The new burletta now's the thing-
Pray did you ever hear me sing?"
Never indeed-" Next time we meet-
We're just now coming to the street.-
Bless me! I had almost forgot:
There's poor Jack Stiles will go to pot.
Sir Scrutiny has press'd me daily
To be this hour at the Old Bailey,
To witness to his good behaviour:
My uncle's voter, under favor-
Egad, I'm puzzled what to do,
To save him will be losing you :
Yet we must save him if we can,
For he's a staunch one, a DEAD MAN *."
By your account he's so indeed,
Unless you make some better speed.
This moment fly to save your friend-
Or else prepare him for his end.

66

Hang him, he's but a single vote;
I wish the halter round his throat.
To Lambeth I attend you, Sir."
Upon my soul! you shall not stir.
Preserve your voter from the gallows :"
Can human nature be so callous,
So negligent when life's at stake?
"I'd hang a hundred for your sake.”
I wish you'd do as much by me-
Or any thing to set me free.

Deaf to my words, he talks along,
Still louder than the buzzing throng.

"Are you," he cries," as well as ever With Lady Grace? she's vastly clever !" Her merit all the world declare: Few, very few, her friendship share.

If you'd contrive to introduce Your friend here, you might find an useSir, in that house there's no such doing, And the attempt would be one's ruin. No art, no project, no designing, No rivalship, and no outshining. "Indeed! you make me long the more To get admittance. Is the door Kept by so rude, so hard a clown, As will not melt at half-a-crown? Can't I cajole the female tribe, And gain her woman with a bribe? Refus'd to-day, suck up my sorrow, And take my chance again to-morrow? Is there no shell-work to be seen, Or Chinese chair, or Indian screen; No cockatoo nor marmozet, Lap-dog, gold-fish, nor paroquet? No French embroidery on a quilt? And no bow-window to be built? Can't I contrive, at times, to meet My lady in the park or street? At opera, play, or morning prayer, To hand her to her coach or chair?" But now his voice, though late so loud, Was lost in the contentious crowd Of fish-wives newly corporate, A colony from Billingsgate +.

That instant on the bridge I spied Lord Truewit coming from his ride.

A cant term for a sure vote.

My Lord-Sir William (I began) Has given me power to state a plan, To settle every thing between you; And so 'tis lucky that I've seen you. This morning-Hold," replies the peer, And tips me a malicious leer,

66

Against good-breeding to offend, And rudely take you from your FRIEND!" (His lordship, by the way, can spy How matters go, with half an eye; And loves in proper time and place, To laugh behind the gravest face.) ""Tis Saturday-I should not choose To break the Sabbath of the JEWS." The Jews, my lord!"Why, since this pother, I own I'm grown a younger brother: Faith, persecution is no joke;

I once was going to have spoke.Bus'ness may stay till Monday night: "Tis prudent, to be sure you're right."

He went his way. I rav'd and fum'd: To what ill fortune am I doom'd! But fortune had, it seems, decreed That moment for my being freed. Our talk, which had been somewhat loud, Insensibly the market-crowd Around my persecutor drew, And made then take him for a Jew. To me the caitiff now appeals; But I took fairly to my heels; And, pitiless of his condition, On brink of Thames and Inquisition, Left him to take his turn, and listen To each uncircumcis'd Philistine.

O Phoebus! happy he whose trust is In thee, and thy poetic justice!

§ 236. Horace, Book I. Ep. VII. Addressed to the Earl of Oxford. 1713.

Lewis his patron's humor knows,

Away upon his errand goes,

And quickly did the matter sift,
Found out that it was Doctor Dwift;
A clergyman of special note

For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care at times to run him down:
No libertine, nor over-nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice,

Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought,
Not rich, but owed no man a groat;
In state opinions à-la-mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad;
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell'd all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ.
His works were hawk'd in every street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late indeed the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And, since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended to retire.

Said Harley, "I desire to know
From his own mouth if this be so;
Step to the Doctor straight, and say,
I'd have him dine with me to-day."
Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my lord had sent:
So never offer'd once to stir;

But coldly said, "Your servant, Sir!"
"Does he refuse me?" Harley cried.
"He does, with insolence and pride."
Some few days after, Harley spies
The Doctor fasten'd by the eyes
At Charing-cross among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out:
He pull'd the string, and stopp'd his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.

Swift, who could neither Hy nor hide,
Came sneaking to the chariot-side,
And offer'd many a lame excuse :
He never meant the least abuse-

My lord the honor you design'd— Extremely proud-but I had din'd. I'm sure I never should neglectNo man alive has more respect." "Well, I shall think of that no more If you'll be sure to come at four."

The Doctor now obeys the summons, Likes both his company and commons; Displays his talents, sits till ten; Next day invited, comes again; Soon grown domestic, seldom fails Either at morning or at meals: Came early, and departed late; In short the gudgeon took the bait. My lord would carry on the jest, And down to Windsor take his guest. Swift much admires the place and air, And longs to be a canon there; In summer round the park to ride, In winter never to reside.

