Part 4

Don Carlos, in a merry spight, Did Stella to his house invite: He entertain'd her half a year With generous wines and costly cheer. Don Carlos made her chief director, That she might o'er the servants hector. In half a week the dame grew nice, Got all things at the highest price: Now at the table head she sits, Presented with the nicest bits: She look'd on partridges with scorn, Except they tasted of the corn: A haunch of ven'son made her sweat, Unless it had the right _fumette_. Don Carlos earnestly would beg, "Dear Madam, try this pigeon's leg;" Was happy, when he could prevail To make her only touch a quail. Through candle-light she view'd the wine, To see that ev'ry glass was fine. At last, grown prouder than the devil With feeding high, and treatment civil, Don Carlos now began to find His malice work as he design'd. The winter sky began to frown: Poor Stella must pack off to town; From purling streams and fountains bubbling, To Liffey's stinking tide in Dublin: From wholesome exercise and air To sossing in an easy-chair: From stomach sharp, and hearty feeding, To piddle[2] like a lady breeding: From ruling there the household singly. To be directed here by Dingley:[3] From every day a lordly banquet, To half a joint, and God be thank it: From every meal Pontac in plenty, To half a pint one day in twenty: From Ford attending at her call, To visits of Archdeacon Wall: From Ford, who thinks of nothing mean, To the poor doings of the Dean: From growing richer with good cheer, To running out by starving here. But now arrives the dismal day; She must return to Ormond Quay.[4] The coachman stopt; she look'd, and swore The rascal had mistook the door: At coming in, you saw her stoop; The entry brush'd against her hoop: Each moment rising in her airs, She curst the narrow winding stairs: Began a thousand faults to spy; The ceiling hardly six feet high; The smutty wainscot full of cracks: And half the chairs with broken backs: Her quarter's out at Lady-day; She vows she will no longer stay In lodgings like a poor Grisette, While there are houses to be let. Howe'er, to keep her spirits up, She sent for company to sup: When all the while you might remark, She strove in vain to ape Wood Park. Two bottles call'd for, (half her store, The cupboard could contain but four:) A supper worthy of herself, Five nothings in five plates of delf. Thus for a week the farce went on; When, all her country savings gone, She fell into her former scene, Small beer, a herring, and the Dean. Thus far in jest: though now, I fear, You think my jesting too severe; But poets, when a hint is new, Regard not whether false or true: Yet raillery gives no offence, Where truth has not the least pretence; Nor can be more securely placed Than on a nymph of Stella's taste. I must confess your wine and vittle I was too hard upon a little: Your table neat, your linen fine; And, though in miniature, you shine: Yet, when you sigh to leave Wood Park, The scene, the welcome, and the spark, To languish in this odious town, And pull your haughty stomach down, We think you quite mistake the case, The virtue lies not in the place: For though my raillery were true, A cottage is Wood Park with you.

[Footnote 1: Horat., "Epist.," i, 18, 31.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: In its proper sense--to pick at table, to feed squeamishly. "With entremets to piddle with at hand." BYRON, _Don Juan.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The constant companion of Stella.]

[Footnote 4: Where the two ladies lodged.]

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR BEC [1] 1723-4

Returning Janus[2] now prepares, For Bec, a new supply of cares, Sent in a bag to Dr. Swift, Who thus displays the new-year's gift. First, this large parcel brings you tidings Of our good Dean's eternal chidings; Of Nelly's pertness, Robin's leasings, And Sheridan's perpetual teazings. This box is cramm'd on every side With Stella's magisterial pride. Behold a cage with sparrows fill'd, First to be fondled, then be kill'd. Now to this hamper I invite you, With six imagined cares to fright you. Here in this bundle Janus sends Concerns by thousands for your friends. And here's a pair of leathern pokes, To hold your cares for other folks. Here from this barrel you may broach A peck of troubles for a coach. This ball of wax your ears will darken, Still to be curious, never hearken. Lest you the town may have less trouble in Bring all your Quilca's [3] cares to Dublin, For which he sends this empty sack; And so take all upon your back.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley, Stella's friend and companion.]

