.

She knows her early self no more, But fill'd with admiration stands; As other painters oft adore The workmanship of their own hands.

Thus, after four important hours, Celia's the wonder of her sex; Say, which among the heavenly powers Could cause such wonderful effects?

Venus, indulgent to her kind, Gave women all their hearts could wish, When first she taught them where to find White lead, and Lusitanian dish.

Love with white lead cements his wings; White lead was sent us to repair Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things, A lady's face, and China-ware.

She ventures now to lift the sash; The window is her proper sphere; Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash, Nor let the beaux approach too near.

Take pattern by your sister star; Delude at once and bless our sight; When you are seen, be seen from far, And chiefly choose to shine by night.

In the Pall Mall when passing by, Keep up the glasses of your chair, Then each transported fop will cry, "G----d d----n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!"

But art no longer can prevail, When the materials all are gone; The best mechanic hand must fail, Where nothing's left to work upon.

Matter, as wise logicians say, Cannot without a form subsist; And form, say I, as well as they, Must fail if matter brings no grist.

And this is fair Diana's case; For, all astrologers maintain, Each night a bit drops off her face, When mortals say she's in her wane:

While Partridge wisely shows the cause Efficient of the moon's decay, That Cancer with his pois'nous claws Attacks her in the milky way:

But Gadbury,[2] in art profound, From her pale cheeks pretends to show That swain Endymion is not sound, Or else that Mercury's her foe.

But let the cause be what it will, In half a month she looks so thin, That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill, See but her forehead and her chin.

Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, Till midnight never shows her head; So rotting Celia strolls the street, When sober folks are all a-bed:

For sure, if this be Luna's fate, Poor Celia, but of mortal race, In vain expects a longer date To the materials of her face.

When Mercury her tresses mows, To think of oil and soot is vain: No painting can restore a nose, Nor will her teeth return again.

Two balls of glass may serve for eyes, White lead can plaister up a cleft; But these, alas, are poor supplies If neither cheeks nor lips be left.

Ye powers who over love preside! Since mortal beauties drop so soon, If ye would have us well supplied, Send us new nymphs with each new moon!

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

[Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of ephemerides.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see "Dictionary of National Biography."--_W. E. B._]

THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1]

AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, A reverend Dean began to woo[2] A handsome, young, imperious girl, Nearly related to an earl.[3] Her parents and her friends consent; The couple to the temple went: They first invite the Cyprian queen; 'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" But Cupid in disdain could scarce Forbear to bid them kiss his ---- The Graces next, and all the Muses, Were bid in form, but sent excuses. Juno attended at the porch, With farthing candle for a torch; While mistress Iris held her train, The faded bow bedropt with rain. Then Hebe came, and took her place, But show'd no more than half her face. Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, In joy the marriage-day was spent; The marriage-_day_, you take me right, I promise nothing for the night. The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, Assumes an artificial vigour; A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; Like the faint red upon a pippin, Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. And thus set out this happy pair, The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; But, what I gladly would forget, The swain is old, the nymph coquette. Both from the goal together start; Scarce run a step before they part; No common ligament that binds The various textures of their minds; Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, Less corresponding than their years. The Dean desires his coffee soon, She rises to her tea at noon. While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, She at the glass consults her looks; While Betty's buzzing at her ear, Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! So odd a choice how could she make! Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. Then, on her finger ends she counts, Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. The Dean, she heard her uncle say, Is sixty, if he be a day; His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; You see the crow's feet round his eyes. At one she rambles to the shops, To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; Or calls a council of her maids, And tradesmen, to compare brocades. Her weighty morning business o'er, Sits down to dinner just at four; Minds nothing that is done or said, Her evening work so fills her head. The Dean, who used to dine at one, Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, Looks like the chaplain of the household; Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, In French brocades, and Flanders lace; He wonders what employs her brain, But never asks, or asks in vain; His mind is full of other cares, And, in the sneaking parson's airs, Computes, that half a parish dues Will hardly find his wife in shoes. Canst thou imagine, dull divine, 'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? Hath she no other wants beside? You feed her lust as well as pride, Enticing coxcombs to adore, And teach her to despise thee more. If in her coach she'll condescend To place him at the hinder end, Her hoop is hoist above his nose, His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] She drops him at the church, to pray, While she drives on to see the play. He like an orderly divine, Comes home a quarter after nine, And meets her hasting to the ball: Her chairmen push him from the wall. The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, And calls the family to prayers; Then goes alone to take his rest In bed, where he can spare her best. At five the footmen make a din, Her ladyship is just come in; The masquerade began at two, She stole away with much ado; And shall be chid this afternoon, For leaving company so soon: She'll say, and she may truly say't, She can't abide to stay out late. But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: The cause, alas! is quickly guest; The town has whisper'd round the jest. Think on some remedy in time, The Dean you see, is past his prime, Already dwindled to a lath: No other way but try the Bath. For Venus, rising from the ocean, Infused a strong prolific potion, That mix'd with Acheloüs spring, The horned flood, as poets sing, Who, with an English beauty smitten, Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; The genial virtue with him brought, And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; Then fled, and left his horn behind, For husbands past their youth to find; The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, Where childless wives crowd every morn, To drink in Acheloüs horn;[6] Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. And here the father often gains That title by another's pains. Hither, though much against his grain The Dean has carried Lady Jane. He, for a while, would not consent, But vow'd his money all was spent: Was ever such a clownish reason! And must my lady slip her season? The doctor, with a double fee, Was bribed to make the Dean agree. Here, all diversions of the place Are proper in my lady's case: With which she patiently complies, Merely because her friends advise; His money and her time employs In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, Since others oft have found one there; Where if the Dean by chance appears, It shames his cassock and his years. He keeps his distance in the gallery, Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; For 'twould his character expose, To bathe among the belles and beaux. So have I seen, within a pen, Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; But, when let out, they run and muddle, As instinct leads them, in a puddle; The sober hen, not born to swim, With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] The Dean, with all his best endeavour, Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. A victim to the last essays Of vigour in declining days, He dies, and leaves his mourning mate (What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. The widow goes through all her forms: New lovers now will come in swarms. O, may I see her soon dispensing Her favours to some broken ensign! Him let her marry for his face, And only coat of tarnish'd lace; To turn her naked out of doors, And spend her jointure on his whores; But, for a parting present, leave her A rooted pox to last for ever!

[Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated January, 1721-2.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: "A rich divine began to woo," "A grave divine resolved to woo," are Swift's successive changes of this line.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: "If by a more than usual grace She lends him in her chariot place, Her hoop is hoist above his nose For fear his gown should soil her clothes."--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ix.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of Modena, having conceived after bathing there.--Collinson's "History of Somersetshire."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first draft.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.--_Forster_.]

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighbouring pool! Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackling shows the goose is poor. But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise, and harder fare, Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs; While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill, Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, What poet e'er could sing a note? Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, To raise the lumber from the earth. But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years coat so smooth and bare, Through every thread it lets in air; With hungry meals his body pined, His guts and belly full of wind; And, like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Encumbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapour, Supported high on wings of paper. He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub-Street rings.

THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721

Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, Arma virûm, tabulaeque, et Troïa gaza per undas. VIRG.

For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his grandfather.--_W. E. B._

Ye wise philosophers, explain What magic makes our money rise, When dropt into the Southern main; Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes?

Put in your money fairly told; _Presto_! be gone--'Tis here again: Ladies and gentlemen, behold, Here's every piece as big as ten.

Thus in a basin drop a shilling, Then fill the vessel to the brim, You shall observe, as you are filling, The pond'rous metal seems to swim:

It rises both in bulk and height, Behold it swelling like a sop; The liquid medium cheats your sight: Behold it mounted to the top!

