Part 25

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

Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23.

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

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

Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 8: Ramble.]

[Footnote 9: Not vomiting.]

[Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.]

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

[Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.]

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

[Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.]

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

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

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

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

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

AN ANSWER TO A SCANDALOUS POEM

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

BY DR. SWIFT

ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE CLOUDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

PEG RADCLIFFE THE HOSTESS'S INVITATION

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

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

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

VERSES BY SHERIDAN

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

VERSES ADDRESSED TO SWIFT AND TO HIS MEMORY

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