[Footnote 2: The sun god represented with two faces, one in front, and one behind, to whom the new year was sacred.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 3: Country-house of Dr. Sheridan.]

DINGLEY AND BRENT[1] A SONG

To the tune of "Ye Commons and Peers."

Dingley and Brent, Wherever they went, Ne'er minded a word that was spoken; Whatever was said, They ne'er troubled their head, But laugh'd at their own silly joking.

Should Solomon wise In majesty rise, And show them his wit and his learning; They never would hear, But turn the deaf ear, As a matter they had no concern in.

You tell a good jest, And please all the rest; Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it? And, curious to know, Away she will go To seek an old rag in the closet.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift's housekeeper.]

TO STELLA

WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH, MARCH 13, 1723-4, BUT NOT ON THE SUBJECT, WHEN I WAS SICK IN BED

Tormented with incessant pains, Can I devise poetic strains? Time was, when I could yearly pay My verse to Stella's native day: But now unable grown to write, I grieve she ever saw the light. Ungrateful! since to her I owe That I these pains can undergo. She tends me like an humble slave; And, when indecently I rave, When out my brutish passions break, With gall in every word I speak, She with soft speech my anguish cheers, Or melts my passions down with tears; Although 'tis easy to descry She wants assistance more than I; Yet seems to feel my pains alone, And is a stoic in her own. When, among scholars, can we find So soft and yet so firm a mind? All accidents of life conspire To raise up Stella's virtue higher; Or else to introduce the rest Which had been latent in her breast. Her firmness who could e'er have known, Had she not evils of her own? Her kindness who could ever guess, Had not her friends been in distress? Whatever base returns you find From me, dear Stella, still be kind. In your own heart you'll reap the fruit, Though I continue still a brute. But, when I once am out of pain, I promise to be good again; Meantime, your other juster friends Shall for my follies make amends; So may we long continue thus, Admiring you, you pitying us.

VERSES BY STELLA

If it be true, celestial powers, That you have form'd me fair, And yet, in all my vainest hours, My mind has been my care: Then, in return, I beg this grace, As you were ever kind, What envious Time takes from my face Bestow upon my mind!

A RECEIPT TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5

The Scottish hinds, too poor to house In frosty nights their starving cows, While not a blade of grass or hay Appears from Michaelmas to May, Must let their cattle range in vain For food along the barren plain: Meagre and lank with fasting grown, And nothing left but skin and bone; Exposed to want, and wind, and weather, They just keep life and soul together, Till summer showers and evening's dew Again the verdant glebe renew; And, as the vegetables rise, The famish'd cow her want supplies; Without an ounce of last year's flesh; Whate'er she gains is young and fresh; Grows plump and round, and full of mettle, As rising from Medea's [1] kettle. With youth and beauty to enchant Europa's[2] counterfeit gallant. Why, Stella, should you knit your brow, If I compare you to a cow? 'Tis just the case; for you have fasted So long, till all your flesh is wasted; And must against the warmer days Be sent to Quilca down to graze; Where mirth, and exercise, and air, Will soon your appetite repair: The nutriment will from within, Round all your body, plump your skin; Will agitate the lazy flood, And fill your veins with sprightly blood. Nor flesh nor blood will be the same Nor aught of Stella but the name: For what was ever understood, By human kind, but flesh and blood? And if your flesh and blood be new, You'll be no more the former you; But for a blooming nymph will pass, Just fifteen, coming summer's grass, Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd: While all the squires for nine miles round, Attended by a brace of curs, With jockey boots and silver spurs, No less than justices o' quorum, Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em, Shall leave deciding broken pates, To kiss your steps at Quilca gates. But, lest you should my skill disgrace, Come back before you're out of case; For if to Michaelmas you stay, The new-born flesh will melt away; The 'squires in scorn will fly the house For better game, and look for grouse; But here, before the frost can mar it, We'll make it firm with beef and claret.

