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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 | Gulliveriana |  |
DEDICATION. To My Self.
xxi
[See! Gulliver's, is Milo's End]
See! Gulliver's, is Milo's End:Wedg'd in the Wood, be could not rend.
He strove to Rise, by other's, Ruin,
But Strove, and Strove, to's own undoing.
For he, his Fellow-writers, thinking
To bury, in his Art of Sinking,
Pop'd in himself, and hal'd P---e after,
And sinking low, rais'd high the Laughter.
xxxii
[Dear Sid, then why wert thou so mad]
Dear Sid, then why wert thou so madTo break thy Rod, like naughty Lad?
You should have kist it in your Distress,
And then return'd it to your Mistress:
Or made it a Newmarket Switch,
And not a Rod for thy own Breech:
For since Old Sid has broken this,
His next will be a Rod in Piss.
xxxiii
1. A New Discovery.
For what is understood by Fame,Besides the getting of a Name?
2. The Art of Metaphor.
Wou'd you déscribe Turenne or Trump?Think of a Bucket, or a Pump.
3. A Sample of Satire on any Lieutenant General of the Army.
So, when the War has rais'd a Storm,I've seen a Snake, in human Form,
All stain'd with Infamy and Vice,
Leap from the Dunghill in a Trice;
Burnish, and make a gaudy Shew,
Become a General, Peer, and Beau!
xxxiv
4. An Allegory taken from a Serpent, to express the most virulent Obscenity.
Besides, it spews a filthy Froth,Whether thro' Love, or Rage, or both;
Of Matter purulent and white, &c.
5. A Simile to express the same.
So have I seen a batter'd Beau,
By Age and Claps grown cold as Snow,
Receive the Filth which he ejects;
She soon would find the same Effects,
By Age and Claps grown cold as Snow,
Receive the Filth which he ejects;
She soon would find the same Effects,
A dismal shedding of her Locks,
And, if no Leprosy, a Pox.
And, if no Leprosy, a Pox.
xxxv
1. A Comparison between an OX and an ELEPHANT.
One's Teeth are sold, and t'other's Tongue.2 Between an ELEPHANT and a PARLIAMENT-MAN.
To get their Masters Half a Crown,They spread the Flag, or lay it down.
A King and A Cobler.
A List the Coblers Temple ties,
To keep the Hair out of their Eyes;
From whence, 'tis plain, the Diadem
That Princes wear, derives from them.
To keep the Hair out of their Eyes;
From whence, 'tis plain, the Diadem
That Princes wear, derives from them.
—The Art of Cobling bears
A near Resemblance to the Spheres.
A near Resemblance to the Spheres.
13
GULLIVERIANA.
The Journal.
Thalia, tell in sober Lays,
How George, Nim, Dan, Dean, pass their Days,
And should our Galls-town Wit grow fallow,
Yet, Neget quis Carmina Gallo?
Here (by the Way) by Gallus mean I,
Not Sheridon, but Friend Delany.
Begin my Muse. First from our Bowers,
We issue forth, at different Hours.
At Seven the Dean, in Night-Gown dress'd,
Goes round the House to wake the rest:
At Nine, grave Nim and George facetious,
Go to the Dean to read Lucretius:
At Ten, my Lady comes and Hectors,
And kisses George, and ends our Lectures;
And as she has him by the Neck fast,
Hawl's him, and scolds us down to Breakfast;
We squander there an Hour and more,
And then all Hands, Boys, to the Oar,
All, Heteroclite Dan except,
Who neither Time nor Order kept:
But by peculiar Whimsies drawn,
Peeps in the Ponds to look for Spawn,
O'er-sees the Work, or Dragon rows,
Or spoils a Text, or mends his Hose:
Or—but proceed we in our Journal:
At Two, or after, we return all.
From the Four Elements assembling,
Warn'd by the Bell, all Folks come trembling.
From airy Garrets some descend,
Some from the Lake's remotest End;
My Lord and Dean the Fire forsake,
Dan leaves the earthly Spade and Rake;
The Loyt'rers quake, no Corner hides 'em,
And Lady Betty soundly chides 'em.
Now Water's brought, and Dinner done,
With Church and King the Lady's gone;
Not reckoning half an Hour we pass
In talking o'er a moderate Glass.
Dan growing drowsy, like a Thief,
Steals off to dose away his Beef.
And this must pass for reading Hammond:
While George and Dean go to Back-gammon;
George, Nim and Dean set out at Four,
And then again, Boys, to the Oar.
But when the Sun goes to the Deep,
Not to disturb him in his Sleep,
Or make a Rumbling o'er his Head,
His Candle out and he a Bed,
We watch his Motions to a Minute,
And leave the Flood when he goes in it:
Now stinted in the shortning Day,
We go to Prayers, and then to Play,
Till Supper comes, and after that
We sit an Hour to Drink and Chat.
'Tis late, the old and younger Pairs,
By Adam lighted, walk up Stairs:
The weary Dean goes to his Chamber,
And Nim and Dan to Garret clamber.
So when this Circle we have run,
The Curtain falls, and we have done.
How George, Nim, Dan, Dean, pass their Days,
And should our Galls-town Wit grow fallow,
Yet, Neget quis Carmina Gallo?
Here (by the Way) by Gallus mean I,
Not Sheridon, but Friend Delany.
Begin my Muse. First from our Bowers,
We issue forth, at different Hours.
At Seven the Dean, in Night-Gown dress'd,
Goes round the House to wake the rest:
At Nine, grave Nim and George facetious,
Go to the Dean to read Lucretius:
At Ten, my Lady comes and Hectors,
And kisses George, and ends our Lectures;
14
Hawl's him, and scolds us down to Breakfast;
We squander there an Hour and more,
And then all Hands, Boys, to the Oar,
All, Heteroclite Dan except,
Who neither Time nor Order kept:
But by peculiar Whimsies drawn,
Peeps in the Ponds to look for Spawn,
O'er-sees the Work, or Dragon rows,
Or spoils a Text, or mends his Hose:
Or—but proceed we in our Journal:
At Two, or after, we return all.
From the Four Elements assembling,
Warn'd by the Bell, all Folks come trembling.
From airy Garrets some descend,
Some from the Lake's remotest End;
My Lord and Dean the Fire forsake,
Dan leaves the earthly Spade and Rake;
The Loyt'rers quake, no Corner hides 'em,
And Lady Betty soundly chides 'em.
15
With Church and King the Lady's gone;
Not reckoning half an Hour we pass
In talking o'er a moderate Glass.
Dan growing drowsy, like a Thief,
Steals off to dose away his Beef.
And this must pass for reading Hammond:
While George and Dean go to Back-gammon;
George, Nim and Dean set out at Four,
And then again, Boys, to the Oar.
But when the Sun goes to the Deep,
Not to disturb him in his Sleep,
Or make a Rumbling o'er his Head,
His Candle out and he a Bed,
We watch his Motions to a Minute,
And leave the Flood when he goes in it:
Now stinted in the shortning Day,
We go to Prayers, and then to Play,
Till Supper comes, and after that
We sit an Hour to Drink and Chat.
16
By Adam lighted, walk up Stairs:
The weary Dean goes to his Chamber,
And Nim and Dan to Garret clamber.
So when this Circle we have run,
The Curtain falls, and we have done.
I might have mention'd several Facts,
Like Episodes, between the Acts,
And tell who loses, and who wins,
Who gets a Cold, who break their Shins;
How Dan caught nothing in his Net,
And how his Boat was over-set.
For Brevity I have retrench'd,
How in the Lake the Dean was drench'd:
It would be an Exploit to brag on,
How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon;
How steady in the Storm he sat,
And sav'd his Oar, but lost his Hat;
How Nim, no Hunter e'er cou'd match him,
Still brings in Hares, when he can catch 'em:
How skilfully Dan mends his Nets;
How Fortune fails him when he sets:
Or how the Dean delights to vex
The Ladies, and Lampoon their Sex.
I might have told how oft Dean Percival
Displays his Pedantry unmerciful:
How haughtily he cocks his Nose,
To tell what every School-Boy knows;
And with his Finger and his Thumb,
Explaining, strikes Opposers dumb:
But now there need no more be said on't,
Nor how his Wife, that Female Pedant,
Shews all her Secrets of House-keeping;
For Candles, how she trucks her Dripping;
Was forc'd to send three Miles for Yeast,
To brew her Ale, and raise her Paste;
Tells every thing that she can think of:
How she cur'd Charly of the Chin-cough;
What gave her Brats and Pigs the Meazles,
And how her Doves were kill'd by Weazles:
How Jowler howl'd, and what a Fright
She had in Dreams, the other Night:
But now, since I have gone so far on,
A Word or two of Lord Chief Baron,
And tell how little Weight he sets
On all Whig-Papers and Gazette's,
But for the Politicks of PUE,
Thinks ev'ry Syllable is true.
And since he owns the King of Sweden
Is dead, at last without Invading;
Now all his Hopes are in the Czar:
Why! Muscovy is not so far;
Down the Black Sea and up the Streights,
And in a Month, he's at your Gates:
Perhaps, from what this Packet brings,
By Christmas we shall see strange Things.
Why shou'd I tell of Ponds and Drains,
What Carps we meet with, for our Pains;
Of Sparrows tam'd; of Nuts innumerable,
To choak the Girls, consume the Rabble:
But you, who are a Scholar, know,
How transient all Things are below,
How prone to change is human Life.
Last Night arriv'd Clem and his Wife.
This grand Event half broke our Measures,
Their Reign began with cruel Seizures:
The Dean must with his Quilt supply
The Bed, in which these Tyrants lie.
Nim lost his Wig-box, Dan his Jordan,
My Lady says she cant afford one;
George is half scar'd out of his Wits,
For Clem gets all the dainty Bits;
Henceforth expect a different Survey,
This House will soon turn topsy-turvey.
They talk of further Alterations,
Which causes many Speculations.
Like Episodes, between the Acts,
And tell who loses, and who wins,
Who gets a Cold, who break their Shins;
How Dan caught nothing in his Net,
And how his Boat was over-set.
For Brevity I have retrench'd,
How in the Lake the Dean was drench'd:
It would be an Exploit to brag on,
How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon;
How steady in the Storm he sat,
And sav'd his Oar, but lost his Hat;
How Nim, no Hunter e'er cou'd match him,
Still brings in Hares, when he can catch 'em:
17
How Fortune fails him when he sets:
Or how the Dean delights to vex
The Ladies, and Lampoon their Sex.
I might have told how oft Dean Percival
Displays his Pedantry unmerciful:
How haughtily he cocks his Nose,
To tell what every School-Boy knows;
And with his Finger and his Thumb,
Explaining, strikes Opposers dumb:
But now there need no more be said on't,
Nor how his Wife, that Female Pedant,
Shews all her Secrets of House-keeping;
For Candles, how she trucks her Dripping;
Was forc'd to send three Miles for Yeast,
To brew her Ale, and raise her Paste;
Tells every thing that she can think of:
How she cur'd Charly of the Chin-cough;
What gave her Brats and Pigs the Meazles,
And how her Doves were kill'd by Weazles:
18
She had in Dreams, the other Night:
But now, since I have gone so far on,
A Word or two of Lord Chief Baron,
And tell how little Weight he sets
On all Whig-Papers and Gazette's,
But for the Politicks of PUE,
Thinks ev'ry Syllable is true.
And since he owns the King of Sweden
Is dead, at last without Invading;
Now all his Hopes are in the Czar:
Why! Muscovy is not so far;
Down the Black Sea and up the Streights,
And in a Month, he's at your Gates:
Perhaps, from what this Packet brings,
By Christmas we shall see strange Things.
Why shou'd I tell of Ponds and Drains,
What Carps we meet with, for our Pains;
Of Sparrows tam'd; of Nuts innumerable,
To choak the Girls, consume the Rabble:
19
How transient all Things are below,
How prone to change is human Life.
Last Night arriv'd Clem and his Wife.
This grand Event half broke our Measures,
Their Reign began with cruel Seizures:
The Dean must with his Quilt supply
The Bed, in which these Tyrants lie.