In stock three hundred thousand pounds, I have in view a lord's estate; My manors all contiguous round! A coach-and-six, and served in plate!

Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, Puts all upon a desperate bet; Then plunges in the Southern waves, Dipt over head and ears--in debt.

So, by a calenture misled, The mariner with rapture sees, On the smooth ocean's azure bed, Enamell'd fields and verdant trees:

With eager haste he longs to rove In that fantastic scene, and thinks It must be some enchanted grove; And in he leaps, and down he sinks.

Five hundred chariots just bespoke, Are sunk in these devouring waves, The horses drown'd, the harness broke, And here the owners find their graves.

Like Pharaoh, by directors led, They with their spoils went safe before; His chariots, tumbling out the dead, Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore.

Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, The young adventurer o'er the deep An eagle's flight and state assumes, And scorns the middle way to keep.

On paper wings he takes his flight, With wax the father bound them fast; The wax is melted by the height, And down the towering boy is cast.

A moralist might here explain The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] Describe his fall into the main, And from a fable form a truth.

His wings are his paternal rent, He melts the wax at every flame; His credit sunk, his money spent, In Southern Seas he leaves his name.

Inform us, you that best can tell, Why in that dangerous gulf profound, Where hundreds and where thousands fell, Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd?

So have I seen from Severn's brink A flock of geese jump down together; Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, And, swimming, never wet a feather.

But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, Directors better knew their tools; We see the nation's credit crack'd, Each knave has made a thousand fools.

One fool may from another win, And then get off with money stored; But, if a sharper once comes in, He throws it all, and sweeps the board.

As fishes on each other prey, The great ones swallowing up the small, So fares it in the Southern Sea; The whale directors eat up all.

When stock is high, they come between, Making by second-hand their offers; Then cunningly retire unseen, With each a million in his coffers.

So, when upon a moonshine night, An ass was drinking at a stream, A cloud arose, and stopt the light, By intercepting every beam:

The day of judgment will be soon, Cries out a sage among the crowd; An ass has swallow'd up the moon! The moon lay safe behind the cloud.

Each poor subscriber to the sea Sinks down at once, and there he lies; Directors fall as well as they, Their fall is but a trick to rise.

So fishes, rising from the main, Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; The moisture dried, they sink again, And dip their fins again to fly.

Undone at play, the female troops Come here their losses to retrieve; Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, Like Lapland witches in a sieve.

Thus Venus to the sea descends, As poets feign; but where's the moral? It shows the Queen of Love intends To search the deep for pearl and coral.

The sea is richer than the land, I heard it from my grannam's mouth, Which now I clearly understand; For by the sea she meant the South.

Thus, by directors we are told, "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, Look round, and see how thick it lies:

"We, gentlemen, are your assisters, We'll come, and hold you by the chin."-- Alas! all is not gold that glisters, Ten thousand sink by leaping in.

O! would those patriots be so kind, Here in the deep to wash their hands, Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find The sea indeed had golden sands.

A shilling in the bath you fling, The silver takes a nobler hue, By magic virtue in the spring, And seems a guinea to your view.

But, as a guinea will not pass At market for a farthing more, Shown through a multiplying glass, Than what it always did before:

So cast it in the Southern seas, Or view it through a jobber's bill; Put on what spectacles you please, Your guinea's but a guinea still.

One night a fool into a brook Thus from a hillock looking down, The golden stars for guineas took, And silver Cynthia for a crown.

The point he could no longer doubt; He ran, he leapt into the flood; There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, All cover'd o'er with slime and mud.

"Upon the water cast thy bread, And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] But gold, upon this ocean spread, Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it:

There is a gulf, where thousands fell, Here all the bold adventurers came, A narrow sound, though deep as Hell-- 'Change Alley is the dreadful name.

Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, Yet he that on the surface lies, Without a pilot seldom knows The time it falls, or when 'twill rise.

Subscribers here by thousands float, And jostle one another down; Each paddling in his leaky boat, And here they fish for gold, and drown.

"Now buried in the depth below, Now mounted up to Heaven again, They reel and stagger to and fro, At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4]

Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, And strip the bodies of the dead.

But these, you say, are factious lies, From some malicious Tory's brain; For, where directors get a prize, The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain.

Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, Some cully often wins a bet, By venturing on the cheating side, Though not into the secret let.

While some build castles in the air, Directors build them in the seas; Subscribers plainly see them there, For fools will see as wise men please.

Thus oft by mariners are shown (Unless the men of Kent are liars) Earl Godwin's castles overflown, And palace roofs, and steeple spires.

Mark where the sly directors creep, Nor to the shore approach too nigh! The monsters nestle in the deep, To seize you in your passing by.

Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, Who, taught by instinct how to shun The crocodile, that lurking lies, Run as they drink, and drink and run.

Antæus could, by magic charms, Recover strength whene'er he fell; Alcides held him in his arms, And sent him up in air to Hell.

Directors, thrown into the sea, Recover strength and vigour there; But may be tamed another way, Suspended for a while in air.

Directors! for 'tis you I warn, By long experience we have found What planet ruled when you were born; We see you never can be drown'd.

Beware, nor overbulky grow, Nor come within your cully's reach; For, if the sea should sink so low To leave you dry upon the beach,

You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: Your foes already waiting stand, To tear you like a founder'd hulk, While you lie helpless on the sand.

Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: The monster into parts divide, And strip the bones, and melt the oil.

Oh! may some western tempest sweep These locusts whom our fruits have fed, That plague, directors, to the deep, Driven from the South Sea to the Red!

May he, whom Nature's laws obey, Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, "Quiet the raging of the sea, And still the madness of the crowd!"

But never shall our isle have rest, Till those devouring swine run down, (The devils leaving the possest) And headlong in the waters drown.

The nation then too late will find, Computing all their cost and trouble, Directors' promises but wind, South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble.

[Footnote 1: Phaëthon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. xi.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.]

[Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.]

[Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in 1866.--_W. E. B._]

FABULA CANIS ET UMBRAE

ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis, Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago: Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et altè Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una. Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram; Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet.

A PROLOGUE

BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS SENT WITH THE PROLOGUE

The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers. The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, etc. to act in.

Our set of strollers, wandering up and down, Hearing the house was empty, came to town; And, with a license from our good lord mayor, Went to one Griffith, formerly a player: Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe, To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe, To let our company supply their places, And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces. Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me; I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he. When we perform, look sharp among our crew, There's not a creature here you ever knew. The former folks were servants to the king; We, humble strollers, always on the wing. Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole, Rather than starve, a better man would stroll. Stay! let me see--Three hundred pounds a-year, For leave to act in town!--'Tis plaguy dear. Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark, For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk. Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix, The public should bestow the actors six; A score of guineas given underhand, For a good word or so, we understand. To help an honest lad that's out of place, May cost a crown or so; a common case: And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat. But, in the chronicles of former ages, Who ever heard of servants paying wages? I pity Elrington with all my heart; Would he were here this night to act my part! I told him what it was to be a stroller; How free we acted, and had no comptroller: In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor, First get a license, then produce our ware; We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum: Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come; And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on, Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone. I told him in the smoothest way I could, All this, and more, yet it would do no good. But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks, He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2] To whom our country has been always dear, Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here, Owns all your favours, here intends to stay, And, as a stroller, act in every play: And the whole crew this resolution takes, To live and die all strollers, for your sakes; Not frighted with an ignominious name, For your displeasure is their only shame. A pox on Elrington's majestic tone! Now to a word of business in our own. Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last: Then without fail we pack up for Belfast. Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss, The next we act shall be as good as this.

[Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic consideration. He died in July, 1732.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786; Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National Biography."--_W. E. B._]

EPILOGUE[1]

TO MR. HOPPY'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, AT SMOCK-ALLEY

HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye, I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy. He's not the first person who never did write, And yet has been fed by a benefit-night. The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye, In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury. But then you must know, those players still act on Some very good reasons, for such benefaction. A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail; From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. Your emerited actors, and actresses too, For what they have done (though no more they can do) And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G----, And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea; A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright, Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night. Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound, Paid to him clear money once every year: And however some think it a little too dear, Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow, Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow. First, because by the King to us he was sent, To guide the whole session of this parliament. To preside in our councils, both public and private, And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at. When bold B---- roars, and meek M---- raves, When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be----h by halves, When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories; And to himself constant when a member no more is, But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes; As S----t is dull, and with S----d, who dotes; Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low, And with eloquent bow, the house he must show, That that worthy member who spoke last must give The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive, That his sentiment on this affair isn't right; That he mightily wonders which way he came by't: That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown; And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down. For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear, Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year, And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood, To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good; To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit; And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit. To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat, And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat: All which he deserves; for although all the day He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay; And if he rise early to watch for the state, To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late. Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say Hop has got all the money for our acting this play, Which makes us poor actors look _je ne sçai quoy_.

[Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's accuracy of numbers.--_Scott_. Perhaps so, but the note to this piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the _Captain_, one evening, at the end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at _Gallstown_"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous guests." This is very different from "composed."--_W. E. B._]

PROLOGUE[1]

TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721

Great cry, and little wool--is now become The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom; No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp; Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry; Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange To shift your clothes, since you delight in change. One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell-- The men will like you every bit as well. See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff, And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough; My wife admires me more, and swears she never, In any dress, beheld me look so clever. And if a man be better in such ware, What great advantage must it give the fair! Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds; Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds; Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined-- And what are they but maggots in the mind? For which I think it reason to conclude, That clothes may change our temper like our food. Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes Too much about the party-colour'd dyes; Although the lustre is from you begun, We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun. How sweet and innocent's the country maid, With small expense in native wool array'd; Who copies from the fields her homely green, While by her shepherd with delight she's seen! Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool How much more lovely, and how beautiful, Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove! While wool would help to warm us into love! Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece!

[Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.--_W. E. B._]

EPILOGUE TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY THE DEAN. SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH

Who dares affirm this is no pious age, When charity begins to tread the stage? When actors, who at best are hardly savers, Will give a night of benefit to weavers? Stay--let me see, how finely will it sound! _Imprimis_, From his grace[1] a hundred pound. Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors; And then comes in the _item_ of the actors. _Item_, The actors freely give a day-- The poet had no more who made the play. But whence this wondrous charity in players? They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: Under the rose, since here are none but friends, (To own the truth) we have some private ends. Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, Hold up the prices of their old brocades; We'll dress in manufactures made at home; Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2] We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen And Antony shall court her in ratteen. In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad, And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid, In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage. In short, our kings and princesses within Are all resolved this project to begin; And you, our subjects, when you here resort, Must imitate the fashion of the court. O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, And scarce a crown is left to see the play. Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; But wit and weaving had the same beginning; Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: And, next, observe how this alliance fits, For weavers now are just as poor as wits: Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; But weavers will be kinder to the players, And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs. And to your knowledge, there is often less in The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing.

[Footnote 1: Archbishop King.]

[Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.--_W. E. B._]

ANSWER TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE. IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY.

Femineo generi tribuantur.

The Muses, whom the richest silks array, Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, And gives each colour to the pictured maids; Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine. And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff? The player in mimic piety may storm, Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm: The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage, May curse the belles and chintzes of the age: Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share, And spin her thread of life in service of the fair. The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, And be the emblem of your innocence. Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour: Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these? Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid. Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, Thus act subservient to a poplin gown? Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough The under petticoat be made of stuff. Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May, When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay! And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they? In what weak colours would the plaid appear, Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair! The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff; Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough? Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky! Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full: And all this for the benefit of wool! "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers, That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?" The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, Demand their care, to make their webs complete: These may they tend, their promises receive; We cannot pay too much for what they give!

ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE

THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ. BY DR. DELANY

'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; 'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; 'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; 'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; 'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; 'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; 'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, 'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, 'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, It is part of the new, and part of the old; It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse-- wish then, dear George, it were better or worse.

[Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.--_F._]

THE COUNTRY LIFE

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort. _George_, his eldest son. _Nim_, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting. _Dan_, Mr. Jackson, a parson. Gaulstown, the Baron's seat. _Sheridan_, a pedant and pedagogue. _Delany_, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor of Ireland. Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal. Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady.

Thalia, tell, in sober lays, How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days; And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, Yet _Neget quis carmina Gallo?_ Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I Not Sheridan, but friend Delany. Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers We sally forth at different hours; At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, Goes round the house to wake the rest; At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2] At ten my lady comes and hectors And kisses George, and ends our lectures; And when she has him by the neck fast, Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast. We squander there an hour or more, And then all hands, boys, to the oar; All, heteroclite Dan except, Who never time nor order kept, But by peculiar whimseys drawn, Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn: O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, Or mars a text, or mends his hose; Or--but proceed we in our journal-- At two, or after, we return all: From the four elements assembling, Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, From airy garrets some descend, Some from the lake's remotest end; My lord and Dean the fire forsake, Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; The loiterers quake, no corner hides them And Lady Betty soundly chides them. Now water brought, and dinner done; With "Church and King" the ladies gone. Not reckoning half an hour we pass In talking o'er a moderate glass. Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief Steals off to doze away his beef; And this must pass for reading Hammond-- While George and Dean go to backgammon. George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, And then, again, boys, to the oar. But when the sun goes to the deep, (Not to disturb him in his sleep, Or make a rumbling o'er his head, His candle out, and he a-bed,) We watch his motions to a minute, And leave the flood when he goes in it. Now stinted in the shortening day, We go to prayers and then to play, Till supper comes; and after that We sit an hour to drink and chat. 'Tis late--the old and younger pairs, By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs. The weary Dean goes to his chamber; And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, So when the circle we have run, The curtain falls and all is done. I might have mention'd several facts, Like episodes between the acts; And tell who loses and who wins, Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; How Dan caught nothing in his net, And how the boat was overset. For brevity I have retrench'd How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: It would be an exploit to brag on, How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; How steady in the storm he sat, And saved his oar, but lost his hat: How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; How skilfully Dan mends his nets; How fortune fails him when he sets; Or how the Dean delights to vex The ladies, and lampoon their sex: I might have told how oft Dean Perceval Displays his pedantry unmerciful, How haughtily he cocks his nose, To tell what every schoolboy knows: And with his finger and his thumb, Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: But now there needs no more be said on't, Nor how his wife, that female pedant, Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: For candles how she trucks her dripping; Was forced to send three miles for yeast, To brew her ale, and raise her paste; Tells everything that you can think of, How she cured Charley of the chincough; What gave her brats and pigs the measles, And how her doves were killed by weasels; How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright She had with dreams the other night. But now, since I have gone so far on, A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; And tell how little weight he sets On all Whig papers and gazettes; But for the politics of Pue,[4] Thinks every syllable is true: And since he owns the King of Sweden [5] Is dead at last, without evading, Now all his hopes are in the czar; "Why, Muscovy is not so far; Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, And in a month he's at your gates; Perhaps from what the packet brings, By Christmas we shall see strange things." Why should I tell of ponds and drains, What carps we met with for our pains; Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble? But you, who are a scholar, know How transient all things are below, How prone to change is human life! Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife-- This grand event has broke our measures; Their reign began with cruel seizures; The Dean must with his quilt supply The bed in which those tyrants lie; Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, (My lady says, she can't afford one,) George is half scared out of his wits, For Clem gets all the dainty bits. Henceforth expect a different survey, This house will soon turn topsyturvy; They talk of farther alterations, Which causes many speculations.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The butler.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p. 347.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a "petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to "Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of Gaulstown.--_W. E. B._]

