University of Virginia Library

AN ANSWRE TO THE Christmass-Box.

IN DEFENCE OF Docter D---n---y.

Ye damnable dunces, ye Criblers what mean ye,
To fall with your dogrell on Doctor D---n---y
Such poor silly Criticks as you may go Whistle
You ne'er can run-down his familiar Epistle,
That brilliant Epistle which glitters and shines,
In Musick, in Numbers, in Diction, in Lines,
In Substance, in Spirit, in Force, and in Witt,
In Complements such as Augustus might fit,
Tho' what he has said of his patron is faint
Nor wonder, since no Man his virtues can paint,
For no Poet ever attempts to express;
Besides he divided, he gave the one half,
Of all the Encomiums to himself and Sir Ralph,
O! Wonderfull Prowess of genius, when he
With so little trouble cou'd Complement three!
His Lord and the Speaker shall live in his Poem,
Six thousand Years after all readers shall know 'em,
While Pindar, and Horace, and Virgil forgotten
Shall be like their Heroes, Sunk bury'd & rotten
For all other Authors his Writings shall banish,
Like Ghosts at the sight of the Day-light they'll vanish,
His glorious Epistle so shining and high
Shall be like his Phœbus, that Lord of the Sky,
Who, when on his Chrysolithe Throne he appears,
A Star dare not peep in the Sky for it's Ears.
Now a word by the by; for I think it my duty
Since you're so Mistaken to point out each Beauty,
Observe with what judgment he shews this our Isle,
A patron so artfull our Cares can beguile;
How that very pievish, Cross grumbler the Dean,
Does nothing at Court but of Courtiers Complain;
Such impudence tis, in a Man of his Station,
To put in one word for the good of the Nation,
That he with Submission sits silently List'ning,
Like a Clerk when the Person holds forth at a Christ'ning
But ventures at last like a Man of true Sperit
To cry out, my Lord, you must know I have merit
Much more than a thousand, and is it not hard,
That virtue so wondrous shou'd have no reward;
But a pitiful Pittance five hundred a year,
At a time that our very Potatoes are dear
My Lord what I tell you is true to a Tittel,
Or may I be banish'd from licking your Spittle,
Why then, quoth my Lord, since you give me this Trouble,
I tell you, in short you are ev'ry Way double;
As Poet, as Docter, as Rector, as Vicar;
As Dealer, as builder, as planter, as quicker,
But if you've a mind to be triple, rely on,
My Word and I'll make you a second Geryon,
Ye Critick malicious now read what he says,
In those Matchless verses on Farmanagh Ways,
Where all the rough pebles are polish'd so fine,
Like Emralds they sparkle, like Diamonds the shine,
Whoever hereafter that fall on these stones
Shall think it an honour to break half his bones
Now see the finess of a true politician,
He'd change for the worse and he'd thrash like a Priscian,
From thumping the Cushion to make those that Nod.
Instead of a Sermon he'd brandish a Rod.
But Charly (tho' Charly) is not such a Tool
To Change for more trouble a fine-cure School
Four hundred perannum not one Shilling under
To preach in two Churches twelve long Miles a sunder.
And wade it a horse back in dirt to the knee,
When Paddy can better wade thro' it than he.
Observe his address with what artful Submission
He tells his rich patron, his presious condition
Quite ruin'd, and bankrupt reduc'd to a farthing,
By making too much of a very small garden.
By squand'ring his Mony in Dribs to the poor,
He's ready to leave the key under the door.
And grieves that his patron has so much to give,
While he (more's the pitty is shifting to live.)
Again he sollicits in manner most nice,
By another more subtle and cunning device,
Because he has hear'd that his patron's well read,
He layes by his belly and begs for his head;
For writing three Ridles had cost him such pains,
That he scarce had remaing three scruples of brains.
For want of some Mony he's quite off the hooks,
To pay off old scores and to buy him new books.
To re-build a house that he pull'd down already,
And to buy a fine Ribband to give a fine Lady.
These are but a few, that I chose from the rest,
Tho' not one thought in it but can stand the test.
Nay more I will venture to swear it surpasses,
All Poems that ever were katch'd at Parnassus,
Ev'n Horace to Cesar, to this is but barely,
A Thing call'd a poem and Swift to is Harley
That poem so valu'd, so often read over.
While Patt's is a reading, now sleeps in its cover.