Nim lost his Wig-box, Dan his Jordan,
My Lady says she cant afford one;
George is half scar'd out of his Wits,
For Clem gets all the dainty Bits;
Henceforth expect a different Survey,
This House will soon turn topsy-turvey.
They talk of further Alterations,
Which causes many Speculations.
22
The British Journal.
NUMB. CCVI.
[_]
We are entreated by some of our Correspondents in Dublin to publish the following Copy of Verses, which, it seems, are the Resentment of some young Authors, for a Slight put upon their Works, by a Journalist of this City: Although, in Compliance to the mentioned Request, we consent to print the ensuing Lines, yet we cannot do it without protesting, that we are no Way concerned in the Quarrel; that we design to side with neither Party; and that we don't think, with the Poet of this Composition, that 'tis fair Play to upbraid a Man with the Faults of Nature, or the Infirmities of his Constitution.
Odi profanum vulgus & arceo.
Hor.
Hor.
A writer held in great Renown
By all the News-Boys of the Town.
Who ne'er (as I imagine) rose
Above the vulgar Turn of Prose,
Seeing so many Younkers dabble
In Poetry, to please the Rabble,
Like Æsop's Frog, with Envy swell'd,
The darling Phaetons beheld:
Nothing, it seems, with him would down,
This rais'd his Laugh, and that his Frown:
Whate'er they writ was Stuff or Fustian,
And all was sentenc'd to Combustion:
In short, Sir, not a single Cantor
Of all the Tribe escap'd his Banter.
Now having, with a deal of Pleasure,
Anatomiz'd their Rhyme and Measure,
Weigh'd every Thought, and Word, and Letter,
Thinks he, Faith, I could jingle better:
Resolv'd to put it to the Test,
How far he could excel the rest,
He whips me on his Sunday's Cloaths,
And bids adieu to Mrs. Prose.
By no Perswasion would he stay,
But to Parnassus bent his Way;
Where having reach'd, with due Submission,
To th'Nine, presents his poor Petition.
Miss Clio, having paus'd a while,
Return'd him Answer in this Style:
“Sir, Phœbus made a Declaration,
“'Gainst all lame Members in the Nation;
“Nor does he ever think that those
“Should run in Rhyme, who limp in Prose.
By all the News-Boys of the Town.
Who ne'er (as I imagine) rose
Above the vulgar Turn of Prose,
23
In Poetry, to please the Rabble,
Like Æsop's Frog, with Envy swell'd,
The darling Phaetons beheld:
Nothing, it seems, with him would down,
This rais'd his Laugh, and that his Frown:
Whate'er they writ was Stuff or Fustian,
And all was sentenc'd to Combustion:
In short, Sir, not a single Cantor
Of all the Tribe escap'd his Banter.
Now having, with a deal of Pleasure,
Anatomiz'd their Rhyme and Measure,
Weigh'd every Thought, and Word, and Letter,
Thinks he, Faith, I could jingle better:
Resolv'd to put it to the Test,
How far he could excel the rest,
He whips me on his Sunday's Cloaths,
And bids adieu to Mrs. Prose.
By no Perswasion would he stay,
But to Parnassus bent his Way;
24
To th'Nine, presents his poor Petition.
Miss Clio, having paus'd a while,
Return'd him Answer in this Style:
“Sir, Phœbus made a Declaration,
“'Gainst all lame Members in the Nation;
“Nor does he ever think that those
“Should run in Rhyme, who limp in Prose.
Arbuckle heard,—but heard with Anger,
And in his Heart could find to hang her:
His Nails he bites, his Breast he thumps,
And so departed in the Dumps:
But as your Bubbles game the more,
Nor yet by losing quit the Score;
So he, possess'd with double Flame,
Soon after to Parnassus came;
And, hurried on by more Ambition,
In Person backs his old Petition:
Begg'd, pray'd, and begg'd and pray'd again,
Us'd e'ery Tone, but all in vain.
And in his Heart could find to hang her:
His Nails he bites, his Breast he thumps,
And so departed in the Dumps:
But as your Bubbles game the more,
Nor yet by losing quit the Score;
So he, possess'd with double Flame,
Soon after to Parnassus came;
And, hurried on by more Ambition,
In Person backs his old Petition:
25
Us'd e'ery Tone, but all in vain.
At last, upon a certain Day,
To Phœbus, Clio takes her Way,
And flying through her heavenly Road,
Soon reach'd the Radiant God's Abode:
To whom she, after a Good-morrow,
In canting Style, express'd her Sorrow:
Told, that a Wight, yclep'd Arbuckle,
Did often to her Sisters truckle,
And turn'd Parnassus to a Stage:
“Ay! Dame, reply'd the Reverend Sage;
“By Jove I'll make that Grub-street Scraper,
“E'er I to Bed go, cut a Caper:
“He'll find, if he comes in my Clutches,
“But small Assistance from his Crutches.”
To Phœbus, Clio takes her Way,
And flying through her heavenly Road,
Soon reach'd the Radiant God's Abode:
To whom she, after a Good-morrow,
In canting Style, express'd her Sorrow:
Told, that a Wight, yclep'd Arbuckle,
Did often to her Sisters truckle,
And turn'd Parnassus to a Stage:
“Ay! Dame, reply'd the Reverend Sage;
“By Jove I'll make that Grub-street Scraper,
“E'er I to Bed go, cut a Caper:
“He'll find, if he comes in my Clutches,
“But small Assistance from his Crutches.”
26
Eftsoons, they both like Swallows fly,
Down from Olympus thro' the Sky;
And coming near Parnassus, view'd
Our Interloper over-rude:—
In dreadful Armour rushing on,
To gain the Muses, pro or con.
But Clio, nearer now approaching,
Cry'd out, “Thou Villain, art incroaching?
“You Farthing Journalist:—Hey-day,
“Methinks you're armed Cap-a-pe!”
Down from Olympus thro' the Sky;
And coming near Parnassus, view'd
Our Interloper over-rude:—
In dreadful Armour rushing on,
To gain the Muses, pro or con.
But Clio, nearer now approaching,
Cry'd out, “Thou Villain, art incroaching?
“You Farthing Journalist:—Hey-day,
“Methinks you're armed Cap-a-pe!”
“Here Clio, says the angry God,
“Go get me a good Birchen Rod,
“The best you find on Mount Parnassus;
“Such Tricks as these shall never pass us.”
This done,—he lays upon his Backside,
And, doubtless, he left him a black Side.
At last, dismissing him,—“Now go,
“Still to remain in Statu quo:
“And henceforth know this Hill (he says)
“Produces Birch as well as Bays.”
“Go get me a good Birchen Rod,
“The best you find on Mount Parnassus;
“Such Tricks as these shall never pass us.”
This done,—he lays upon his Backside,
And, doubtless, he left him a black Side.
At last, dismissing him,—“Now go,
“Still to remain in Statu quo:
“And henceforth know this Hill (he says)
“Produces Birch as well as Bays.”
If such Kinds of Abuse were justifiable, the Example of Sir John Suckling might excuse our Author: That Gentleman, in a Session of the Poets, written by him, makes Apollo refuse the Bays to Sir William Davenant, because, as he said, there was no Precedent of a Laureat's wanting his Nose; but these are all poor Jests, and we know by Experience, that Poetry differs in this respect from the Priesthood, since several have been admitted Brethren, and done it much Honour, whose Beauty and Proportion would not have entitled them to Holy Orders.
27
To Mr. Arb---; with the foregoing Tale.
SIR,
Finding your Noddle exhausted and muddy,And but little Humour the Fruit of much Study,
I have sent you, thro' mere Compassion and Pity,
To fill up your Paper, this comical Ditty:
But pray when it falls within your Dominion,
Don't damn it e'er others shall give their Opinion:
Then shall I be satisfied, if they should burn all
My dull Compositions, along with your Journal.
28
The Forester and the Wood.
A TALE.
I
In good King Edgar's Days we read,(Some hundred Years ago)
The Thing's immortal made by Speed,
And eke, by learned Stow.
II
A Forester, of High Renown,There dwelt in Kent's fair Land;
Sometimes he wore a rural Crown,
His Word was a Command.
III
Icomen of all Sorts and DegreesDid weld his fruitful Ground,
They liv'd in Plenty, Peace and Ease,
And bless'd him all around.
29
IV
Amidst his Land, in comely Guise,In those same Days there stood,
Its Branches stretching to the Skies,
A large and comely Wood.
V
This Forester, resolv'd one Day,After Debate mature,
To's Yeomen Labour, and good Pay,
From this Wood to procure.
VI
And to himself, likewise much Wealth,And many other Good,
As Corn and Wine, and Ease and Health,
And all from this same Wood.
VII
But at that Time, a Priest arose,Of sable, sullen Hue,
And Priests, before, and since have chose,
Dire Mischiefs, oft, to do.
30
VIII
This Priest he bellow'd wide and loud,And fir'd the Yeomens Blood,
And into Tumults rais'd the Crowd,
On score of this same Wood.
IX
Nay he, full many and many a Time,In Verses, Doggrel hight;
(Which with sophistick Prose did chime)
Did shew his spiritual Spight.
X
For, you must know his Heart and Mind,(So full of canker'd Gall,
Nor to the Forester inclin'd)
Did often make him bawl,
XI
Not only 'gainst his Landlord, true,So great, and eke so good,
But to revile his Greenmen too,
On score of this same Wood.
31
XII
So, on a Day, in gorgeous Gown,And Bible in his Hand;
Cock'd Hat, and in his keenest Frown,
The Mob he did command,
XIII
And Yeomen, likewise, to declare,That Wood, it must be fell'd,
Or else, that it should cost him dear,
For, it was Ominous held;
XIV
Nor was of Use, while there it stood,Was neither Thick, nor Tall,
That it disgrac'd the Neighbourhood,
And therefore it should fall.
XV
So to the Castle they repair'd,The Forester's high Tow'r,
And there these Tidings they declar'd
With all their Might and Power.
32
XVI
With that, the Forester, so meek,In gentle Tone, replied,
My Mind some Mischief did bespeak,
When that same Priest I spied.
XVII
Be not deceiv'd, my Yeomen true,By superstitious Lies,
In secular Facts, have nought to do
With Men of Mysteries.
XVIII
Think how this sullen Priest has writ,(And with some Folk's Applause)
With all his Cunning and his Wit,
Against our Forest-Laws.
XIX
How oft has he embroil'd the PeaceOf all the Neighbourhood,
Before that I propos'd the Case
Of Vantage, from this Wood?
33
XX
How has he set (with monstrous, vain,And most ungrounded Fears)
The Wives and Daughters, Dogs and Men,
Together by the Ears!
XXI
Be sure you, mainly, are deceiv'd,By this Hot Man of God;
And you your selves have ill behav'd,
And in a Way most odd.
XXII
My Greenmen all, with Main and Might,Espouse Myself and Cause,
And say, that all propos'd is right,
By ancient Forest-Laws.
XXIII
And what, belike, can I propose,In all I say or do,
But still, with every thing to close,
That makes for me and you.
34
XXIV
If you, my Yeomen are undone,And cannot pay your Rent,
To Foreign Countries, I must run,
And exil'd be from Kent.
XXV
And if that I impoverish you(Which the great God forbid)
This foolish Thing, then, shall I do,
My Land stands in your stead.
XXVI
For all the Archers ye maintain,And Greenmen eke so many,
Must, then, be fed out of my Gain,
And Rents, if I have any.
XXVII
No, no, the Lord of all Things knows,Your Interest, well as mine,
Just, like those comely Forest Boughs,
Together still must twine.
35
XXVIII
And now my Heart does almost bleed,(Like that of Altar'd Beast)
To recollect the horrid Deed
Of this same bloody Priest.
XXIX
My Yeomen, then, be ye well sure,Upon my Royal Word,
Out of this Wood I will procure
And that, upon Record,
XXX
To ye, your Wives and Children dear,And to each worthy Friend,
Comforts and Blessings, Year by Year,
Which never shall know End.
XXXI
Believe me, Gold and Silver, Brass,Out of this Wood shall come,
That every where shall current Pass,
And bless your House and Home.