DR. DELANY'S VILLA[1]

WOULD you that Delville I describe? Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe: For who would be satirical Upon a thing so very small? You scarce upon the borders enter, Before you're at the very centre. A single crow can make it night, When o'er your farm she takes her flight: Yet, in this narrow compass, we Observe a vast variety; Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs, And hills and dales, and woods and fields, And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields: All to your haggard brought so cheap in, Without the mowing or the reaping: A razor, though to say't I'm loth, Would shave you and your meadows both. Though small's the farm, yet here's a house Full large to entertain a mouse; But where a rat is dreaded more Than savage Caledonian boar; For, if it's enter'd by a rat, There is no room to bring a cat. A little rivulet seems to steal Down through a thing you call a vale, Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, Like rain along a blade of leek: And this you call your sweet meander, Which might be suck'd up by a gander, Could he but force his nether bill To scoop the channel of the rill. For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, Were it as big as city gutter. Next come I to your kitchen garden, Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; And round this garden is a walk No longer than a tailor's chalk; Thus I compare what space is in it, A snail creeps round it in a minute. One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze Up through a tuft you call your trees: And, once a year, a single rose Peeps from the bud, but never blows; In vain then you expect its bloom! It cannot blow for want of room. In short, in all your boasted seat, There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT.

[Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.--_W. E. B._]

ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE

A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself. This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent, And bid him go ask what his votary meant? "Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: 'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser! Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train."

CARBERIAE RUPES

IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723

Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis. Nam, longâ venti rabie, atque aspergine crebrâ Aequorei laticis, specus imâ rupe cavatur: Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant; Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas. Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum In capita anguipedum coelo jaculâsse gigantum. Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu Exesa è scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo Cautibus enormè junctis laquearia tecti Formantur; moles olim ruitura supernè. Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae. Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextrâ Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procellâ: Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia latè, Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, Terretur tamen, et longè fugit, arva relinquens. Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt. Piscator terrâ non audet vellere funem; Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aëra sudum Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat.

CARBERY ROCKS

TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN

Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds Its airy head amid the azure clouds, Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props, Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops; With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound, From shore to shore the rocks return the sound: The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: For, long the whirling winds and beating tides Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides. Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge. Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load. Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide Presents an orifice on either side. A dismal orifice, from sea to sea Extended, pervious to the God of Day: Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form An arch, the ruin of a future storm: High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake. But when bleak Winter with his sullen train Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; When o'er the craggy steep without control, Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore. The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, The wither'd herb improvident they crop, Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep. The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.

COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES

ON MR. FORD[1]

COME, be content, since out it must, For Stella has betray'd her trust; And, whispering, charged me not to say That Mr. Ford was born to-day; Or, if at last I needs must blab it, According to my usual habit, She bid me, with a serious face, Be sure conceal the time and place; And not my compliment to spoil, By calling this your native soil; Or vex the ladies, when they knew That you are turning forty-two: But, if these topics shall appear Strong arguments to keep you here, I think, though you judge hardly of it, Good manners must give place to profit. The nymphs, with whom you first began, Are each become a harridan; And Montague so far decay'd, Her lovers now must all be paid; And every belle that since arose, Has her contemporary beaux. Your former comrades, once so bright, With whom you toasted half the night, Of rheumatism and pox complain, And bid adieu to dear champaign. Your great protectors, once in power, Are now in exile or the Tower. Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, Who hate your person and your cause, If once they get you on the spot, You must be guilty of the plot; For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire, But use you ten times worse than Prior. In London! what would you do there? Can you, my friend, with patience bear (Nay, would it not your passion raise Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase) To see a scoundrel strut and hector, A foot-boy to some rogue director, To look on vice triumphant round, And virtue trampled on the ground? Observe where bloody **** stands With torturing engines in his hands, Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail, Threatening the pillory and jail: If this you think a pleasing scene, To London straight return again; Where, you have told us from experience, Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians. I thought my very spleen would burst, When fortune hither drove me first; Was full as hard to please as you, Nor persons' names nor places knew: But now I act as other folk, Like prisoners when their gaol is broke. If you have London still at heart, We'll make a small one here by art; The difference is not much between St. James's Park and Stephen's Green; And Dawson Street will serve as well To lead you thither as Pall Mall. Nor want a passage through the palace, To choke your sight, and raise your malice. The Deanery-house may well be match'd, Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2] Nor shall I, when you hither come, Demand a crown a-quart for stum. Then for a middle-aged charmer, Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3] She's now as handsome every bit, And has a thousand times her wit The Dean and Sheridan, I hope, Will half supply a Gay and Pope. Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not, No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot. I throw into the bargain Tim; In London can you equal him? What think you of my favourite clan, Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan; Fellows of modest worth and parts, With cheerful looks and honest hearts? Can you on Dublin look with scorn? Yet here were you and Ormond born. O! were but you and I so wise, To see with Robert Grattan's eyes! Robin adores that spot of earth, That literal spot which gave him birth; And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste, As fine as Hampton-court at least." When to your friends you would enhance The praise of Italy or France, For grandeur, elegance, and wit, We gladly hear you, and submit; But then, to come and keep a clutter, For this or that side of a gutter, To live in this or t'other isle, We cannot think it worth your while; For, take it kindly or amiss, The difference but amounts to this, We bury on our side the channel In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7] You for the news are ne'er to seek; While we, perhaps, may wait a week; You happy folks are sure to meet A hundred whores in every street; While we may trace all Dublin o'er Before we find out half a score. You see my arguments are strong, I wonder you held out so long; But, since you are convinced at last, We'll pardon you for what has past. So--let us now for whist prepare; Twelve pence a corner, if you dare.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the poem, "Stella at Wood Park."--Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and nation."--_Nichols_.]

[Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, "exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i, 172.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.]

[Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.--_H._]

[Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.--_H._]

[Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in 1733.]

ON DREAMS

AN IMITATION OF PETRONIUS

Petronii Fragmenta, xxx.

THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude, And with false flitting shades our minds delude Jove never sends us downward from the skies; Nor can they from infernal mansions rise; But are all mere productions of the brain, And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1]

For when in bed we rest our weary limbs, The mind unburden'd sports in various whims; The busy head with mimic art runs o'er The scenes and actions of the day before.[2]

The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, To regal rage devotes some patriot's head. With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt.

The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. With like remorse his brother of the trade, The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.

The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. Nor less Tom-t--d-man, of true statesman mould, Collects the city filth in search of gold.

Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob.

The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes.

The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: While the sly mountebank attends his trade, Harangues the rabble, and is better paid.

The hireling senator of modern days Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face.

[Footnote 1: "Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, Sed sibi quisque facit."]

[Footnote 2: "Nam cum prostrata sopore Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."--_W. E. B._]

SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724

Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. Can anything be more unkind? Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,-- A friend that loves to see and hear you. Why am I robb'd of that delight, When you can be no loser by't Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) That if you heard you'd be no gainer? For sure you are not yet to learn, That hearing is not your concern. Then be your doors no longer barr'd: Your business, sir, is to be heard.