[Footnote 1: The celebrated sorceress, daughter of Æetes, King of Colchis, who assisted Jason in obtaining possession of the Golden Fleece.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Carried off by Jupiter under the form of a bull. Ovid, "Met." ii, 836.]

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5

As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme. Your annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose: Yet merry folks, who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old housekeeper, and get her To fill a place for want of better: While Sheridan is off the hooks, And friend Delany at his books, That Stella may avoid disgrace, Once more the Dean supplies their place. Beauty and wit, too sad a truth! Have always been confined to youth; The god of wit and beauty's queen, He twenty-one and she fifteen, No poet ever sweetly sung, Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless, like Venus, in her prime. At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you? Or, at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me? Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes! You must be grave and I be wise. Our fate in vain we would oppose: But I'll be still your friend in prose: Esteem and friendship to express, Will not require poetic dress; And if the Muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said. But, Stella, say, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young; That Time sits with his scythe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turn'd to gray? I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown; For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my sight; And wrinkles undistinguished pass, For I'm ashamed to use a glass: And till I see them with these eyes, Whoever says you have them, lies. No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit; Thus you may still be young to me, While I can better hear than see. O ne'er may Fortune show her spite, To make me deaf, and mend my sight![1]

[Footnote 1: Now deaf, 1740.--_Swift_. This pathetic note was in Swift's writing in his own copy of the "Miscellanies," edit. 1727-32.--_W. E. B._]

BEC'S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity; Had Fate a luckier one, she'd give it ye. She chose a thread of greatest length, And doubly twisted it for strength: Nor will be able with her shears To cut it off these forty years. Then who says care will kill a cat? Rebecca shows they're out in that. For she, though overrun with care, Continues healthy, fat, and fair. As, if the gout should seize the head, Doctors pronounce the patient dead; But, if they can, by all their arts, Eject it to the extremest parts, They give the sick man joy, and praise The gout that will prolong his days. Rebecca thus I gladly greet, Who drives her cares to hands and feet: For, though philosophers maintain The limbs are guided by the brain, Quite contrary Rebecca's led; Her hands and feet conduct her head; By arbitrary power convey her, She ne'er considers why or where: Her hands may meddle, feet may wander, Her head is but a mere by-stander: And all her bustling but supplies The part of wholesome exercise. Thus nature has resolved to pay her The cat's nine lives, and eke the care. Long may she live, and help her friends Whene'er it suits her private ends; Domestic business never mind Till coffee has her stomach lined; But, when her breakfast gives her courage, Then think on Stella's chicken porridge: I mean when Tiger[2]has been served, Or else poor Stella may be starved. May Bec have many an evening nap, With Tiger slabbering in her lap; But always take a special care She does not overset the chair; Still be she curious, never hearken To any speech but Tiger's barking! And when she's in another scene, Stella long dead, but first the Dean, May fortune and her coffee get her Companions that will please her better! Whole afternoons will sit beside her, Nor for neglects or blunders chide her. A goodly set as can be found Of hearty gossips prating round; Fresh from a wedding or a christening, To teach her ears the art of listening, And please her more to hear them tattle, Than the Dean storm, or Stella rattle. Late be her death, one gentle nod, When Hermes,[3] waiting with his rod, Shall to Elysian fields invite her, Where there will be no cares to fright her!

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley.]

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog. See next page.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Mercury.--Virg., "Aeneid," iv.]

ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER,

MRS. DINGLEY'S LAP-DOG

Pray steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's, Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY

MARCH 13, 1726-7

This day, whate'er the Fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me: This day then let us not be told, That you are sick, and I grown old; Nor think on our approaching ills, And talk of spectacles and pills; To-morrow will be time enough To hear such mortifying stuff. Yet, since from reason may be brought A better and more pleasing thought, Which can, in spite of all decays, Support a few remaining days; From not the gravest of divines Accept for once some serious lines. Although we now can form no more Long schemes of life, as heretofore; Yet you, while time is running fast, Can look with joy on what is past. Were future happiness and pain A mere contrivance of the brain; As atheists argue, to entice And fit their proselytes for vice; (The only comfort they propose, To have companions in their woes;) Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hard That virtue, styled its own reward, And by all sages understood To be the chief of human good, Should acting die; nor leave behind Some lasting pleasure in the mind, Which, by remembrance, will assuage Grief, sickness, poverty, and age; And strongly shoot a radiant dart To shine through life's declining part. Say, Stella, feel you no content, Reflecting on a life well spent? Your skilful hand employ'd to save Despairing wretches from the grave; And then supporting with your store Those whom you dragg'd from death before? So Providence on mortals waits, Preserving what it first creates. Your generous boldness to defend An innocent and absent friend; That courage which can make you just To merit humbled in the dust; The detestation you express For vice in all its glittering dress; That patience under torturing pain, Where stubborn stoics would complain: Must these like empty shadows pass, Or forms reflected from a glass? Or mere chimeras in the mind, That fly, and leave no marks behind? Does not the body thrive and grow By food of twenty years ago? And, had it not been still supplied, It must a thousand times have died. Then who with reason can maintain That no effects of food remain? And is not virtue in mankind The nutriment that feeds the mind; Upheld by each good action past, And still continued by the last? Then, who with reason can pretend That all effects of virtue end? Believe me, Stella, when you show That true contempt for things below, Nor prize your life for other ends, Than merely to oblige your friends; Your former actions claim their part, And join to fortify your heart. For Virtue, in her daily race, Like Janus, bears a double face; Looks back with joy where she has gone And therefore goes with courage on: She at your sickly couch will wait, And guide you to a better state. O then, whatever Heaven intends, Take pity on your pitying friends! Nor let your ills affect your mind, To fancy they can be unkind. Me, surely me, you ought to spare, Who gladly would your suffering share; Or give my scrap of life to you, And think it far beneath your due; You, to whose care so oft I owe That I'm alive to tell you so.

DEATH AND DAPHNE

TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEAN. 1730

Lord Orrery gives us the following curious anecdote respecting this poem:

"I have just now cast my eye over a poem called 'Death and Daphne,’ which makes me recollect an odd incident, relating to that nymph. Swift, soon after our acquaintance, introduced me to her as to one of his female favourites. I had scarce been half an hour in her company, before she asked me if I had seen the Dean's poem upon 'Death and Daphne.' As I told her I had not, she immediately unlocked a cabinet, and, bringing out the manuscript, read it to me with a seeming satisfaction, of which, at that time, I doubted the sincerity. While she was reading, the Dean was perpetually correcting her for bad pronunciation, and for placing a wrong emphasis upon particular words. As soon as she had gone through the composition, she assured me, smilingly, that the portrait of Daphne was drawn for herself. I begged to be excused from believing it; and protested that I could not see one feature that had the least resemblance; but the Dean immediately burst into a fit of laughter. 'You fancy,' says he, 'that you are very polite, but you are much mistaken. That lady had rather be a Daphne drawn by me, than a Sacharissa by any other pencil.' She confirmed what he had said with great earnestness, so that I had no other method of retrieving my error, than by whispering in her ear, as I was conducting her down stairs to dinner, that indeed I found 'Her hand as dry and cold as lead!'" --_Remarks on the Life of Swift_, Lond., 1752, p. 126.