36
XXXII
This Wood shall buy you Cloaths so neat.And Carr to take the Air;
It shall supply your House with Meat,
Your Churches shall Repair.
XXXIII
With that the Yeomen and the Mob,To Passion strange gave Birth,
This Fellow, cry'd they, we will sob,
From off the Face of Earth.
XXXIV
And so they stript him of his Gown,(But spar'd the Word of God)
And whipt him, tightly, thro' the Town,
With Bow-string, stead of Rod.
XXXV
Crying, Long live the Forester,Fam'd be his Wit and Skill,
With us, and with this same Wood here,
Let him do what he will.
37
The Rose: By Mr. Philips.
The Rose's Age, is but a Day;Its Bloom, the Pledge of its Decay:
Sweet in Scent; In Colour Bright:
It Blows at Morn, and Fades at Night.
Imitated, on a F---: By J--- S---.
My Age is not a Moment's stay.My Birth the same with my Decay.
I savour ill; no Colour know;
And Fade, the Instant that I Blow.
47
An EPIGRAM. Imitation of Prior to Lord Dorset.
Partners in Wit; and in one Party join'd;In Ribaldry and Scandal, Firm, combin'd;
Prais'd by themselves; by others ridicul'd;
Laugh'd at by Wits, and by all Wisemen fool'd;
Their Aim misguided; Frustrated their Drift;
Know all Men by these Presents—Pope and Swift.
48
The Fly and the Wheel. A FABLE: Or, The Drapier and Wood Explain'd.
I
Upon a Time, there came a Patent,To Ireland's happy Land,
In which some Evils there were latent
Which 'gainst their Rights did stand.
II
Their Parliament, on Thought mature,Did tell their gracious King,
He, who this Patent did procure
Did at their Welfare fling.
49
III
Their Council too most firmly stood,(As they, by Oath, were bound)
Against this Patent vile, of Wood;
And Ignoram. 'twas found.
IV
With that, his Majesty declar'd,He'd rid them of their Brass;
He'd free them from the Ills, they fear'd:
The Patent Cancel'd was.
V
But while King George was doing this,A Parson with an Apron,
Said, he'd redress what was amiss,
And, madly, fell a Vap'ring.
VI
He writ; he drank; huzza'd and sung,Until his Head did reel:
And prov'd himself, by Pen and Tongue,
The Fly upon the Wheel.
50
VII
So, may you see, in Drury Lane,Fell Pinky's Courage try'd;
That Hector of a bloody Scene,
Oft scours, To save his Hide.
Apollo's EDICT.
Ireland
is now our Royal Care,
We lately fix'd our Viceroy there;
How near was she to be undone,
Till pious Love inspir'd her Son?
What cannot our Vicegerent do,
As Poet and as Patriot too?
Let his Success our Subjects Sway,
Our Inspirations to obey,
And follow where He leads the Way:
Then study to correct your Taste;
Nor beaten Paths be longer trac'd.
We lately fix'd our Viceroy there;
How near was she to be undone,
Till pious Love inspir'd her Son?
What cannot our Vicegerent do,
As Poet and as Patriot too?
Let his Success our Subjects Sway,
Our Inspirations to obey,
And follow where He leads the Way:
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Nor beaten Paths be longer trac'd.
No Simile shall be begun,
With rising or with setting Sun;
And let the secret Head of Nile,
Be ever banish'd from your Isle.
With rising or with setting Sun;
And let the secret Head of Nile,
Be ever banish'd from your Isle.
When wretched Lovers live on Air,
I beg you'll the Camelion spare;
And when you'd make a Hero grander,
Forget he's like a Salamander.
I beg you'll the Camelion spare;
And when you'd make a Hero grander,
Forget he's like a Salamander.
No Son of mine shall dare to say,
Aurora usher'd in the Day,
Or ever name the Milky-Way.
Aurora usher'd in the Day,
Or ever name the Milky-Way.
You all agree, I make no doubt,
Elijah's Mantle is worn out.
Elijah's Mantle is worn out.
52
The Bird of Jove shall toil no more,
To teach the humble Wren to soar.
Your tragick Heroes shall not rant;
Nor Shepherds use Poetick Cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The Manners of the rural Race.
Theocritus and Philips be
Your Guides to true Simplicity.
To teach the humble Wren to soar.
Your tragick Heroes shall not rant;
Nor Shepherds use Poetick Cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The Manners of the rural Race.
Theocritus and Philips be
Your Guides to true Simplicity.
When Damon's Soul shall take its Flight,
Tho' Poets have the Second-Sight,
They shall not see a Trail of Light.
Nor shall the Vapour upwards rise,
Nor a New Star adorn the Skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
As glorious as Belinda's Hair?
Yet if his Name you'd eternize,
And must exalt him to the Skies;
Without a Star, this may be done,
So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.
Tho' Poets have the Second-Sight,
They shall not see a Trail of Light.
Nor shall the Vapour upwards rise,
Nor a New Star adorn the Skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
As glorious as Belinda's Hair?
Yet if his Name you'd eternize,
And must exalt him to the Skies;
Without a Star, this may be done,
So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.
53
If Anna's happy Reign you praise,
Pray, not a Word of Halcyon Days;
Nor let my Vot'ries shew their Skill
In aping Lines from Cooper's-Hill;
For know, I cannot bear to hear
The Mimickry of deep, yet clear.
Pray, not a Word of Halcyon Days;
Nor let my Vot'ries shew their Skill
In aping Lines from Cooper's-Hill;
For know, I cannot bear to hear
The Mimickry of deep, yet clear.
Whene'er my Viceroy is address'd,
Against the Phœnix I protest.
When Poets soar in youthful Strains,
No Phaeton to hold the Reins.
Against the Phœnix I protest.
When Poets soar in youthful Strains,
No Phaeton to hold the Reins.
When you describe a lovely Girl,
No Lips of Coral, Teeth of Pearl.
No Lips of Coral, Teeth of Pearl.
Cupid shall ne'er mistake another,
However beauteous, for his Mother:
Nor shall his Darts at random fly
From Magazine in Cœlia's Eye.
However beauteous, for his Mother:
Nor shall his Darts at random fly
From Magazine in Cœlia's Eye.
54
With Women Compounds I am cloy'd,
Which only pleas'd in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign Aid what need they roam,
Whom Fate has amply blest at Home?
Unerring Heav'n, with bounteous Hand,
Has form'd a Model for your Land:
Whom Jove endow'd with ev'ry grace:
The Glory of the Granard Race;
Now destin'd by the Pow'rs divine,
The Blessing of another Line:
Then, would you paint a matchless Dame,
Whom you'd consign to endless Fame?
Invoke not Cytherea's Aid,
Nor borrow from the Blue-ey'd Maid,
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take Qualities from Donegal.
Which only pleas'd in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign Aid what need they roam,
Whom Fate has amply blest at Home?
Unerring Heav'n, with bounteous Hand,
Has form'd a Model for your Land:
Whom Jove endow'd with ev'ry grace:
The Glory of the Granard Race;
Now destin'd by the Pow'rs divine,
The Blessing of another Line:
Then, would you paint a matchless Dame,
Whom you'd consign to endless Fame?
Invoke not Cytherea's Aid,
Nor borrow from the Blue-ey'd Maid,
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take Qualities from Donegal.
55
A Poem upon Rover, a Lady's Spaniel.
[_]
The following Poem was writ to affront a Lady of eminent Virtue, through Envy to her Husband, who was in an high Station above the Captain, and to ridicule Mr. Philip's Poem on Miss Carteret.
Happiest of the Spaniel Race,
Painter, with thy Colours grace,
Draw his Forehead large and high,
Draw his blue and humid Eye,
Draw his Neck so smooth and round,
Little Neck, with Ribbons bound,
And the Muscly swelling Breast,
Where the Loves and Graces rest,
And the spreading even Back,
Soft and sleek, and glossy Black,
And the Tail that gently twines
Like the Tendrils of the Vines,
And the silky twisted Hair
Shadowing thick the Velvet Ear,
Velvet Ears, which hanging low,
O'er the Veiny Temples flow.
Painter, with thy Colours grace,
Draw his Forehead large and high,
Draw his blue and humid Eye,
Draw his Neck so smooth and round,
Little Neck, with Ribbons bound,
And the Muscly swelling Breast,
Where the Loves and Graces rest,
And the spreading even Back,
Soft and sleek, and glossy Black,
56
Like the Tendrils of the Vines,
And the silky twisted Hair
Shadowing thick the Velvet Ear,
Velvet Ears, which hanging low,
O'er the Veiny Temples flow.
With a proper Light and Shade,
Let the Winding Hoop be laid,
And within that arching Bow'r
(Sacred Circle, mystick Pow'r)
In a downy Slumber place,
Happiest of the Spaniel Race,
While the soft perspiring Dame,
Glowing with the softest Flame,
On the ravish'd Fav'rite powers
Balmy Dews, Ambrosial Show'rs.
Let the Winding Hoop be laid,
And within that arching Bow'r
(Sacred Circle, mystick Pow'r)
In a downy Slumber place,
Happiest of the Spaniel Race,
While the soft perspiring Dame,
Glowing with the softest Flame,
On the ravish'd Fav'rite powers
Balmy Dews, Ambrosial Show'rs.
With thy utmost Skill express
Nature in her richest Dress,
Limped Rivers smoothly flowing,
Orchards by those Rivers blowing
Curling Woodbine, Myrtle Shade,
And the gay enamel'd Mead,
Where the Linnets sit and sing,
Little Sportlings of the Spring,
Where the breathing Field and Grove,
Smooth the Heart and kindle Love;
Here for me and for the Muse
Colours of Resemblance choose,
Make of Lineaments divine
Dapply Female Spaniels shine,
Pretty Fondlings of the Fair,
Gentle Damsels, gentle Care:
But to one alone impart
All the Flatt'ry of thy Art;
Crowd each Feature, crowd each Grace,
Which compleat the DESPERATE FACE.
Let the spotted wanton Dame
Feel a new resistless Flame;
Let the happiest of his Race
Win the Fair to his Embrace;
But in Shade the rest conceal,
Nor to Sight their Joys reveal,
Lest the Pencil and the Muse
Loose Desires and Thoughts infuse.
Nature in her richest Dress,
Limped Rivers smoothly flowing,
Orchards by those Rivers blowing
57
And the gay enamel'd Mead,
Where the Linnets sit and sing,
Little Sportlings of the Spring,
Where the breathing Field and Grove,
Smooth the Heart and kindle Love;
Here for me and for the Muse
Colours of Resemblance choose,
Make of Lineaments divine
Dapply Female Spaniels shine,
Pretty Fondlings of the Fair,
Gentle Damsels, gentle Care:
But to one alone impart
All the Flatt'ry of thy Art;
Crowd each Feature, crowd each Grace,
Which compleat the DESPERATE FACE.
Let the spotted wanton Dame
Feel a new resistless Flame;
Let the happiest of his Race
Win the Fair to his Embrace;
58
Nor to Sight their Joys reveal,
Lest the Pencil and the Muse
Loose Desires and Thoughts infuse.
61
EPILOGUE to Mr. Hoppy's Benefit-Night, at Smock-Alley.
Hold! Hold, my good Friends; for one Moment pray, stop ye,
I return you my Thanks, in the Name of poor Hoppy.
He's not the first Person, who never did write,
And, yet, has been fed by a Benefit-Night.
The Custom is frequent, on my Word, I assure ye,
In our fam'd elder House, of the Hundred's of Drury.
But then, you must know, those Players, still, act on
Some very good Reasons, for such Benefaction.
I return you my Thanks, in the Name of poor Hoppy.
He's not the first Person, who never did write,
And, yet, has been fed by a Benefit-Night.
The Custom is frequent, on my Word, I assure ye,
In our fam'd elder House, of the Hundred's of Drury.
But then, you must know, those Players, still, act on
Some very good Reasons, for such Benefaction.