THE ANSWER

The wise pretend to make it clear, 'Tis no great loss to lose an ear. Why are we then so fond of two, When by experience one would do? 'Tis true, say they, cut off the head, And there's an end; the man is dead; Because, among all human race, None e'er was known to have a brace: But confidently they maintain, That where we find the members twain, The loss of one is no such trouble, Since t'other will in strength be double. The limb surviving, you may swear, Becomes his brother's lawful heir: Thus, for a trial, let me beg of Your reverence but to cut one leg off, And you shall find, by this device, The other will be stronger twice; For every day you shall be gaining New vigour to the leg remaining. So, when an eye has lost its brother, You see the better with the other, Cut off your hand, and you may do With t'other hand the work of two: Because the soul her power contracts, And on the brother limb reacts. But yet the point is not so clear in Another case, the sense of hearing: For, though the place of either ear Be distant, as one head can bear, Yet Galen most acutely shows you, (Consult his book _de partium usu_) That from each ear, as he observes, There creep two auditory nerves, Not to be seen without a glass, Which near the _os petrosum_ pass; Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there, One goes to this, and one to t'other ear; Which made my grandam always stuff her ears Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers. You see my learning; but, to shorten it, When my left ear was deaf a fortnight, To t'other ear I felt it coming on: And thus I solve this hard phenomenon.

'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies To weak, or old, or clouded eyes: Your arms, though both your eyes were lost, Would guard your nose against a post: Without your legs, two legs of wood Are stronger, and almost as good: And as for hands, there have been those Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1] But no contrivance yet appears To furnish artificial ears.

[Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot. And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it done at all.--_W. E. B._]

A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724

NELL scolded in so loud a din, That Will durst hardly venture in: He mark'd the conjugal dispute; Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute; But, when he saw his friend appear, Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!" At sight of Will she bawl'd no more, But hurried out and clapt the door. Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell, (Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell. Why what a peal the jade has rung! D--n her, why don't you slit her tongue? For nothing else will make it cease. Dear Will, I suffer this for peace: I never quarrel with my wife; I bear it for a quiet life. Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it; Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it. Will went again to visit Dick; And entering in the very nick, He saw virago Nell belabour, With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour. Poor Will, who needs must interpose, Received a brace or two of blows. But now, to make my story short, Will drew out Dick to take a quart. Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims; Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs? If she were mine, and had such tricks, I'd teach her how to handle sticks: Z--ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1] Or truck the carrion for tobacco: I'd send her far enough away---- Dear Will; but what would people say? Lord! I should get so ill a name, The neighbours round would cry out shame. Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; But who believed him when he said it? Can he, who makes himself a slave, Consult his peace, or credit save? Dick found it by his ill success, His quiet small, his credit less. She served him at the usual rate; She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: And what he thought the hardest case, The parish jeer'd him to his face; Those men who wore the breeches least, Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. At home he was pursued with noise; Abroad was pester'd by the boys: Within, his wife would break his bones: Without, they pelted him with stones; The 'prentices procured a riding,[2] To act his patience and her chiding. False patience and mistaken pride! There are ten thousand Dicks beside; Slaves to their quiet and good name, Are used like Dick, and bear the blame.

[Footnote 1: See _post_, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."]

[Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted, enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix, 370, 578.--_W. E. B._]

ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS 1726

Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign'd to paste;

I know a trick to make you thrive; O, 'tis a quaint device: Your still-born poems shall revive, And scorn to wrap up spice.

Get all your verses printed fair, Then let them well be dried; And Curll[1] must have a special care To leave the margin wide.

Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope; And when he sets to write, No letter with an envelope Could give him more delight.

When Pope has fill'd the margins round, Why then recall your loan; Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, And swear they are your own.

[Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works, _passim.--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters themselves.]

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE

WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1]

This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the following explanatory introduction:

Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer there. It is within a mile of Richmond.

"Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the above dialogue."--_Dublin Edition_, 1734.

In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay, And all that he or they can say; Sing on I must, and sing I will, Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill. Last Friday night, as neighbours use, This couple met to talk of news: For, by old proverbs, it appears, That walls have tongues, and hedges ears.

MARBLE HILL

Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, Your mistress now is grown a queen; You'll find it soon by woful proof, She'll come no more beneath your roof.

RICHMOND LODGE

The kingly prophet well evinces, That we should put no trust in princes: My royal master promised me To raise me to a high degree: But now he's grown a king, God wot, I fear I shall be soon forgot. You see, when folks have got their ends, How quickly they neglect their friends; Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you, Pray God, they now may find as true!

MARBLE HILL

My house was built but for a show, My lady's empty pockets know; And now she will not have a shilling, To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; For all the courtly madams round Now pay four shillings in the pound; 'Tis come to what I always thought: My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2] Had you and I been courtiers born, We should not thus have lain forlorn; For those we dext'rous courtiers call, Can rise upon their masters' fall: But we, unlucky and unwise, Must fall because our masters rise.

RICHMOND LODGE

My master, scarce a fortnight since, Was grown as wealthy as a prince; But now it will be no such thing, For he'll be poor as any king; And by his crown will nothing get, But like a king to run in debt.

MARBLE HILL

No more the Dean, that grave divine, Shall keep the key of my (no) wine; My ice-house rob, as heretofore, And steal my artichokes no more; Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen Bedraggled in my walks so green: Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; And here no more will dangle Pope.

RICHMOND LODGE

Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, To spunge a breakfast once a-week; To cry the bread was stale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be said, No butter sticks upon his bread.[4] We soon shall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highness walking: While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller. A goodly sight to see her ride, With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. In velvet cap his head lies warm, His hat, for show, beneath his arm.

MARBLE HILL

Some South-Sea broker from the city Will purchase me, the more's the pity; Lay all my fine plantations waste, To fit them to his vulgar taste: Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, My master Pope will break his heart.

RICHMOND LODGE

In my own Thames may I be drownded, If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: Except her majesty prevails To place me with the Prince of Wales; And then I shall be free from fears, For he'll be prince these fifty years. I then will turn a courtier too, And serve the times as others do. Plain loyalty, not built on hope, I leave to your contriver, Pope; None loves his king and country better, Yet none was ever less their debtor.

MARBLE HILL

Then let him come and take a nap In summer on my verdant lap; Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, To Kensington, or hot St. James's; Nor shall I dull in silence sit; For 'tis to me he owes his wit; My groves, my echoes, and my birds, Have taught him his poetic words. We gardens, and you wildernesses, Assist all poets in distresses. Him twice a-week I here expect, To rattle Moody[7] for neglect; An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; And I can hardly get him down Three times a-week to brush my gown.

RICHMOND LODGE

I pity you, dear Marble Hill; But hope to see you flourish still. All happiness--and so adieu.

MARBLE HILL

Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you.

[Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th, wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room where he was born.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death, described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty thousand pounds to her family.--See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p. 304; v, p. 456.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral Epistle."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean suspected.]

[Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See Voltaire, "Siècle de Louis XIV."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: The gardener.]

DESIRE AND POSSESSION 1727

'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire In men, Possession and Desire! Think what they wish so great a blessing; So disappointed when possessing! A moralist profoundly sage (I know not in what book or page, Or whether o'er a pot of ale) Related thus the following tale. Possession, and Desire, his brother, But still at variance with each other, Were seen contending in a race; And kept at first an equal pace; 'Tis said, their course continued long, For this was active, that was strong: Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt, Misled them many a league about; Seduced by some deceiving light, They take the wrong way for the right; Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, They often climb, and often creep. Desire, the swifter of the two, Along the plain like lightning flew: Till, entering on a broad highway, Where power and titles scatter'd lay, He strove to pick up all he found, And by excursions lost his ground: No sooner got, than with disdain He threw them on the ground again; And hasted forward to pursue Fresh objects, fairer to his view, In hope to spring some nobler game; But all he took was just the same: Too scornful now to stop his pace, He spurn'd them in his rival's face. Possession kept the beaten road, And gather'd all his brother strew'd; But overcharged, and out of wind, Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind. Desire had now the goal in sight; It was a tower of monstrous height; Where on the summit Fortune stands, A crown and sceptre in her hands; Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell, Where many a bold adventurer fell. Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile, And saw the treacherous goddess smile; But as he climb'd to grasp the crown, She knock'd him with the sceptre down! He tumbled in the gulf profound; There doom'd to whirl an endless round. Possession's load was grown so great, He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight; And, as he now expiring lay, Flocks every ominous bird of prey; The raven, vulture, owl, and kite, At once upon his carcass light, And strip his hide, and pick his bones, Regardless of his dying groans.

