Gulliveriana or, a fourth volume of miscellanies. Being a Sequel of the Three Volumes published by Pope and Swift. To which is added, Alexanderiana; or, A Comparison between the Ecclesiastical and Poetical Pope. And many Things, in Verse and Prose, relating to the latter. With an ample Preface; and a Critique on the Third Volume of Miscellanies lately publish'd by those two facetious Writers [by Jonathan Smedley] |
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A LETTER from the
Quidnunc's
at St. James's Coffee-house and the
Mall, London, to their Brethren at
Lucas's Coffee-house, in Dublin.
|
 | Gulliveriana |  |
94
A LETTER from the Quidnunc's at St. James's Coffee-house and the Mall, London, to their Brethren at Lucas's Coffee-house, in Dublin.
To Mr. Smith, Inquisitor-General, and President of the Arched-Seat, and the Athenian Corner, at Lucas's Coffee-house.
Quid scribam vobis, vel quid omnino non scribam,
Dii me Deæque perdant, si satis scio.
Suet. in Tib.
Dii me Deæque perdant, si satis scio.
Suet. in Tib.
Sir, having nothing else to do,
We send these empty Lines to you:
To you, these empty Lines we send,
For want of News, my worthy Friend:
In hopes, e'er long, some Spirit kind
Will, either raise a Storm of Wind,
Or cause an Earthquake, or, in the Air,
Embattled Troops will make appear:
Or produce, somewhere, something new:
Cause Stories, whether false or true,
To fly about: For, without News,
Our Ears and Tongues are of no use;
And when there's nothing to be said,
Tis better, sure, that we were dead.
We send these empty Lines to you:
To you, these empty Lines we send,
For want of News, my worthy Friend:
In hopes, e'er long, some Spirit kind
Will, either raise a Storm of Wind,
Or cause an Earthquake, or, in the Air,
Embattled Troops will make appear:
95
Cause Stories, whether false or true,
To fly about: For, without News,
Our Ears and Tongues are of no use;
And when there's nothing to be said,
Tis better, sure, that we were dead.
Good Lord! what silent Times are these!
All's Peace at Home! Abroad all's Peace!
Our State secure! Church out of Danger!
D*mn it; 'twou'd make one burst with Anger.
Not so when pious Anna reigned;
New Things, each Packet, then contained.
Then Marlbro' (thundring from afar)
Up-rous'd us by the Din of War;
And Oxford (laying aside his Grace)
Rous'd us much more, by making Peace.
Then D'Aumont drove a right French Trade,
And run his Goods, in Masquerade:
The Pulpits, then, were fill'd with Thunder;
Each Day, at Court, produc'd some Wonder.
The Fleet laid up! Army disbanded,
And the Pretender—all—but landed.
All's Peace at Home! Abroad all's Peace!
Our State secure! Church out of Danger!
D*mn it; 'twou'd make one burst with Anger.
Not so when pious Anna reigned;
New Things, each Packet, then contained.
Then Marlbro' (thundring from afar)
Up-rous'd us by the Din of War;
And Oxford (laying aside his Grace)
Rous'd us much more, by making Peace.
Then D'Aumont drove a right French Trade,
And run his Goods, in Masquerade:
The Pulpits, then, were fill'd with Thunder;
Each Day, at Court, produc'd some Wonder.
96
And the Pretender—all—but landed.
But now, the Devil a Thing, like this;
We eat, we drink, we sleep, we kiss;
Grow fat as Cooks, grow rich as Jews:
But what's all this, Sir, without News?
No News, Sir—let's see—none has been—
These twelve long Months—no Monster seen—
No bloody Murthers—Battles none—
And hardly a Fire in the Town—
No Frolick—nay, Men cease to sport on,
His poor and merry Grace of Wharton.
Dismal indeed! In fine, my Friend,
I fear, the World's, just at an End—
Fear? No! I hope—If this be true,
We, then, shall meet with somewhat new.
We eat, we drink, we sleep, we kiss;
Grow fat as Cooks, grow rich as Jews:
But what's all this, Sir, without News?
No News, Sir—let's see—none has been—
These twelve long Months—no Monster seen—
No bloody Murthers—Battles none—
And hardly a Fire in the Town—
No Frolick—nay, Men cease to sport on,
His poor and merry Grace of Wharton.
Dismal indeed! In fine, my Friend,
I fear, the World's, just at an End—
Fear? No! I hope—If this be true,
We, then, shall meet with somewhat new.
But damn that silly Ass the Turk—
Well—Alberoni will make Work—
Nor, shall we long, I'm sure, complain;
Philip will send us News from Spain:
God bless us! should the French King die!
The Czar too!—think you he'll lie by?