A deceas'd Poet's Widow, if pretty, can't fail;
From Cibber, she holds, as a Tenant in Tail:
Your emerited Actors, and Actresses too,
For what they have done (tho' no more they can do)
And Setters and Songsters, and Chettwood and G---;
And sometimes A Poor Sufferer in the South Sea;
A Machine-man; A Tire-woman; a Mute and a Spright,
Have been all kept from Starving, by a Benefit-Night.
From Cibber, she holds, as a Tenant in Tail:
62
For what they have done (tho' no more they can do)
And Setters and Songsters, and Chettwood and G---;
And sometimes A Poor Sufferer in the South Sea;
A Machine-man; A Tire-woman; a Mute and a Spright,
Have been all kept from Starving, by a Benefit-Night.
Thus, for Hoppy's bright Merits, at length, we have found
That he must have of us, Ninety-nine and one Pound,
Paid to him, clear Money, once every Year:
And, however some think it a little too Dear,
Yet for Reasons of State, this Sum we'll allow,
Tho' we pay the Good Man, with the Sweat of our Brow.
That he must have of us, Ninety-nine and one Pound,
Paid to him, clear Money, once every Year:
And, however some think it a little too Dear,
Yet for Reasons of State, this Sum we'll allow,
Tho' we pay the Good Man, with the Sweat of our Brow.
63
First, because, by the King, to us he was sent,
To guide the whole Session of this Parliament.
To preside in our Councils, both Publick and Private,
And to learn by the Bye, what both Houses do drive at.
When bold B--- roars, or meek M--- raves,
When Ash prates by Wholesale, or Be---h by Halves.
When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories;
And to himself constant, when a Member, no more is;
But changes his Sides, and Votes and Unvotes;
As S---t, is Dull, and with S---d, who Dotes;
Then, up must get Hoppy, and with Voice very low,
And with eloquent Bow, the House he must show,
That that worthy Member, who spoke last, must give
The Freedom to him, humbly, most to conceive,
That his Sentiment, on this Affair, isn't right:
That he mightily wonders which way he came by't:
That for his Part, God knows, he does such Things disown,
And so, having convinc'd him, he most humbly, sits down.
To guide the whole Session of this Parliament.
To preside in our Councils, both Publick and Private,
And to learn by the Bye, what both Houses do drive at.
When bold B--- roars, or meek M--- raves,
When Ash prates by Wholesale, or Be---h by Halves.
When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories;
And to himself constant, when a Member, no more is;
But changes his Sides, and Votes and Unvotes;
As S---t, is Dull, and with S---d, who Dotes;
Then, up must get Hoppy, and with Voice very low,
And with eloquent Bow, the House he must show,
That that worthy Member, who spoke last, must give
The Freedom to him, humbly, most to conceive,
That his Sentiment, on this Affair, isn't right:
That he mightily wonders which way he came by't:
64
And so, having convinc'd him, he most humbly, sits down.
For these and more Reasons, which perhaps you may hear,
Pounds hundred, this Night, and One hundred this Year,
And so on, we are forc'd, tho' we sweat out our Blood,
To make these Walls pay, for poor Hoppy's Good;
To supply with rare Diet, his Pot and his Spit;
And with richest Margoux to wash down a Tit Bit.
To wash, oft, his fine Linnen; so clean and so neat,
And to buy him much Linnen, To fence against Sweat:
All which he deserves; for altho' all the Day,
He oft-times is Heavy; yet all Night he's Gay;
And if he rise early, to watch for the State;
To keep up his Spirits, he'll sit up as late:
Thus, for these and more Reasons, as before I did say,
Hop has got all the Money, for our acting this Play;
Which makes us, poor Actors, look, Je ne sçai quoy.
Pounds hundred, this Night, and One hundred this Year,
And so on, we are forc'd, tho' we sweat out our Blood,
To make these Walls pay, for poor Hoppy's Good;
To supply with rare Diet, his Pot and his Spit;
And with richest Margoux to wash down a Tit Bit.
To wash, oft, his fine Linnen; so clean and so neat,
And to buy him much Linnen, To fence against Sweat:
All which he deserves; for altho' all the Day,
He oft-times is Heavy; yet all Night he's Gay;
And if he rise early, to watch for the State;
To keep up his Spirits, he'll sit up as late:
65
Hop has got all the Money, for our acting this Play;
Which makes us, poor Actors, look, Je ne sçai quoy.
Spoken by the Captain, one Evening, at the End of a private Farce, acted by Gentlemen, for their own Diversion, at Gallstown.
68
To Lucinda, Toujours Gay.
O! Pretty Charmer, prithee tell,
What kind Magician's Art or Spell
To every other Female Grace,
Added the Beauties of your Face.
Whence gay and pleas'd you're always seen,
And bloom'd with ever smiling Mien?
What kind Magician's Art or Spell
To every other Female Grace,
Added the Beauties of your Face.
Whence gay and pleas'd you're always seen,
And bloom'd with ever smiling Mien?
Be Sky and Air serene or not;
And be the Weather Cold or Hot.
Or do you Fast, or do you Feast;
Or blow the Winds to West or East.
Be there a Play, or be there none;
At Gaming, have you lost or won;
Have you been favour'd by Spadille;
Or are quite ruin'd by Quadrille.
Do the young Fellows look a Tort,
Or reign you, Premiere Toast, at Court,
To pass, whence comes it, tell, my Deary,
That thus you Laugh, without being weary?
And be the Weather Cold or Hot.
69
Or blow the Winds to West or East.
Be there a Play, or be there none;
At Gaming, have you lost or won;
Have you been favour'd by Spadille;
Or are quite ruin'd by Quadrille.
Do the young Fellows look a Tort,
Or reign you, Premiere Toast, at Court,
To pass, whence comes it, tell, my Deary,
That thus you Laugh, without being weary?
I fancy, that, in purer Strain
The Juices filtre thro' your Brain;
And that the vital Flame of Life,
Glows in your little Heart, plus vif
(Enliven'd by some Spirit kind)
Than in the Female Crowd we find.
The Juices filtre thro' your Brain;
And that the vital Flame of Life,
Glows in your little Heart, plus vif
(Enliven'd by some Spirit kind)
Than in the Female Crowd we find.
In Drink and Diet, to your Care,
Is't owing, or is't to your Pray'r
Which flows from Heart and Mind so pure;
Whence is't my Dear, so merry you are?
Whilst thousand Cares disturb my Breast,
And Love or Interest break my Rest:
Whilst I torment my righteous Mind,
Truths about t'other World to find;
Or pump till dead o'Night, to know,
How in the present World things go.
Laugh on then, pretty, charming Creature!
Laugh in every cheerful Feature:
Your Mouth, your Eyes were made for Laughter;
To Day's your own; what will come after,
Let the Severe and Wise enquire,
And when they've done, be ne'er the nigher.
Is't owing, or is't to your Pray'r
Which flows from Heart and Mind so pure;
Whence is't my Dear, so merry you are?
70
And Love or Interest break my Rest:
Whilst I torment my righteous Mind,
Truths about t'other World to find;
Or pump till dead o'Night, to know,
How in the present World things go.
Laugh on then, pretty, charming Creature!
Laugh in every cheerful Feature:
Your Mouth, your Eyes were made for Laughter;
To Day's your own; what will come after,
Let the Severe and Wise enquire,
And when they've done, be ne'er the nigher.
Laugh, and laughing, shew, I say,
The Beauties which your Lips display;
Your Lips! than Rubies deep, more red;
The Marlbrough Toss then give your Head,
And shew your Teeth: Shew 'em no matter
Altho' they make my Teeth to water;
Yet let me see them: Let me see,
And let me hear, whatever be
Th'Effect of Seeing, and of Hearing,
So lovely a Laugher—so endearing.
The Beauties which your Lips display;
Your Lips! than Rubies deep, more red;
The Marlbrough Toss then give your Head,
And shew your Teeth: Shew 'em no matter
Altho' they make my Teeth to water;
Yet let me see them: Let me see,
And let me hear, whatever be
71
So lovely a Laugher—so endearing.
On the Death of Old Nick.
Three Months ago, that Rogue Old Nick,
Grew wan, and pale, and wondrous sick;
And tho' he apply'd much Art and Skill,
Took many a magick Dose and Pill,
Nay, altho' Æsculapius gave
Firm Promises his Life to save
(For Promises below we find,
Like ours above, are only Wind)
Yet Old Neck pul'd, and pin'd, and died,
And Æsculapius, plainly, lyed.
Grew wan, and pale, and wondrous sick;
And tho' he apply'd much Art and Skill,
Took many a magick Dose and Pill,
Nay, altho' Æsculapius gave
Firm Promises his Life to save
(For Promises below we find,
Like ours above, are only Wind)
Yet Old Neck pul'd, and pin'd, and died,
And Æsculapius, plainly, lyed.
Now long you not, full sore, I trow,
What 'twas Old Nick cou'd kill, to know?
I'll tell you then, Old Nick, in short,
Once turn'd a Beau, and went to Court.
Well powder'd and well dress'd he was,
And for an Indian King might pass.
He liv'd on Bows; he fed on Words
And Graces of the Noble Lords;
Din'd at their Tables; had their Ear,
Sure of a thousand Pounds a Year!
Cock-sure, indeed, for as they say,
With Miss he chatted over Tea;
And went, to make all Things look fair,
Indeed he went, with Miss to Prayer.
What 'twas Old Nick cou'd kill, to know?
I'll tell you then, Old Nick, in short,
Once turn'd a Beau, and went to Court.
72
And for an Indian King might pass.
He liv'd on Bows; he fed on Words
And Graces of the Noble Lords;
Din'd at their Tables; had their Ear,
Sure of a thousand Pounds a Year!
Cock-sure, indeed, for as they say,
With Miss he chatted over Tea;
And went, to make all Things look fair,
Indeed he went, with Miss to Prayer.
In fine, nor Labour, Cost, nor Pain,
Did Old Nick spare, his End to gain.
And, once, I heard him smiling, tell,
To Day, I'm sure, all will be well.
Vacant, will be more than one Place:
Adieu! I'll scour, Sir, to his Grace.
Did Old Nick spare, his End to gain.
And, once, I heard him smiling, tell,
To Day, I'm sure, all will be well.
Vacant, will be more than one Place:
Adieu! I'll scour, Sir, to his Grace.
Freeman, this Minute's dead, my Lord!
His Post's engag'd, upon my Word.
Trueport, ere Night will meet his Fate!
You're come, one Moment, Sir, too late.
Ay! quoth Old Nick; and won't he give in
To Scheme, drawn, nor from Dead, nor Living,
To render poor Pill-garlick easy?
—Adieu, my Lord, no more I'll teize ye:
And Home he went: He rav'd, he swore,
And curs'd the Peer, and damn'd his Whore.
Time and Attendance!—Money gone!—
Made a meer Dupe!—and quite undone!
I shan't out-live this foolish Part:
And so, poor, Old Nick broke his Heart.
His Post's engag'd, upon my Word.
73
You're come, one Moment, Sir, too late.
Ay! quoth Old Nick; and won't he give in
To Scheme, drawn, nor from Dead, nor Living,
To render poor Pill-garlick easy?
—Adieu, my Lord, no more I'll teize ye:
And Home he went: He rav'd, he swore,
And curs'd the Peer, and damn'd his Whore.
Time and Attendance!—Money gone!—
Made a meer Dupe!—and quite undone!
I shan't out-live this foolish Part:
And so, poor, Old Nick broke his Heart.
77
VERSES, fix'd on the Cathedral Door, the Day of Dean Gulliver's Installment.
I
To day, this Temple gets a Dean,Of Parts and Fame, uncommon;
Us'd, both to Pray, and to Prophane,
To serve both God and Mammon.
II
When Wharton reign'd, a Whig he was;When Pembroke, that's Dispute, Sir:
In Oxford's Time, what Oxford pleas'd;
Non-Con, or Jack, or Neuter.
III
This Place He got by Wit and Rhime.And many Ways most odd;
And might a Bishop be, in Time,
Did he believe in God.
78
IV
For High-Churchmen and PolicyHe swears he prays, most hearty;
But wou'd pray back again, wou'd be
A Dean of any Party.