ON CENSURE 1727

Ye wise, instruct me to endure An evil, which admits no cure; Or, how this evil can be borne, Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. Bare innocence is no support, When you are tried in Scandal's court. Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; All others, who inferior sit, Conceive themselves in conscience bound To join, and drag you to the ground. Your altitude offends the eyes Of those who want the power to rise. The world, a willing stander-by, Inclines to aid a specious lie: Alas! they would not do you wrong; But all appearances are strong. Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay On what detracting people say! For let mankind discharge their tongues In venom, till they burst their lungs, Their utmost malice cannot make Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, Or put one feature out of place; Nor will you find your fortune sink By what they speak or what they think; Nor can ten hundred thousand lies Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. The most effectual way to balk Their malice, is--to let them talk.

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND 1727

A set of phrases learn'd by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why; Never to hold her tongue a minute, While all she prates has nothing in it; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit; Her learning mounts to read a song, But half the words pronouncing wrong; Has every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; Can ready compliments supply On all occasions cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson's gown, The sight would put her in a swoon; For conversation well endued, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; Can at her morning tea run o'er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill, To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace, a critic nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute, What linen best the silk will suit, What colours each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch. If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright; So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, She ravishes all hearts to hear her. Can dext'rously her husband teaze, By taking fits whene'er she please; By frequent practice learns the trick At proper seasons to be sick; Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, At once creating love and pity; If Molly happens to be careless, And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, She gets a cold as sure as death, And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; Admires how modest women can Be so robustious like a man. In party, furious to her power; A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; Her arguments directly tend Against the side she would defend; Will prove herself a Tory plain, From principles the Whigs maintain; And, to defend the Whiggish cause, Her topics from the Tories draws. O yes! if any man can find More virtues in a woman's mind, Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1] She'll pay the charges to a farthing; Take notice, she has my commission To add them in the next edition; They may outsell a better thing: So, holla, boys; God save the King!

[Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.--_F._]

CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED. 1727

As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, And promised to pay for it when he came back. His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white; His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't. The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!" But, as from the windows the ladies he spied, Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side! And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry, He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!" The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee; Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: Then said, I must speak to the people a little; But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1] My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place) He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade; My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm, And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm; Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

[Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."--_W. E. B._]

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE "DUNCIAD"

1727

POPE has the talent well to speak, But not to reach the ear; His loudest voice is low and weak, The Dean too deaf to hear.

Awhile they on each other look, Then different studies choose; The Dean sits plodding on a book; Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

Now backs of letters, though design'd For those who more will need 'em, Are fill'd with hints, and interlined, Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by some other struck, All turns and motions tries; Till in a lump together stuck, Behold a poem rise:

Yet to the Dean his share allot; He claims it by a canon; That without which a thing is not, Is _causa sine quâ non_.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit; For, had our deaf divine Been for your conversation fit, You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed The sexton reason'd well; And justly half the merit claim'd, Because he rang the bell.

A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS

WRITTEN AT LONDON

By poets we are well assured That love, alas! can ne'er be cured; A complicated heap of ills, Despising boluses and pills. Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, Since first I gave my heart to you. Now, by your cruelty hard bound, I strain my guts, my colon wound. Now jealousy my grumbling tripes Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. When pity in those eyes I view, My bowels wambling make me spew. When I an amorous kiss design'd, I belch'd a hurricane of wind. Once you a gentle sigh let fall; Remember how I suck'd it all; What colic pangs from thence I felt, Had you but known, your heart would melt, Like ruffling winds in cavern pent, Till Nature pointed out a vent. How have you torn my heart to pieces With maggots, humours, and caprices! By which I got the hemorrhoids; And loathsome worms my _anus_ voids. Whene'er I hear a rival named, I feel my body all inflamed; Which, breaking out in boils and blains, With yellow filth my linen stains; Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, Small-beer I guzzle till I burst; And then I drag a bloated _corpus_, Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus; When, if I cannot purge or stale, I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

[Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.--_H._]

BOUTS RIMEZ[1]

ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA

Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit, Of classic beauty, _haec et illa_; Not all his birch inspires such wit As th'ogling beams of Domitilla.

Let nobles toast, in bright champaign, Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; I'll drink her health, again, again, In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla.

At Goodman's Fields I've much admired The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla; But what are they to the soft step, The gliding air of Domitilla?

Virgil has eternized in song The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3] Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong; He might have dream'd of Domitilla.

Great Theodose condemn'd a town For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4] And deuce take London! if some knight O' th' city wed not Domitilla.

Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise, Gives us a medal of Plantilla; But O! the empress has not eyes, Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla.

Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy, Piled on the mules of king At-tila, Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie) Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla.

Five years a nymph at certain hamlet, Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a- --bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let To verse--but now for Domitilla.

Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6] And thus I offer up my catch To the snow-white hands of Domitilla.

[Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a line, and to which rhymes must be found.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, _inter alia_, for his enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints. See his Works, _edit._ Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the "Journal."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.]

[Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."]

HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT

Now the active young attorneys Briskly travel on their journeys, Looking big as any giants, On the horses of their clients; Like so many little Marses With their tilters at their a--s, Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, And with harness-buckles furnish'd, And with whips and spurs so neat, And with jockey-coats complete, And with boots so very greasy, And with saddles eke so easy, And with bridles fine and gay, Bridles borrow'd for a day, Bridles destined far to roam, Ah! never, never to come home. And with hats so very big, sir, And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, And with ruffles to be shown, Cambric ruffles not their own; And with Holland shirts so white, Shirts becoming to the sight, Shirts bewrought with different letters, As belonging to their betters. With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, Gotten from their dainty doxies, And with rings so very trim, Lately taken out of lim--[1] And with very little pence, And as very little sense; With some law, but little justice, Having stolen from my hostess, From the barber and the cutler, Like the soldier from the sutler; From the vintner and the tailor, Like the felon from the jailor; Into this and t'other county, Living on the public bounty; Thorough town and thorough village, All to plunder, all to pillage: Thorough mountains, thorough valleys, Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, Some to--kiss with farmers' spouses, And make merry in their houses; Some to tumble country wenches On their rushy beds and benches; And if they begin a fray, Draw their swords, and----run away; All to murder equity, And to take a double fee; Till the people are all quiet, And forget to broil and riot, Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, Safely glad to sup their porridge, And vacation's over--then, Hey, for London town again.

[Footnote 1: _Limbo_, any place of misery and restraint. "For he no sooner was at large, But Trulla straight brought on the charge, And in the selfsame _Limbo_ put The knight and squire where he was shut." _Hudibras_, Part i, canto iii, 1,000. Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.--_W. E. B._]

THE PUPPET-SHOW

The life of man to represent, And turn it all to ridicule, Wit did a puppet-show invent, Where the chief actor is a fool.

The gods of old were logs of wood, And worship was to puppets paid; In antic dress the idol stood, And priest and people bow'd the head.

No wonder then, if art began The simple votaries to frame, To shape in timber foolish man, And consecrate the block to fame.

From hence poetic fancy learn'd That trees might rise from human forms; The body to a trunk be turn'd, And branches issue from the arms.