—At least, Two hundred thousand Men—
Ha! he'll to Persia back again—
Or else he'll fight some Europæan;
Or send his Fleet to invade the Ægæan.
Come—come—This Summer, I foresee,
Of new Things, will productive be;
And to preserve you from the Hips,
Next May, we shall have an Eclipse.
And this, thank God, this great Event,
King George and's Council can't prevent.
Well—Alberoni will make Work—
97
Philip will send us News from Spain:
God bless us! should the French King die!
The Czar too!—think you he'll lie by?
—At least, Two hundred thousand Men—
Ha! he'll to Persia back again—
Or else he'll fight some Europæan;
Or send his Fleet to invade the Ægæan.
Come—come—This Summer, I foresee,
Of new Things, will productive be;
And to preserve you from the Hips,
Next May, we shall have an Eclipse.
And this, thank God, this great Event,
King George and's Council can't prevent.
Besides, consider well, my Friend,
What things Star-gazers, hence, portend.
What Wars! what Famines! Great Men dead!
Women of Monsters brought to Bed!
Well—hang it—Master, never fear:
This will be a News-Coining Year.
May's not far off—No! not one Spark!
We all shall, then, be in the Dark!
And yet (altho' as Dark as Night)
That Day shall bring strange things to Light.
What things Star-gazers, hence, portend.
What Wars! what Famines! Great Men dead!
Women of Monsters brought to Bed!
Well—hang it—Master, never fear:
This will be a News-Coining Year.
98
We all shall, then, be in the Dark!
And yet (altho' as Dark as Night)
That Day shall bring strange things to Light.
But, pray Sir, how goes on your Scheming?
Knows Rythmicus ought, worth your Naming?
Does keen Fabritius, skilful Brother!
See, still, as far, as any other,
Into the Millstone, which before ye,
Grinds, hourly, some pretty Story,
Into a thousand Parts, so small,
At length, they are hardly seen at all.
Does Masticator, Sage and Wise,
Some worn-out Stuff, anew, devise?
And find The Inimitable Grace,
In all that's said, by Bonniface?
Does soft Virginius still, beguile
His Hours, by that most silent Smile,
With which, he assents to all, that's said?
Is old Inany alive or dead?
Is Venter Ditto? Dull and Merry?
Whom have ye voted Dean of Derry?
Are ye all i'th' Dark, or can ye look
Into each Secret of the Duke?
Tell, why things, thus long, are deferr'd?
And name the Men to be preferr'd?
Tell these, my Friend, and what's to follow,
And you shall be my great Apollo.
Knows Rythmicus ought, worth your Naming?
Does keen Fabritius, skilful Brother!
See, still, as far, as any other,
Into the Millstone, which before ye,
Grinds, hourly, some pretty Story,
Into a thousand Parts, so small,
At length, they are hardly seen at all.
Does Masticator, Sage and Wise,
Some worn-out Stuff, anew, devise?
And find The Inimitable Grace,
In all that's said, by Bonniface?
Does soft Virginius still, beguile
His Hours, by that most silent Smile,
With which, he assents to all, that's said?
Is old Inany alive or dead?
99
Whom have ye voted Dean of Derry?
Are ye all i'th' Dark, or can ye look
Into each Secret of the Duke?
Tell, why things, thus long, are deferr'd?
And name the Men to be preferr'd?
Tell these, my Friend, and what's to follow,
And you shall be my great Apollo.
When, on dry Ground, shall People tread,
From Houth's high Hill, to Holly-Head?
Wide as the Thames shall Liffey Flow?
Amidst your Bogs, shall Spices Grow?
Say, can a better Vice-Roy grace
The Duke of Grafton's arduous Place?
Than him, who'll Faction, more Despise?
And will the Factious e'er be wise?
Will they, To mean some what, be taught?
Will Quidnunc's, e'er, prove good for aught?
When will Miss EUSTACE cease to Charm?
And Crafty CLODIUS mean no Harm?
But—just arriv'd one Holland Mail;
And so, in haste, we Sign and Seal.—
From Houth's high Hill, to Holly-Head?
Wide as the Thames shall Liffey Flow?
Amidst your Bogs, shall Spices Grow?
Say, can a better Vice-Roy grace
The Duke of Grafton's arduous Place?
Than him, who'll Faction, more Despise?
And will the Factious e'er be wise?
Will they, To mean some what, be taught?
Will Quidnunc's, e'er, prove good for aught?
When will Miss EUSTACE cease to Charm?
And Crafty CLODIUS mean no Harm?
100
And so, in haste, we Sign and Seal.—
Dear Inquisitor, Your, (Cumsociis,) Most Questionful, And most Curious Brethren,
And humble Servants, R, S, T, U, W, X, Y, Z, &c.
| Gulliveriana | |