V
Your Lessons! Dean, all, in one Day,Faith! it is hard, that's certain:
'Twere better hear thy'own Peter say,
G---d d---n the Jack and Martin.
VI
Hard! to be plagu'd with Bible, still,And Prayer-Book before thee;
Hadst thou not Wit, to think, at Will,
On some diverting Story?
VII
Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray,On thine own Church and Steeple;
Convert thy Dean, on this Great Day;
Or else God help the People!
79
VIII
And now, whene'er his Deanship dies,Upon his Tomb be 'graven;
A Man of God here buried lies,
Who never thought of Heaven.
The Original of Punning, from Plato's Symposiacks.
Once on a Time, in merry Mood,
Jove made a Pun of Flesh and Blood;
A double, two-fac'd living Creature,
Androgynos, of Two-fold Nature;
For Back to Back, with single Skin,
He bound the Male and Female in;
So much alike, so near the same,
They stuck as closely as their Name.
Whatever Words the Male exprest,
The Female turn'd them to a Jest;
Whatever Words the Female spoke;
The Male converted to a Joke:
So, in this Form of Man and Wife,
They led a merry Punning Life.
Jove made a Pun of Flesh and Blood;
A double, two-fac'd living Creature,
Androgynos, of Two-fold Nature;
For Back to Back, with single Skin,
He bound the Male and Female in;
So much alike, so near the same,
They stuck as closely as their Name.
Whatever Words the Male exprest,
The Female turn'd them to a Jest;
80
The Male converted to a Joke:
So, in this Form of Man and Wife,
They led a merry Punning Life.
The Gods from Heav'n descend to Earth,
Drawn down by their alluring Mirth;
So well they seem'd to like the Sport,
Jove cou'd not get them back to Court.
Th'Infernal Gods ascend as well,
Drawn up by magick Puns from Hell.
Judges and Furies quit their Post,
And not a Soul to mind a Ghost.
Hey day! says Jove; says Pluto too,
I think the Devil's here to do;
Here's Hell broke loose, and Heavn's quite empty,
We scarce have left one God in Twenty:
Pray, what has set them all a running?
Dear Brother, nothing else but Punning.
Behold that double Creature yonder,
Delights them with a double Entendre.
Ods-fish, says Pluto, where's your Thunder,
Let drive, and split this Thing asunder.
That's right, quoth Jove; with that he threw
A Bolt, and split it into Two;
And when the Thing was split in Twain,
Why then it Punn'd as much again.
'Tis thus that Diamonds we refine,
The more we cut, the more they shine;
And ever since, your Men of Wit,
Until they're Cut, can't Pun a Bit.
So take a Starling when 'tis young,
And down the Middle slit the Tongue,
With Groat or Six-pence, 'tis no Matter,
You'll find the Bird will doubly chatter.
Upon the whole, dear Pluto you know,
'Tis well I did not split my Juno:
For had I don't, whene'er she'd scold me
She'd make the Heav'ns too hot to hold me,
The Gods upon this Application,
Return'd each to his Habitation,
Extreamly pleas'd with this new Joke,
The best, they swore, he ever spoke.
Drawn down by their alluring Mirth;
So well they seem'd to like the Sport,
Jove cou'd not get them back to Court.
Th'Infernal Gods ascend as well,
Drawn up by magick Puns from Hell.
Judges and Furies quit their Post,
And not a Soul to mind a Ghost.
Hey day! says Jove; says Pluto too,
I think the Devil's here to do;
Here's Hell broke loose, and Heavn's quite empty,
We scarce have left one God in Twenty:
Pray, what has set them all a running?
Dear Brother, nothing else but Punning.
Behold that double Creature yonder,
Delights them with a double Entendre.
81
Let drive, and split this Thing asunder.
That's right, quoth Jove; with that he threw
A Bolt, and split it into Two;
And when the Thing was split in Twain,
Why then it Punn'd as much again.
'Tis thus that Diamonds we refine,
The more we cut, the more they shine;
And ever since, your Men of Wit,
Until they're Cut, can't Pun a Bit.
So take a Starling when 'tis young,
And down the Middle slit the Tongue,
With Groat or Six-pence, 'tis no Matter,
You'll find the Bird will doubly chatter.
Upon the whole, dear Pluto you know,
'Tis well I did not split my Juno:
For had I don't, whene'er she'd scold me
She'd make the Heav'ns too hot to hold me,
The Gods upon this Application,
Return'd each to his Habitation,
82
The best, they swore, he ever spoke.
An ELEGY on the much lamented Death of Mr. Damer, the famous Rich Man, who died the sixth Day of July, 1720, at Dublin.
Know
all Men by these Presents, Death the Tamer,
By Mortgage, hath secur'd the Corps of Damer;
Nor can Four hundred thousand Sterling Pound
Redeem him, from his Prison, under Ground.
His Heirs might well, of all his Wealth possess'd,
Bestow, to bury him, one Iron Chest;
Pluto, the God of Wealth, will joy to know
His faithful Steward, in the Shades below.
He walk'd the Streets, and wore a Thread-bare Cloak,
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 'em 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.
By Mortgage, hath secur'd the Corps of Damer;
Nor can Four hundred thousand Sterling Pound
Redeem him, from his Prison, under Ground.
His Heirs might well, of all his Wealth possess'd,
Bestow, to bury him, one Iron Chest;
Pluto, the God of Wealth, will joy to know
His faithful Steward, in the Shades below.
83
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 'em 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 Int'rest keep him from the Grave.
A golden Monument, would not be right,
Because, we wish the Earth upon him light.
In half a Minute, is not worth a Groat;
His Coffers, from the Coffin, could not save,
Nor all his Int'rest keep him from the Grave.
A golden Monument, would not be right,
Because, we wish the Earth upon him light.
84
Oh, London Tavern! thou hast lost a Friend,
Tho' 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.
Tho' 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:
But, as his Gold he weigh'd, grim Death, in spight,
Cast in his Dart, which made Three Moydores light.
And, as he saw his darling Money fail,
Blew his last Breath, to sink the lighter Scale.
On him, could ever, boast a Pow'r to seize:
But, as his Gold he weigh'd, grim Death, in spight,
Cast in his Dart, which made Three Moydores light.
And, as he saw his darling Money fail,
Blew his last Breath, to sink the lighter Scale.
He! who so long was Current, 'twou'd be strange
If he should, now, be cry'd down, since his Change.
The Sexton shall green Sods on thee bestow,
Alas! the Sexton is thy Banker, now!
A dismal Banker! must that Banker be,
Who gives no Bills, but of Mortality.
If he should, now, be cry'd down, since his Change.
The Sexton shall green Sods on thee bestow,
Alas! the Sexton is thy Banker, now!
A dismal Banker! must that Banker be,
Who gives no Bills, but of Mortality.
85
The EPITAPH.
Beneath this verdant Hillock lies,Damer the Wealthy, and the Wise:
His Heirs, for winding Sheet, bestow'd
His Money-bags together sow'd:
And that he might, securely rest,
Have put his Carcass in a Chest;
That very Chest, in which they say,
His other Self, his Money, lay;
And, if his Heirs continue kind,
To that dear Self, he left behind;
I dare believe, that Four in Five,
Will think his better Half alive.
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.
101
A LETTER to Mr. Ambrose Philips, on his Landing in Ireland, and being abused for his Poems, on Lord Carteret's Family, by many Irish Bards, especially Doctor Gulliver.
By an Irish Clergyman, living privately, in LONDON.
From Noise retir'd, and busy Life;
Estrang'd from Care, and freed from Strife.
Forgetful of the, once-lov'd, Town;
From Court to Change, my Name, unknown;
Careless, which Miss or Madam boasts
Herself, amongst the First-rate Toasts;
Careless, who Chief, thro' powerful Tongue,
At Bar, directs The Right and Wrong;
Or who, from Pulpit, painting Evil,
In blackest Colours shades the Devil;
Who Smoaks at Jo's, the sagest Cit;
Whom Button dubbs the Tip-top Wit;
To thee, my lov'd, and much-fam'd Friend,
Obscure, these silent Lines I send.
I send, to greet the Man, ere while,
Own'd, First in Wit, thro' Britain's Isle;
To greet, That Phœbus gives to boast,
He's not so averse, to th'Irish Coast:
Since, when he sets and quits our Skies,
He bids his Favourite Philip's Rise.
But, hark! my Friend, whene'er you Land,
And print your Foot on Irish Sand;
Unless of Temper you have store,
You'll meet th'inhospitable Shore;
Where Swarms of Witlings buz, and prey
On every thing, brought new from Sea;
Where, Eastern Winds, with foreign News,
Some Home-spun Nonsense, still, produce.
Estrang'd from Care, and freed from Strife.
Forgetful of the, once-lov'd, Town;
From Court to Change, my Name, unknown;
Careless, which Miss or Madam boasts
Herself, amongst the First-rate Toasts;
Careless, who Chief, thro' powerful Tongue,
At Bar, directs The Right and Wrong;
102
In blackest Colours shades the Devil;
Who Smoaks at Jo's, the sagest Cit;
Whom Button dubbs the Tip-top Wit;
To thee, my lov'd, and much-fam'd Friend,
Obscure, these silent Lines I send.
I send, to greet the Man, ere while,
Own'd, First in Wit, thro' Britain's Isle;
To greet, That Phœbus gives to boast,
He's not so averse, to th'Irish Coast:
Since, when he sets and quits our Skies,
He bids his Favourite Philip's Rise.
But, hark! my Friend, whene'er you Land,
And print your Foot on Irish Sand;
Unless of Temper you have store,
You'll meet th'inhospitable Shore;
Where Swarms of Witlings buz, and prey
On every thing, brought new from Sea;
Where, Eastern Winds, with foreign News,
Some Home-spun Nonsense, still, produce.
103
Regret not, that Thy Virgin Muse,
To sing of Virgin Charms, did chuse;
Regret not, thy well-worded Praise;
The sweetest Subject, softest Lays:
Tho' puny Rhimers have thought fit
To shew, from thence, their want of Wit;
Tho' want of Manners they have shewn,
With Ribaldry, to teize the Town.
To sing of Virgin Charms, did chuse;
Regret not, thy well-worded Praise;
The sweetest Subject, softest Lays:
Tho' puny Rhimers have thought fit
To shew, from thence, their want of Wit;
Tho' want of Manners they have shewn,
With Ribaldry, to teize the Town.
Thus, in A Country-Village, bawl,
Crowds of that Animal, we call
A Cabbin-Cur; whene'er they spy
A true Molossian-bred, pass by.
They Run; they Bark; they Rage; they Foam:
Scarce looking back, He trudges Home.
Crowds of that Animal, we call
A Cabbin-Cur; whene'er they spy
A true Molossian-bred, pass by.
They Run; they Bark; they Rage; they Foam:
Scarce looking back, He trudges Home.
104
To a Clergyman, residing in a beautiful Vale in Norfolk, on his resolving to live in London.
Heu! fuge crudeles terras, & littus avarum.
Virg.
Virg.
Since you're resolv'd, dear Sir, t'abandon
Your North-East Coast, and live in London;
Here, in your Coach, to make a Figure,
(Your Purse and Belly ne'er the bigger)
Consider, well, th'important Step,
And Look, I pray, before you Leap.
Your North-East Coast, and live in London;
Here, in your Coach, to make a Figure,
(Your Purse and Belly ne'er the bigger)
Consider, well, th'important Step,
And Look, I pray, before you Leap.
Supposing, now, remitted clear,
Three hundred Pounds, my Friend, a Year:
Tho', if I am not ill instructed,
Exchange on Bills, being first deducted;
The Proctor next, then Curate paid;
There is not so much to be had
Deduct, too, Tythe of Pigs and Geese;
Some Fish, some Eggs, and things like these;
Which (with Book-Dues) I dare aver it,
Would pay your annual Cost of Claret.
Three hundred Pounds, my Friend, a Year:
Tho', if I am not ill instructed,
Exchange on Bills, being first deducted;
The Proctor next, then Curate paid;
There is not so much to be had
105
Some Fish, some Eggs, and things like these;
Which (with Book-Dues) I dare aver it,
Would pay your annual Cost of Claret.