Thus Dædalus and Ovid too, That man's a blockhead, have confest: Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue; Life is a farce, the world a jest.

The same great truth South Sea has proved On that famed theatre, the alley; Where thousands, by directors moved Are now sad monuments of folly.

What Momus was of old to Jove, The same a Harlequin is now; The former was buffoon above, The latter is a Punch below.

This fleeting scene is but a stage, Where various images appear; In different parts of youth and age, Alike the prince and peasant share.

Some draw our eyes by being great, False pomp conceals mere wood within; And legislators ranged in state Are oft but wisdom in machine.

A stock may chance to wear a crown, And timber as a lord take place; A statue may put on a frown, And cheat us with a thinking face.

Others are blindly led away, And made to act for ends unknown; By the mere spring of wires they play, And speak in language not their own.

Too oft, alas! a scolding wife Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; And many drink the cup of life, Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan.

In short, whatever men pursue, Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: This mimic race brings all to view: Alike they dress, they talk, they move.

Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, Mortals to please and to deride; And, when death breaks thy vital band, Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride.

Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, Thy image shall preserve thy fame; Ages to come thy worth shall own, Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name.

Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, Before he looks in nature's glass; Puns cannot form a witty scene, Nor pedantry for humour pass.

To make men act as senseless wood, And chatter in a mystic strain, Is a mere force on flesh and blood, And shows some error in the brain.

He that would thus refine on thee, And turn thy stage into a school, The jest of Punch will ever be, And stand confest the greater fool.

[Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.]

[Footnote 2: Sheridan.]

THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY

IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728

SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part In you, who ought to know my heart, Are well acquainted with my zeal For all the female commonweal-- How could it come into your mind To pitch on me, of all mankind, Against the sex to write a satire, And brand me for a woman-hater? On me, who think them all so fair, They rival Venus to a hair; Their virtues never ceased to sing, Since first I learn'd to tune a string? Methinks I hear the ladies cry, Will he his character belie? Must never our misfortunes end? And have we lost our only friend? Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears, No more let fall those precious tears. Sooner shall, etc.

[Here several verses are omitted.]

The hound be hunted by the hare, Than I turn rebel to the fair. 'Twas you engaged me first to write, Then gave the subject out of spite: The journal of a modern dame, Is, by my promise, what you claim. My word is past, I must submit; And yet perhaps you may be bit. I but transcribe; for not a line Of all the satire shall be mine. Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes The common slanders of the times, Of modern times, the guilt is yours, And me my innocence secures. Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, The annals of a female day. By nature turn'd to play the rake well, (As we shall show you in the sequel,) The modern dame is waked by noon, (Some authors say not quite so soon,) Because, though sore against her will, She sat all night up at quadrille. She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, And asks if it be time to rise; Of headache and the spleen complains; And then, to cool her heated brains, Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, Takes a large dram of citron water. Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray, Don't I look frightfully to-day? But was it not confounded hard? Well, if I ever touch a card! Four matadores, and lose codille! Depend upon't, I never will. But run to Tom, and bid him fix The ladies here to-night by six." "Madam, the goldsmith waits below; He says, his business is to know If you'll redeem the silver cup He keeps in pawn?"--"Why, show him up." "Your dressing-plate he'll be content To take, for interest _cent. per cent._ And, madam, there's my Lady Spade Has sent this letter by her maid." "Well, I remember what she won; And has she sent so soon to dun? Here, carry down these ten pistoles My husband left to pay for coals: I thank my stars they all are light, And I may have revenge to-night." Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, She enters on her usual theme; Her last night's ill success repeats, Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: "She slipt spadillo in her breast, Then thought to turn it to a jest: There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, And to each other give the sign." Through every game pursues her tale, Like hunters o'er their evening ale. Now to another scene give place: Enter the folks with silks and lace: Fresh matter for a world of chat, Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: "Observe this pattern--there's a stuff; I can have customers enough. Dear madam, you are grown so hard-- This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: Madam, if there be truth in man, I never sold so cheap a fan." This business of importance o'er, And madam almost dress'd by four; The footman, in his usual phrase, Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." She answers, in her usual style, "The cook must keep it back a while; I never can have time to dress, No woman breathing takes up less; I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; I wish the dinner at Old Nick." At table now she acts her part, Has all the dinner cant by heart: "I thought we were to dine alone, My dear; for sure, if I had known This company would come to-day-- But really 'tis my spouse's way! He's so unkind, he never sends To tell when he invites his friends: I wish ye may but have enough!" And while with all this paltry stuff She sits tormenting every guest, Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, Which modern ladies call polite; You see the booby husband sit In admiration at her wit! But let me now a while survey Our madam o'er her evening tea; Surrounded with her noisy clans Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, When, frighted at the clamorous crew, Away the God of Silence flew, And fair Discretion left the place, And modesty with blushing face; Now enters overweening Pride, And Scandal, ever gaping wide, Hypocrisy with frown severe, Scurrility with gibing air; Rude laughter seeming like to burst, And Malice always judging worst; And Vanity with pocket glass, And Impudence with front of brass; And studied Affectation came, Each limb and feature out of frame; While Ignorance, with brain of lead, Flew hovering o'er each female head. Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, A hundred tongues, as poets use, When, to give every dame her due, A hundred thousand were too few? Or how should I, alas! relate The sum of all their senseless prate, Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? Now comes the general scandal charge; What some invent, the rest enlarge; And, "Madam, if it be a lie, You have the tale as cheap as I; I must conceal my author's name: But now 'tis known to common fame." Say, foolish females, bold and blind, Say, by what fatal turn of mind, Are you on vices most severe, Wherein yourselves have greatest share? Thus every fool herself deludes; The prude condemns the absent prudes: Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes To censure Phyllis for perfumes; While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, That Florimel wears iron stays; Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, Admires how girls can talk with fellows; And, full of indignation, frets, That women should be such coquettes: Iris, for scandal most notorious, Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" And Rufa, with her combs of lead, Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, Talks half a day in praise of silence; And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. Now voices over voices rise, While each to be the loudest vies: They contradict, affirm, dispute, No single tongue one moment mute; All mad to speak, and none to hearken, They set the very lap-dog barking; Their chattering makes a louder din Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; Not schoolboys at a barring out Raised ever such incessant rout; The jumbling particles of matter In chaos made not such a clatter; Far less the rabble roar and rail, When drunk with sour election ale. Nor do they trust their tongues alone, But speak a language of their own; Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, Far better than a printed book; Convey a libel in a frown, And wink a reputation down; Or by the tossing of the fan, Describe the lady and the man. But see, the female club disbands, Each twenty visits on her hands. Now all alone poor madam sits In vapours and hysteric fits; "And was not Tom this morning sent? I'd lay my life he never went; Past six, and not a living soul! I might by this have won a vole." A dreadful interval of spleen! How shall we pass the time between? "Here, Betty, let me take my drops; And feel my pulse, I know it stops; This head of mine, lord, how it swims! And such a pain in all my limbs!" "Dear madam, try to take a nap"-- But now they hear a footman's rap: "Go, run, and light the ladies up: It must be one before we sup." The table, cards, and counters, set, And all the gamester ladies met, Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, Our madam can sit up all night; "Whoever comes, I'm not within." Quadrille's the word, and so begin. How can the Muse her aid impart, Unskill'd in all the terms of art? Or in harmonious numbers put The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? The superstitious whims relate, That fill a female gamester's pate? What agony of soul she feels To see a knave's inverted heels! She draws up card by card, to find Good fortune peeping from behind; With panting heart, and earnest eyes, In hope to see spadillo rise; In vain, alas! her hope is fed; She draws an ace, and sees it red; In ready counters never pays, But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; Ever with some new fancy struck, Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. "This morning, when the parson came, I said I should not win a game. This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? I think I never had good luck in't. I'm so uneasy in my stays: Your fan, a moment, if you please. Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; I always lose when you look on." "Lord! madam, you have lost codille: I never saw you play so ill." "Nay, madam, give me leave to say, 'Twas you that threw the game away: When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, You took it with a matadore; I saw you touch your wedding ring Before my lady call'd a king; You spoke a word began with H, And I know whom you meant to teach, Because you held the king of hearts; Fie, madam, leave these little arts." "That's not so bad as one that rubs Her chair to call the king of clubs; And makes her partner understand A matadore is in her hand." "Madam, you have no cause to flounce, I swear I saw you thrice renounce." "And truly, madam, I know when Instead of five you scored me ten. Spadillo here has got a mark; A child may know it in the dark: I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails: I wish some folks would pare their nails." While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, It passes but for common form: But, conscious that they all speak true, And give each other but their due, It never interrupts the game, Or makes them sensible of shame. The time too precious now to waste, The supper gobbled up in haste; Again afresh to cards they run, As if they had but just begun. But I shall not again repeat, How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. At last they hear the watchman knock, "A frosty morn--past four o'clock." The chairmen are not to be found, "Come, let us play the other round." Now all in haste they huddle on Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone; But, first, the winner must invite The company to-morrow night. Unlucky madam, left in tears, (Who now again quadrille forswears,) With empty purse, and aching head, Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED

Logicians have but ill defined As rational, the human kind; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove, with great precision, With definition and division, _Homo est ratione praeditum;_ But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, And must, in spite of them, maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature; That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'em. _Deus est anima brutorum._ Whoever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for assault or battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfined, No politics disturb their mind; They eat their meals, and take their sport Nor know who's in or out at court. They never to the levee go To treat, as dearest friend, a foe: They never importune his grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place: Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1] Fraught with invective, they ne'er go To folks at Paternoster Row. No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds; No single brute his fellow leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape; Like man, he imitates each fashion, And malice is his lurking passion: But, both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him, humbly cringing, wait Upon the minister of state; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors; He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators, At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their masters' manner still contract, And footmen, lords and dukes can act. Thus, at the court, both great and small Behave alike, for all ape all.

[Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of party-writers.--_W. E. B._]

THE ELEPHANT; OR, THE PARLIAMENT MAN

WRITTEN MANY YEARS SINCE; AND TAKEN FROM COKE'S FOURTH INSTITUTE THE HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT, CAP. I

Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall; secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is, without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ... thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might prevent dangers to come."--_W. E. B._

Ere bribes convince you whom to choose, The precepts of Lord Coke peruse. Observe an elephant, says he, And let him like your member be: First take a man that's free from _Gaul_, For elephants have none at all; In flocks or parties he must keep; For elephants live just like sheep. Stubborn in honour he must be; For elephants ne'er bend the knee. Last, let his memory be sound, In which your elephant's profound; That old examples from the wise May prompt him in his noes and ayes. Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ, In all the form of lawyer's wit: And then, with Latin and all that, Shows the comparison is pat. Yet in some points my lord is wrong, One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: Now, men of parliament, God knows, Are more like elephants of shows; Whose docile memory and sense Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; To get their master half-a-crown, They spread the flag, or lay it down: Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, And guarded nations from attacks, Now practise every pliant gesture, Opening their trunk for every tester. Siam, for elephants so famed, Is not with England to be named: Their elephants by men are sold; Ours sell themselves, and take the gold.

PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM

BY MR. LINDSAY[1]

_Dublin, Sept._ 7, 1728.

"A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; While smiling Nature, in her best attire, Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. Can he, who knows that real good should please, Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"-- This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, Upon his board the client pours the ore: He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws.

[Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the Justices of the Common Pleas.--_H._]

THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT

Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, And honest Paulus judges right. Then, why these quarrels to the sun, Without whose aid you're all undone? Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat? Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; The influence of whose golden beams Soon licks up all unsavoury steams? The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: It has; but then it greased his fist. True lawyers, for the wisest ends, Have always been Apollo's friends. Not for his superficial powers Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; Not for inspiring poets' brains With penniless and starveling strains; Not for his boasted healing art; Not for his skill to shoot the dart; Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; Nor for his prophecies in riddles: But for a more substantial cause-- Apollo's patron of the laws; Whom Paulus ever must adore, As parent of the golden ore, By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, Begot upon his grandam Earth; By Phoebus first produced to light; By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, By clients to her priests and trustees. Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand With even balance in her hand, Must we suppose she has in view, How to give every man his due; Her scales you see her only hold, To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold. Now, should I own your case was grievous, Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? 'Tis very true, and none denies, At least, that such complaints are wise: 'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, To cry, like statesmen, _Quanta patimur!_ But, since the truth must needs be stretched To prove that lawyers are so wretched, This paradox I'll undertake, For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, May serve as arguments _ad hominem_: Yet I disdain to offer those Made use of by detracting foes. I own the curses of mankind Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: The clamours of ten thousand tongues Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; I own, his conscience always free, (Provided he has got his fee,) Secure of constant peace within, He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. Yet well they merit to be pitied, By clients always overwitted. And though the gospel seems to say, What heavy burdens lawyers lay Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, Nor lend a finger to their labour, Always for saving their own bacon; No doubt, the text is here mistaken: The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: To prove it, I appeal to fact; And thus by demonstration show What burdens lawyers undergo. With early clients at his door, Though he was drunk the night before, And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, The wretch must be at court by nine; Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, As ridden by a midnight hag; Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, In English vile, and viler French, And Latin, vilest of the three; And all for poor ten moidores fee! Of paper how is he profuse, With periods long, in terms abstruse! What pains he takes to be prolix! A thousand lines to stand for six! Of common sense without a word in! And is not this a grievous burden? The lawyer is a common drudge, To fight our cause before the judge: And, what is yet a greater curse, Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: While he at ease, secure and light, Walks boldly home at dead of night; When term is ended, leaves the town, Trots to his country mansion down; And, disencumber'd of his load, No danger dreads upon the road; Despises rapparees,[2] and rides Safe through the Newry mountains' sides. Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, To state this question _pro_ and _con_. My satire may offend, 'tis true; However, it concerns not you. I own, there may, in every clan, Perhaps, be found one honest man; Yet link them close, in this they jump, To be but rascals in the lump. Imagine Lindsay at the bar, He's much the same his brethren are; Well taught by practice to imbibe The fundamentals of his tribe: And in his client's just defence, Must deviate oft from common sense; And make his ignorance discern'd, To get the name of counsel-learn'd, (As _lucus_ comes _a non lucendo_,) And wisely do as other men do: But shift him to a better scene, Among his crew of rogues in grain; Surrounded with companions fit, To taste his humour, sense, and wit; You'd swear he never took a fee, Nor knew in law his A, B, C. 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, To keep good sense in crowds of fools. And we admire the man, who saves His honesty in crowds of knaves; Nor yields up virtue at discretion, To villains of his own profession. Lindsay, you know what pains you take In both, yet hardly save your stake; And will you venture both anew, To sit among that venal crew, That pack of mimic legislators, Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters? For as the rabble daub and rifle The fool who scrambles for a trifle; Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; You must expect the like disgrace, Scrambling with rogues to get a place; Must lose the honour you have gain'd, Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: Disclaim for ever all pretence To common honesty and sense; And join in friendship with a strict tie, To M--l, C--y, and Dick Tighe.[3]

[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, 150.--_W. E .B._]

[Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, etc.--_W. E. B._]

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION TO HORACE,