"A canon! that's a place too mean; No, Doctor, you shall be a Dean;

Two dozen canons round your stall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all:

You need but cross the Irish seas,
To live in plenty, pow'r, and ease."
Poor Swift departs; and, what is worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse;
Travels at least a hundred leagues,
And suffers numberless fatigues.

Suppose him now a Dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his seat;
The silver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cushion-side;
Suppose him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,
First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats-
(The wicked laity's contriving,

To hinder clergymen from thriving).
Now, all the Doctor's money spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent;
The farmers, spitefully combin'd,
Force him to take his tithes in kind:
And Parvisol discounts arrears
By bills for taxes and repairs.

Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd,
Not knowing where to turn him next,
Above a thousand pounds in debt,
Takes horse, and in a mighty fret,
Rides day and night at such a rate,
He soon arrives at Harley's gate;
But was so dirty, pale, and thin,
Old Read + would hardly let him in.

Said Harley, "Welcome, Reverend Dean!
What makes your worship look so lean?
Why, sure you won't appear in town
In that old wig and rusty gown?
I doubt heart is set on pelf,
So much that you neglect yourself.
What! I suppose, now stocks are high,
You've some good purchase in your eye?
Or is your money out at use?"

66

your

Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce," The Doctor in a passion cried, "Your raillery is misapplied; Experience I have dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat; But you resolv'd to have your jest, And 'twas a folly to contest.

Then, since you now have done your worst, Pray leave me where you found me first.

$237. Horace, Book II. Sat. VI.

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace-walk, and half a rood Of land set out to plant a wood. Well, now I have all this and more,

I ask not to increase my store;

* The Dean's agent, a Frenchnian. + The Lord Treasurer's porter.

But here a grievance seems to lie,
All this is mine but till I die;

I can't but think 'twould sound more clever, "To me and to my heirs for ever."

If I ne'er got or lost a groat,

By any trick or any fault;
And if I pray by reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools:

As thus: "Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t'other acre:
Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure!"
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, Almighty Providence!

Just what you gave me, competence :
And let me in these shades compose
Something in verse as true as prose;
Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene,
Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen.
In short, I'm perfectly content,
Let me but live on this side Trent;
Nor cross the Channel twice a year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
I must by all means come to town,
"Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse.'
The toil, the danger of the seas-
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found;
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er consider'd yet.

"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown;
Let my lord know you're come to town."
1 hurry me in haste away,
Not thinking it is levee-day;
And find his Honor in a pound,
Hemm'd by a triple circle round,
Chequer'd with ribands blue and green :
How should I thrust myself between ?
Some wag observes me thus perplex'd,
And, smiling, whispers to the next:
"I thought the Dean had been too proud
To jostle here among the crowd!"
Another, in a surly fit,

Tells me I have more zeal than wit:
"So eager to express your love,
You ne'er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a duke."
I own I'm pleased with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant to show
What I desire the world should know.

I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Desiring I would stand their friend.
This humbly offers me his case;
That begs my interest for a place:
A hundred other men's affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears.
"To-morrow my appeal comes on:
Without your help the cause is gone."
"The duke expects my lord and you,
About some great affair, at two:

Put my Lord Bolingbroke in in mind.
To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
Consider, 'tis my first request."
Be satisfied, I'll do my best.
Then presently he falls to tease:
"You may for certain if you please :
I doubt not, if his lordship knew—
And, Mr. Dean, one word from you—”
"Tis (let me see) three years and more
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chose me for an humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that:
As, What's o'clock?" and "How's the
"Whose chariot's that we left behind?"
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country signs:
Or, "Have you nothing new to-day
From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?"
Such tattle often entertains

[wind?"

My lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor and again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.
Yet some I know with envy swell,
Because they see me used so well.
"How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean!
My lord and he are grown so great,
Always together, téle-à-tête:

What! they admire him for his jokes?
See but the fortune of some folks!"

There flies about a strange report
Of some express arriv'd at court.
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in ev'ry street.
"You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great ;
Inform us, will the emperor treat,
Or do the prints and papers lie?"
Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.

Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
'Tis now no secret."-I protest
"Tis one to me.-" Then tell us, pray,
When are the troops to have their pay?"
And though I solemnly declare

I know no more than my lord-mayor,
They stand amaz'd, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known.

Thus, in a sea of folly tost,
My choicest hours of life are lost;
Yet always wishing to retreat,
O could I see my country-seat!
There, leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or peruse some ancient book;
And there in sweet oblivion drown
Those cares that haunt the court and town!

§ 238. A true and faithful Inventory of the Goods belonging to Dr. Swift, Vicar of Laracor, upon lending his house to the Bishop of Meath till his Palace was rebuilt.

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 quite grown 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?

$239. An Elegy on the Death of Demar the Usurer, who died the 6th of July 1720.

KNow all men by these presents, Death the

tamer

By mortgage hath secur'd the corpse of Demar:

praising her Husband to Dr. Swift.

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 them 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 could 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 interest keep him from the grave.
A golden monument could not be right,
Because we wish the earth upon him light.
O London tavern! thou hast lost a friend,
Though 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;

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.

WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, Sir, I will not jibe;
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.

These four lines were written by Stella.