Suppose, again, then, which is true,
Instead of Three, but Hundreds Two:
Are you so much, Sir, in the Dark yet,
To think this Sum will go to Market,
Twelve Months, without your being undone,
Where every thing's so dear, in London?
Where it confounds the deepest Sages,
To pay House-rent and Servants Wages!
To lay in Coals, both small and great;
Which keep you warm, and dress your Meat:
Where great Estates away are swept,
By running in the Tradesmens Debt.
Believe me, Sir, 'twill never do here;
Consider Baker first, then Brewer,
Bethink the Charge it does create,
Only of one plain Joint to eat;
And that a Tip-top Dish, well drest,
Costs more, than makes a Norfolk Feast.
Instead of Three, but Hundreds Two:
Are you so much, Sir, in the Dark yet,
To think this Sum will go to Market,
Twelve Months, without your being undone,
Where every thing's so dear, in London?
Where it confounds the deepest Sages,
To pay House-rent and Servants Wages!
To lay in Coals, both small and great;
Which keep you warm, and dress your Meat:
Where great Estates away are swept,
By running in the Tradesmens Debt.
Believe me, Sir, 'twill never do here;
Consider Baker first, then Brewer,
Bethink the Charge it does create,
Only of one plain Joint to eat;
106
Costs more, than makes a Norfolk Feast.
Besides, Sir, you can have no Notion
Of the Expence of Local Motion:
Pause well, before you do begin it;
A Farthing is (for every Minute)
The Price, to set you barely down,
In paultry Hacks and Chairs in Town;
And this would keep a Coach with you,
And Six—Coachman, Postilion too;
Buy Sawce and Pickles, when you dine,
A Dram, and Glass or two of Wine.
Again, Contingent Charges are
So numerous, they'd make you stare:
To Plays and Operas you must steal;
And, if you're led by Sabbath Zeal
To Church, 'twill cost you, deadly dear,
For Elbow Room, to say your Prayer.
Then there are Taverns, Toy-shops, Shows,
Monsters, Abortions, Embryo's;
The Tow'r and Wax-work, that command
Your Pence, and Fawks's Sleight of Hand,
News—Journals, Books (if you're inclin'd)
Thieves, Beggars, Cheats of various kind;
From Lilly, fam'd for Tongue-Pad Skill,
To the Orators on Ludgate-Hill.
With Thousand Taxes, they amerce one;
To starve the Poor, and glut the Parson.
Of the Expence of Local Motion:
Pause well, before you do begin it;
A Farthing is (for every Minute)
The Price, to set you barely down,
In paultry Hacks and Chairs in Town;
And this would keep a Coach with you,
And Six—Coachman, Postilion too;
Buy Sawce and Pickles, when you dine,
A Dram, and Glass or two of Wine.
Again, Contingent Charges are
So numerous, they'd make you stare:
To Plays and Operas you must steal;
And, if you're led by Sabbath Zeal
To Church, 'twill cost you, deadly dear,
For Elbow Room, to say your Prayer.
Then there are Taverns, Toy-shops, Shows,
Monsters, Abortions, Embryo's;
107
Your Pence, and Fawks's Sleight of Hand,
News—Journals, Books (if you're inclin'd)
Thieves, Beggars, Cheats of various kind;
From Lilly, fam'd for Tongue-Pad Skill,
To the Orators on Ludgate-Hill.
With Thousand Taxes, they amerce one;
To starve the Poor, and glut the Parson.
Again, your Friends make constant Sport on,
Five thousand Pounds! your Yorkshire Fortune.
And say, in short, you're fairly Bit;
Had better ta'en a Norfolk Tit,
With half Five hundred; and staid there,
To wake and sleep, secure; and cheer
Your Heart, with cheap or unbought Food;
And save your Soul by doing Good.
Behold the Pleasures of the Vale!
The Racy Cyder, Amber Ale;
Fresh Fish, accounted so inviting!
From largest Cod, to smallest Whiteing.
And Turbot boil'd! Delicious Food!
And Turbot sous'd! so wond'rous Good!
And Pilcher, in fresh Butter drest:
Or Pilcher dry'd;—Itself a Feast!
Or freshest Eggs, with saltest Ling:
To pass by many other Thing;
And so I'll end my tedious Story,
Both Cases being laid before ye.
Five thousand Pounds! your Yorkshire Fortune.
And say, in short, you're fairly Bit;
Had better ta'en a Norfolk Tit,
With half Five hundred; and staid there,
To wake and sleep, secure; and cheer
Your Heart, with cheap or unbought Food;
And save your Soul by doing Good.
Behold the Pleasures of the Vale!
The Racy Cyder, Amber Ale;
Fresh Fish, accounted so inviting!
From largest Cod, to smallest Whiteing.
108
And Turbot sous'd! so wond'rous Good!
And Pilcher, in fresh Butter drest:
Or Pilcher dry'd;—Itself a Feast!
Or freshest Eggs, with saltest Ling:
To pass by many other Thing;
And so I'll end my tedious Story,
Both Cases being laid before ye.
An EPISTLE to his Grace the Duke of Grafton, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
Non Domus & Fundus—
Hor.
Hor.
It was my Lord, the dextrous Shift,
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now, St. Patrick's sawcy Dean,
With Silver Verge, and Surplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's Grace,
In looser Rhyme, to beg a Place:
A Place he got, yclyp'd a Stall,
And eke a Thousand Pounds withal;
And, were he a less witty Writer,
He might, as well, have got a Mitre.
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now, St. Patrick's sawcy Dean,
With Silver Verge, and Surplice clean,
109
In looser Rhyme, to beg a Place:
A Place he got, yclyp'd a Stall,
And eke a Thousand Pounds withal;
And, were he a less witty Writer,
He might, as well, have got a Mitre.
Thus I, The Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble Lays, my Thanks to offer,
Approach your Grace, with grateful Heart;
My Thanks and Verse both void of Art:
Content with what your Bounty gave;
No larger Income do I crave:
Rejoicing, that, in better Times,
GRAFTON requires my Loyal Rhimes.
Proud! while my Patron is Polite,
I likewise to the Patriot write:
Proud! that, at once, I can commend,
King George's and the Muse's Friend.
Endear'd to Britain: And to Thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the Sea)
Endear'd by twice three anxious Years;
Endear'd by Guardian Toils and Cares!
In humble Lays, my Thanks to offer,
Approach your Grace, with grateful Heart;
My Thanks and Verse both void of Art:
Content with what your Bounty gave;
No larger Income do I crave:
Rejoicing, that, in better Times,
GRAFTON requires my Loyal Rhimes.
Proud! while my Patron is Polite,
I likewise to the Patriot write:
Proud! that, at once, I can commend,
King George's and the Muse's Friend.
Endear'd to Britain: And to Thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the Sea)
110
Endear'd by Guardian Toils and Cares!
But where shall SMEDLEY make his Nest,
And lay his wandring Head to Rest?
Where shall he find a decent House,
To treat his Friends, and chear his Spouse?
Oh! Tack, my Lord, some pretty Cure,
In wholesome Soil, and Æther pure.
The Garden stor'd with artless Flowers
In every Angle, shady Bowers.
No gay Parterre, with costly Green,
Within the ambient Hedge be seen;
Let Nature, freely, take her Course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful Force:
No Shears shall check her sprouting Vigour:
Nor shape the Yews to antick Figure.
A limpid Brook shall Trouts supply
In May, to take the mimick Fly;
Round a small Orchard may it run,
Whose Apples redden to the Sun:
Let all be snug and warm and neat,
For Fifty-turn'd, a fit Retreat:
A little Euston may it be:
Euston I'll carve on every Tree:
But then, to keep it in Repair,
My Lord—Twice Fifty Pounds a Year
Will barely do: But if your Grace
Could make them Hundreds—Charming Place!
Thou then would'st shew another Face.
And lay his wandring Head to Rest?
Where shall he find a decent House,
To treat his Friends, and chear his Spouse?
Oh! Tack, my Lord, some pretty Cure,
In wholesome Soil, and Æther pure.
The Garden stor'd with artless Flowers
In every Angle, shady Bowers.
No gay Parterre, with costly Green,
Within the ambient Hedge be seen;
Let Nature, freely, take her Course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful Force:
No Shears shall check her sprouting Vigour:
Nor shape the Yews to antick Figure.
A limpid Brook shall Trouts supply
In May, to take the mimick Fly;
Round a small Orchard may it run,
Whose Apples redden to the Sun:
111
For Fifty-turn'd, a fit Retreat:
A little Euston may it be:
Euston I'll carve on every Tree:
But then, to keep it in Repair,
My Lord—Twice Fifty Pounds a Year
Will barely do: But if your Grace
Could make them Hundreds—Charming Place!
Thou then would'st shew another Face.
Clogher! far North, my Lord, it lies,
Beneath High Hills, and Angry Skies.
One shivers with the Artick Wind,
One hears the Polar Axis grind.
Good John, indeed, with Beef and Claret,
Makes the Place warm, that one may bear it;
He has a Purse to keep a Table,
And eke a Soul as hospitable:
My Heart is good, but Assets fail
To fight with Storms of Snow and Hail;
Besides, the Country's thin of People,
Who seldom meet, but at the Steeple:
The Strapping Dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the Thing without a Frown.
When much fatigued with Sermon-Study,
He felt his Brain grow dull and muddy,
No fit Companion could be found,
To push the lazy Bottle round:
Sure then, for want of better Folks,
To pledge his Clerk was Orthodox.
Beneath High Hills, and Angry Skies.
One shivers with the Artick Wind,
One hears the Polar Axis grind.
Good John, indeed, with Beef and Claret,
Makes the Place warm, that one may bear it;
He has a Purse to keep a Table,
And eke a Soul as hospitable:
My Heart is good, but Assets fail
To fight with Storms of Snow and Hail;
112
Who seldom meet, but at the Steeple:
The Strapping Dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the Thing without a Frown.
When much fatigued with Sermon-Study,
He felt his Brain grow dull and muddy,
No fit Companion could be found,
To push the lazy Bottle round:
Sure then, for want of better Folks,
To pledge his Clerk was Orthodox.
Ah! how unlike to Gerard-street,
Where Beaus and Belles, in Parties meet;
Where gilded Chairs and Coaches throng,
And jostle, as they trowl along;
Where Tea and Coffee, hourly, flow;
And Gape-seed does, in Plenty, grow;
And Griz (no Clock more certain) cries,
Exact at Seven, Hot Mutton Pyes:
There Lady Luna, in her Sphere,
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now she wains, and as 'tis said,
Keeps sober Hours, and goes to Bed.
There—But 'tis endless to write down,
All the Amusements of the Town:
And Spouse will think herself quite undone;
To trudge to Clogher, from sweet London;
And Care we must our Wives to please,
Or else—we shall be ill at Ease.
Where Beaus and Belles, in Parties meet;
Where gilded Chairs and Coaches throng,
And jostle, as they trowl along;
Where Tea and Coffee, hourly, flow;
And Gape-seed does, in Plenty, grow;
And Griz (no Clock more certain) cries,
Exact at Seven, Hot Mutton Pyes:
There Lady Luna, in her Sphere,
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
113
Keeps sober Hours, and goes to Bed.
There—But 'tis endless to write down,
All the Amusements of the Town:
And Spouse will think herself quite undone;
To trudge to Clogher, from sweet London;
And Care we must our Wives to please,
Or else—we shall be ill at Ease.
You see, my Lord, what 'tis I lack,
'Tis only some convenient Tack,
Some Parsonage House, with Garden sweet,
To be my late, my last Retreat;
A decent Church, close by its Side,
There preaching, praying, to Reside,
And, as my Time securely rolls,
To save my own, and others Souls.
'Tis only some convenient Tack,
Some Parsonage House, with Garden sweet,
To be my late, my last Retreat;
A decent Church, close by its Side,
There preaching, praying, to Reside,
And, as my Time securely rolls,
To save my own, and others Souls.
123
[This Rod was slender, white and tall]
This Rod was slender, white and tall,
Which oft he us'd to Fish withal.