Death went upon a solemn day At Pluto's hall his court to pay; The phantom having humbly kiss'd His grisly monarch's sooty fist, Presented him the weekly bills Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills. Pluto, observing since the peace The burial article decrease, And vex'd to see affairs miscarry, Declared in council Death must marry; Vow'd he no longer could support Old bachelors about his court; The interest of his realm had need That Death should get a numerous breed; Young deathlings, who, by practice made Proficient in their father's trade, With colonies might stock around His large dominions under ground. A consult of coquettes below Was call'd, to rig him out a beau; From her own head Megaera[1] takes A periwig of twisted snakes: Which in the nicest fashion curl'd, (Like toupees[2] of this upper world) With flower of sulphur powder'd well, That graceful on his shoulders fell; An adder of the sable kind In line direct hung down behind: The owl, the raven, and the bat, Clubb'd for a feather to his hat: His coat, a usurer's velvet pall, Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpse and all. But, loath his person to expose Bare, like a carcass pick'd by crows, A lawyer, o'er his hands and face Stuck artfully a parchment case. No new flux'd rake show'd fairer skin; Nor Phyllis after lying in. With snuff was fill'd his ebon box, Of shin-bones rotted by the pox. Nine spirits of blaspheming fops, With aconite anoint his chops; And give him words of dreadful sounds, G--d d--n his blood! and b--d and w--ds!' Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train To take a house in Warwick-lane:[3] The faculty, his humble friends, A complimental message sends: Their president in scarlet gown Harangued, and welcomed him to town. But Death had business to dispatch; His mind was running on his match. And hearing much of Daphne's fame, His majesty of terrors came, Fine as a colonel of the guards, To visit where she sat at cards; She, as he came into the room, Thought him Adonis in his bloom. And now her heart with pleasure jumps, She scarce remembers what is trumps; For such a shape of skin and bone Was never seen except her own. Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout, Her pocket-glass drew slily out; And grew enamour'd with her phiz, As just the counterpart of his. She darted many a private glance, And freely made the first advance; Was of her beauty grown so vain, She doubted not to win the swain; Nothing she thought could sooner gain him, Than with her wit to entertain him. She ask'd about her friends below; This meagre fop, that batter'd beau; Whether some late departed toasts Had got gallants among the ghosts? If Chloe were a sharper still As great as ever at quadrille? (The ladies there must needs be rooks, For cards, we know, are Pluto's books.) If Florimel had found her love, For whom she hang'd herself above? How oft a-week was kept a ball By Proserpine at Pluto's hall? She fancied those Elysian shades The sweetest place for masquerades; How pleasant on the banks of Styx, To troll it in a coach and six! What pride a female heart inflames? How endless are ambition's aims: Cease, haughty nymph; the Fates decree Death must not be a spouse for thee; For, when by chance the meagre shade Upon thy hand his finger laid, Thy hand as dry and cold as lead, His matrimonial spirit fled; He felt about his heart a damp, That quite extinguished Cupid's lamp: Away the frighted spectre scuds, And leaves my lady in the suds.

[Footnote 1: Megaera, one of three Furies, beautifully described by Virgil, "Aeneid," xii, 846.--. _W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Periwigs with long tails.]

[Footnote 3: Where the College of Physicians was situated at that time. See Cunningham's "Handbook of London."--_W. E. B._]

DAPHNE

Daphne knows, with equal ease, How to vex, and how to please; But the folly of her sex Makes her sole delight to vex. Never woman more devised Surer ways to be despised; Paradoxes weakly wielding, Always conquer'd, never yielding. To dispute, her chief delight, Without one opinion right: Thick her arguments she lays on, And with cavils combats reason; Answers in decisive way, Never hears what you can say; Still her odd perverseness shows Chiefly where she nothing knows; And, where she is most familiar, Always peevisher and sillier; All her spirits in a flame When she knows she's most to blame. Send me hence ten thousand miles, From a face that always smiles: None could ever act that part, But a fury in her heart. Ye who hate such inconsistence, To be easy, keep your distance: Or in folly still befriend her, But have no concern to mend her; Lose not time to contradict her, Nor endeavour to convict her. Never take it in your thought, That she'll own, or cure a fault. Into contradiction warm her, Then, perhaps, you may reform her: Only take this rule along, Always to advise her wrong; And reprove her when she's right; She may then grow wise for spight. No--that scheme will ne'er succeed, She has better learnt her creed; She's too cunning and too skilful, When to yield, and when be wilful. Nature holds her forth two mirrors, One for truth, and one for errors: That looks hideous, fierce, and frightful; This is flattering and delightful: That she throws away as foul; Sits by this to dress her soul. Thus you have the case in view, Daphne, 'twixt the Dean and you: Heaven forbid he should despise thee, But he'll never more advise thee.

RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724