A Place was fastn'd to the Hook,
And many score of Gudgeons took;
Yet still so happy was his Fate,
He caught his Fish, and sav'd his Bait.
Which oft he us'd to Fish withal.
A Place was fastn'd to the Hook,
And many score of Gudgeons took;
Yet still so happy was his Fate,
He caught his Fish, and sav'd his Bait.
Since Waters now are troubled grown,
His Fishing Rod he has laid down.
His Fishing Rod he has laid down.
260
Tom Pun-sibi Metamorphos'd: Or, The Giber Gib'd.
Mirandi novitate movebere monstri.
Ovid.
Ovid.
[_]
The following Poem was writ by a very Ingenious Clergyman of Ireland, in contempt of Gulliver's Insolence to his Friends and Acquaintance, and to expose the servile Behaviour of the Captain's Underlings; amongst whom this Clergyman places Tom Punsibi; so nam'd by himself, on account of his Art of Punning, altho', bad as the Performance is, Gulliver has a chief Share in it, as you may see, by the Agreement which there is, between the Method and Analysis of that Book, and the Bathos. I can't but think this Poem worthy this Collection, from the Spirit of it, and because it exposes, not only the Captain, but his chief Underling, SHERIDAN, an Irish Schoolmaster.
Tom
was a little, merry Grig;
Fiddled, and danc'd to his own Jig
Good-natur'd; but a little Silly;
Irresolute, and shally-shilly.
What he shou'd do, he cou'dn't guess;
Sw---t us'd him, like a Man at Chess;
He told him, once, that he had Wit;
But was in jest, and Tom was Bit.
Thought himself Second Son of Phœbus,
For Ballad, Pun, Lampoon and Rebus.
He took a Draught of Helicon,
But swallowed so much Water down,
He got a Dropsey; now, they say, 'tis
Turn'd to poetick Diabetes.
For all the Liquor he has pass'd,
Is without Spirit, Salt or Tast:
But, since it pass'd, Tom thought it Wit;
And so he writ, and writ, and writ:
He writ the famous Punning Art;
The Benefit of Piss and Fart;
He writ The Wonder of all Wonders;
He writ The Blunder of all Blunders;
He writ a merry Farce for Poppet,
Taught Actors how to squeak and hop it;
A Treatise on the wooden Man;
A Ballad on the Nose of Dan;
The Art of making April Fools;
And Four and Thirty quibbling-Rules.
The Learned say, that Tom went snacks
With Philomaths, for Almanacks;
Tho' they divided are, for some say
He writ for Whaley, some for Cumpstey.
Hundreds there are, who will make Oath,
That he writ Almanacks for both:
And tho' they made the Calculations,
Tom writ the Monthly Observations!
Fiddled, and danc'd to his own Jig
261
Irresolute, and shally-shilly.
What he shou'd do, he cou'dn't guess;
Sw---t us'd him, like a Man at Chess;
He told him, once, that he had Wit;
But was in jest, and Tom was Bit.
Thought himself Second Son of Phœbus,
For Ballad, Pun, Lampoon and Rebus.
He took a Draught of Helicon,
But swallowed so much Water down,
He got a Dropsey; now, they say, 'tis
Turn'd to poetick Diabetes.
For all the Liquor he has pass'd,
Is without Spirit, Salt or Tast:
But, since it pass'd, Tom thought it Wit;
And so he writ, and writ, and writ:
He writ the famous Punning Art;
The Benefit of Piss and Fart;
He writ The Wonder of all Wonders;
He writ The Blunder of all Blunders;
262
Taught Actors how to squeak and hop it;
A Treatise on the wooden Man;
A Ballad on the Nose of Dan;
The Art of making April Fools;
And Four and Thirty quibbling-Rules.
The Learned say, that Tom went snacks
With Philomaths, for Almanacks;
Tho' they divided are, for some say
He writ for Whaley, some for Cumpstey.
Hundreds there are, who will make Oath,
That he writ Almanacks for both:
And tho' they made the Calculations,
Tom writ the Monthly Observations!
Such were his Writings; but his Chatter
Was one continued Clitter Clatter.
Sw---t slit his Tongue, and made it talk,
Cry, Cup o'Sack, and Walk, Knave, walk;
And fitted little, prating Pall
For wier Cage, in Common-Hall:
Made him expert at quibble Jargon
And quaint, at selling of a Bargain.
Pall, he cou'd talk in Different Linguo's,
But he cou'd not be taught Distinguo's;
Sw---t, try'd in vain, and angry there at
Into a Spaniel turn'd his Parrot,
Made him to walk on the Hind Legs;
He Dances, Fawns, and Paws, and Begs:
Then Cuts a Caper o'er a Stick,
Lies close, does whine, and creep, and lick.
Sw---t put a Bit upon his Snout,
Poor Tom! he darn't look about;
But when that Sw---t does give the Word,
He snaps it up, tho' twere a T---d.
Sw---t Strokes his Back, and gives him Victual,
And then he makes him lick his Spittle.
Sometimes he takes him on his Lap,
And makes him Grin, and Snarl, and Snap.
He set the little Cur at me:
Kick'd, he leapt up upon his Knee;
I took him by the Neck, to shake him;
And made him void his Album Græcum.
Turn out the stinking Cur, Pox take him,
Quoth Sw---t: Tho' Sw---t cou'd sooner want any
Thing, in the World, than, a TANTA-NY;
And thus not only made his Grig,
A Parrot, Spaniel; but His Pig.
Was one continued Clitter Clatter.
Sw---t slit his Tongue, and made it talk,
Cry, Cup o'Sack, and Walk, Knave, walk;
263
For wier Cage, in Common-Hall:
Made him expert at quibble Jargon
And quaint, at selling of a Bargain.
Pall, he cou'd talk in Different Linguo's,
But he cou'd not be taught Distinguo's;
Sw---t, try'd in vain, and angry there at
Into a Spaniel turn'd his Parrot,
Made him to walk on the Hind Legs;
He Dances, Fawns, and Paws, and Begs:
Then Cuts a Caper o'er a Stick,
Lies close, does whine, and creep, and lick.
Sw---t put a Bit upon his Snout,
Poor Tom! he darn't look about;
But when that Sw---t does give the Word,
He snaps it up, tho' twere a T---d.
Sw---t Strokes his Back, and gives him Victual,
And then he makes him lick his Spittle.
264
And makes him Grin, and Snarl, and Snap.
He set the little Cur at me:
Kick'd, he leapt up upon his Knee;
I took him by the Neck, to shake him;
And made him void his Album Græcum.
Turn out the stinking Cur, Pox take him,
Quoth Sw---t: Tho' Sw---t cou'd sooner want any
Thing, in the World, than, a TANTA-NY;
And thus not only made his Grig,
A Parrot, Spaniel; but His Pig.
265
A Lilliputian Ode; In Imitation of, and humbly Inscrib'd to, Captain Gulliver; sole Redivivor of the ancient Fescennine.
I
The Profund,Wou'd you sift
To the Ground,
Follow Swift.
II
House of Van,Mother Clud,
Made the Man
Fond of Mud.
III
Then Lord Cutt'sFilthy Strain!
From his Guts
Reach'd his Brain.
IV
And that sameDame Harris
To his Fame,
A Bar is.
266
V
So vulgar,Scrubby writ
Is her Pray'r,
In low Wit.
VI
Then Whiston:And Ditton:
That pist on;
This shit on.
VII
Eccho too!Nasty Verse!
Things so true
To rehearse.
VIII
Then Durfy!And Flestrin;
O Scurvy!
Dull Jesting!
IX
But to SinkAll these show,
With one's Ink,
Deep below.
X
And Dean Swift,Left hath us
Useful Gift!
True BATHOS.
Had the Captain attended to his Roman Learning, instead of his New-invented Figure the Infantine, he had used the old Word Fescennine, which imports what the Captain intends, and expresses the true Roman Lullabie. The Metre of this Fescennine, was the same with the Captain's Quinbus Flestrine, and it consisted of one Foot of Three Syllables, which was called Amphibrachys; in which Measure the Romans sung Bawdy Ballads, and lewd wedding Songs. From this Remark, the Reader is desired to observe, that Mr. Philips is clear of the Infantine or Fescennine, charg'd on him by the Captain, in the Bathos, altho' he never wrote one Line in that Measure in his Life; and it is as plain, that the Captain is the sole Redivivor of this Fescennine or Infantine, in our Days; nothing of the Sort having appear'd, except Quinbus Flestrin, since Sir John Suckling, who imitated Herbert, who imitated Withers, who imitated Boethius, who imitated Ausonius, who imitated Seneca, the Tragedian; all ---! from Statius down to Swift, dull Imitators of Anacreon.
272
The Devil's Last Game:
A SATIRE.
Said
Old Nick, to St. Michael, You use me but ill,
To suppress all my Force, and restrain all my Skill:
Let me loose at Religion, I'll shew my Good Parts,
And try, if your Doctrine can balance my Arts.
'Tis a Match, cry'd the Angel,—and drew off his Guard,
And the Devil slipt from him, to play a Coat Card.
To suppress all my Force, and restrain all my Skill:
Let me loose at Religion, I'll shew my Good Parts,
And try, if your Doctrine can balance my Arts.
'Tis a Match, cry'd the Angel,—and drew off his Guard,
And the Devil slipt from him, to play a Coat Card.
The first Help he sought, was a qualified Mind,
That had Compass, and Void, for the Use he design'd.
There occurr'd a Pert Nothing, a Stick of Church Timber,
Who had Stiffness of Will, but his Morals were limber:
To whom Wit serv'd for Reason, and Passion for Zeal;
Who had Teeth like a Viper, and Tail, like an Eel.
Whose Distaste was sincere, and whose Friendship Pretence,
Who supply'd Want of Merit, by Store of fine Sense.
Wore the Malice of Hell, with a Heavenly Grace,
Of Humour enchanting, and Easy of Face:
His Tongue flow'd with Honey, His Eyes flash'd Delight;
He despis'd what was wrong, and abus'd what was right:
Had a Knack to laugh luckily, never thought twice,
And, with Coarseness of Heart, had a Taste, that was nice.
Nature form'd him malignant, but, whetting him fast,
He was edg'd for Decay, and too brittle to last.
He wou'd quarrel with Vertue, because 'twas his Foe's,
And was hardly a Friend to the Vice, which he chose:
He cou'd love nothing, grave; nothing, pleasant, forbear;
He was always in Jest, but was most so, in Prayer.
That had Compass, and Void, for the Use he design'd.
There occurr'd a Pert Nothing, a Stick of Church Timber,
Who had Stiffness of Will, but his Morals were limber:
273
Who had Teeth like a Viper, and Tail, like an Eel.
Whose Distaste was sincere, and whose Friendship Pretence,
Who supply'd Want of Merit, by Store of fine Sense.
Wore the Malice of Hell, with a Heavenly Grace,
Of Humour enchanting, and Easy of Face:
His Tongue flow'd with Honey, His Eyes flash'd Delight;
He despis'd what was wrong, and abus'd what was right:
Had a Knack to laugh luckily, never thought twice,
And, with Coarseness of Heart, had a Taste, that was nice.
Nature form'd him malignant, but, whetting him fast,
He was edg'd for Decay, and too brittle to last.
He wou'd quarrel with Vertue, because 'twas his Foe's,
And was hardly a Friend to the Vice, which he chose:
274
He was always in Jest, but was most so, in Prayer.
Lord be prais'd, quoth the Devil!—A Fig for all Grace!
So, He breath'd a new Brogue, o'er the Bronze of his Face:
Lent him Pride, above Hope, and Conceit above Spleen,
Slipt him into Church-Service, and call'd him a DEAN.
So, He breath'd a new Brogue, o'er the Bronze of his Face:
Lent him Pride, above Hope, and Conceit above Spleen,
Slipt him into Church-Service, and call'd him a DEAN.
275
From the Daily Journal, April 16. 1728.
A Copy of Verses, said to be omitted, by Accident, in the last New Miscellany.
At a Court, that was call'd, t'other Day, in the Air,
By the good Guardian Angel, who holds us in Care,
The Genius of Mischief, in sullen Disdain,
Made his Honours, and frown'd, and took Leave to complain.
By the good Guardian Angel, who holds us in Care,
The Genius of Mischief, in sullen Disdain,
Made his Honours, and frown'd, and took Leave to complain.
Is it thus, said the Dæmon, you, heavenly Blades,
Keep your Word, with us, Envoys, L--- H---ps of the Shades?
Vow'd you not, in Revenge for the Sins of this Land,
To allow us free Licence, and hold back your Hand?
Yet, unmindful of Us, or the Promise we claim,
See us frighted to Fairys, at one little Name!
See the Graces, and Muses, and Virtues, combin'd,
To unite Beauty, Wisdom, and Force, in one Mind;
Nay, in Hate of our Leader, resolv'd, not to cease,
Till you raise us a Foe, that can charm Hell to Peace,
You, to make him more dreadful, and widen his Scope,
Give him musical Magick, and christen him Pope.
All alarm'd, at his Verse, we have Right to complain,
Lest England shou'd, soon, be Old England, again.
There's Attraction, you know, in a Poet, like This,
That can tempt the whole World into Virtue, like His.
Keep your Word, with us, Envoys, L--- H---ps of the Shades?
Vow'd you not, in Revenge for the Sins of this Land,
To allow us free Licence, and hold back your Hand?
276
See us frighted to Fairys, at one little Name!
See the Graces, and Muses, and Virtues, combin'd,
To unite Beauty, Wisdom, and Force, in one Mind;
Nay, in Hate of our Leader, resolv'd, not to cease,
Till you raise us a Foe, that can charm Hell to Peace,
You, to make him more dreadful, and widen his Scope,
Give him musical Magick, and christen him Pope.
All alarm'd, at his Verse, we have Right to complain,
Lest England shou'd, soon, be Old England, again.
There's Attraction, you know, in a Poet, like This,
That can tempt the whole World into Virtue, like His.
Never fear, cry'd the Angel,—my Promise once given,
You are safe, for this Time, from the Outguards of Heaven;
Pope is gelt, in his Youth, for his Countrymen's Crimes,
And his Lustre dim'd down, to the Dusk of the Times:
God sent Pain and Impertinence, Wit to controul,
Gave the Devil his Body, and bid Swift take his Soul.
You are safe, for this Time, from the Outguards of Heaven;
277
And his Lustre dim'd down, to the Dusk of the Times:
God sent Pain and Impertinence, Wit to controul,
Gave the Devil his Body, and bid Swift take his Soul.
From the Flying-Post, April 23. 1728.
I
I sing a noble DittyOf London's noble City,
Whose Wits are all so witty
That common Sense can't reach 'em.
There's D'Anvers, S---t, and P---e Sir,
With whom no Men can cope Sir,
And if they cou'd, we hope, Sir,
They'll yield to Polly Peachum.
278
II
The Dean's a fine Mercator,And P---e a fine Translator,
The Squire a Calculator,
And Poll too has her Talent.
To know what Trade and Coin is,
No Man like the Divine is,
And Sawny's Wit as fine is
As Polly's Gay and Gallant.
III
Squire D'Anvers has his Merits,He Roger's Gifts inherits,
And gives his Masters Spirits,
When Polly scarce can raise 'em.
These Four in strict Alliance
Most bravely bid Defiance
To Virtue, Sense and Science;
And who but needs must praise 'em!
279
IV
The Dean his Tales rehearses,The Poet taggs his Verses,
The Squire his Flams disperses,
And Poll her Parts has shewn;
They thus all Humours hit, Sir,
The Courtier, and the Cit, Sir,
And they are both so bit, Sir,
The like was never known.
289
On one of the Admirers of Pope's Translation, who said, There was a great deal of Wit in Homer.
Homer is full of Wit: There is not moreIn the Old Batchelor, or in Jane Shore.
Right; very Right; why don't you go the Round,
And Idyl, Ode, and Elegy confound?
The main Mistake is there; and which is which
You know no more than of the Parts of Speech.
In Homer d'ye admire the Grand Design,
The Marvellous, the Moving, the Divine?
Is it the Fable or the Moral charms,
The Kings in Quarrels, or the Gods in Arms?
Is it the sounding Words and Thoughts sublime,
Or the smooth Verse, the pretty Turns and Rhime?
For what are you in Love with Homer? speak,
And own the Wit is English, and not Greek.
290
To know how P--- or you cou'd find it out.
A hundred Comments are on Homer writ,
A hundred Versions which those Comments fit.
And he who such an Author can't command,
Must neither Greek nor English understand.
Some will observe that Ladies have admir'd
His Epic Strain, and been, like P---, inspir'd.
And why not Ladies, pray, as well as Beaus?
Their Favour farther than their Money goes.
When Homer was the Fashion, who I pray
To be first in't had more Pretence than they?
Urge not that Beaus, and Men of Beauish Parts,
Know more than Ladies of the finer Arts.
'Tis rude; if Phœbus was to judge the Case,
He'd give the Question to the fairest Face.
Both Beaus and Belles the fav'rite Poet bribe,
And never lack much Learning to subscribe, &c.
315
Alexander P---e's Nosegay:
OR, The Dunciad Epitomiz'd.
First
Jove strains hard to give Ambrosia Vent,
And wipes the Ichor from his F---da---nt.
C---l's Vomit, and his Mistress's Discharge
By Stool and Urine, next are sung at large.
Then with her T---d our Bard embrowns C---l's Face,
And fills with Stench the Strand's extended Space.
Eliza's Breasts, in Language most polite,
Are two Fore Buttocks, or Cows Udders hight.
Ch---d by C---l at Pissing overcome,
Crown'd with a Jordan, stalks contented home.
But who can bear the Stink from muddy Streams
Of Fleet-Ditch, rolling Carrion to the Thames?
Or the foul Images he draws from Jakes?
Or what a Dutchman plumps into the Lakes?
And wipes the Ichor from his F---da---nt.
C---l's Vomit, and his Mistress's Discharge
By Stool and Urine, next are sung at large.
Then with her T---d our Bard embrowns C---l's Face,
And fills with Stench the Strand's extended Space.
Eliza's Breasts, in Language most polite,
Are two Fore Buttocks, or Cows Udders hight.
Ch---d by C---l at Pissing overcome,
Crown'd with a Jordan, stalks contented home.
But who can bear the Stink from muddy Streams
Of Fleet-Ditch, rolling Carrion to the Thames?
Or the foul Images he draws from Jakes?
Or what a Dutchman plumps into the Lakes?
Thus P---e is dwindled to a Bog-house Wit,
And writes as filthy Stuff, as others sh---.
Who reads P---e's Verses, or Dean Gully's Prose,
Must a strong Stomach have, or else no Nose.
And writes as filthy Stuff, as others sh---.
316
Must a strong Stomach have, or else no Nose.
To be inserted in the next Edition of the Dunciad.
Homer
describing the divine Abodes,
Mingled a crippl'd Vulcan with his Gods;
And the same Bard, when he his Heroes sings,
Crouds a Thersites in among his Kings;
A crooked, petulant, malicious Wight,
Unfit for Converse, Friendship, Love, or Fight;
The Scum and Shame of Greece, whose Mother Nature
Impress'd the Scoundrel strong on every Feature.
Mingled a crippl'd Vulcan with his Gods;
And the same Bard, when he his Heroes sings,
Crouds a Thersites in among his Kings;
A crooked, petulant, malicious Wight,
Unfit for Converse, Friendship, Love, or Fight;
The Scum and Shame of Greece, whose Mother Nature
Impress'd the Scoundrel strong on every Feature.
Should Homer now revive, and sing agen,
Of Gods Immortal, or of God-like Men;
As a strong Foil, he'd make his Murd'rer P---e
The Vulcan, and Thersites of the Group.
Of Gods Immortal, or of God-like Men;
As a strong Foil, he'd make his Murd'rer P---e
The Vulcan, and Thersites of the Group.
317
Epigram on the Translation of Homer.
If Homer's never-dying Song, begunTo celebrate the Wrath of Peleus' Son;
Or if his opening Odysseys disclose
A patient Hero, exercis'd in Woes:
Let undertaking P---e demand our Praise,
Who so could copy the fam'd Græcian Lays,
That still Achilles Wrath may justly rise,
And still Ulysses suffer in Disguise.
324
[LUCAN] IMITATED.
[A satire on Swift]
Quod
si non aliam venturo Fata Neroni
Invenere Viam; magnoque æterna parantur
Regna Diis, cœlumque suo servire Tonanti
Non nisi sævorum potuit post bella Gigantum,
Jam nihil O! Superi querimur------
Lucan.
Invenere Viam; magnoque æterna parantur
Regna Diis, cœlumque suo servire Tonanti
Non nisi sævorum potuit post bella Gigantum,
Jam nihil O! Superi querimur------
Lucan.
But if Great George must mount our Throne
By Anna's sudden Death alone:
And if, to save our ruin'd State,
Louis le Grand must yield to Fate;
If St. Jo---n, Ormond, and if Mar,
Must, to this End, be banish'd far;
If Ox---d from his Power must fall;
If Swift must fly, and nooz'd be Paul,
Let 'em be Banish'd, Nooz'd, and Die,
And let 'em Fall, and let 'em Fly;
325
If Treason gives us George and Peace.
328
The WISH.
May Wit and Learning once this Isle adorn,And pert Pretensions be receiv'd with Scorn;
May Homer's own immortal Verse be read,
And no unmeaning Mimick in its Stead;
May This be Po---e's, and This the publick Lot,
To have his vile Performance, so, forgot.
On Reading Sawney, an Heroic Poem, in Answer to the Dunciad.
Rejoice, ye injur'd Bards, whose honour'd BaysThe Dunciad taints, nor heed th'invenom'd Lays:
A nobler Verse restores your living Fame,
And graves a long Disgrace on Sawney's Name.
329
Is fall'n, at last, like thee, and grov'ling lies as low.
332
L---t's LAMENTATION.
Well then! All human Things; henceforth, Avast!Sawny the Great is, quite, cut down, at last.
But—I must say, this Judgment was due to him,
For, basely Murthering Homer's sacred Poem;
Due too! for Dropping Me; and Running Mad,
To Fall, so Foul, on every Friend he had.
So Fate and Jove Require; and so, Dear P---p---e;
Either Thy Razor set; or,—Buy a Rope.
337
King OBERON's Edict.
On Occasion of the Students of the College of Dublin continually writing in the Lilliputian Manner and Measure of Verse.
Little
Lads, of Dublin Town,
Dangling in a dirty Gown;
On your short Iambick Feet,
Thro' each Lane, and thro' each Street.
Dangling in a dirty Gown;
On your short Iambick Feet,
Thro' each Lane, and thro' each Street.
Ye Bards, by tasting Patrick's Spring,
Who Little Sonnets learn to Sing.
Patrick! Righteous! Rhimey Saint!
Bless'd with Bards, So queer! So quaint!
Who Little Sonnets learn to Sing.
Patrick! Righteous! Rhimey Saint!
Bless'd with Bards, So queer! So quaint!
Ye Petty Priests, and Witless Wits!
Who preach to sleep, the drowsy Cits;
And Bother both the Belles and Beaus;
With Ribald Rhime, and Paultry Prose;
Prose and Rhime, and Rhime and Prose!
Cold and Light as Mountain Snows;
Rhime and Prose, and Prose and Rhime!
Be it Blank or chance it Chime;
Like canker'd Cork, of little Worth;
Corkiest Cork! or Frothiest Froth!
Needless to be understood;
Meaning neither Harm nor Good:
Including neither False, or True;
Vanishing like Morning Dew;
Or the Wind, that's past and gone,
Yet blowing still, and blowing on:
That Fam'd, oft-quoted Wind! I trow,
Which Good to Nobody does blow.
Who preach to sleep, the drowsy Cits;
338
With Ribald Rhime, and Paultry Prose;
Prose and Rhime, and Rhime and Prose!
Cold and Light as Mountain Snows;
Rhime and Prose, and Prose and Rhime!
Be it Blank or chance it Chime;
Like canker'd Cork, of little Worth;
Corkiest Cork! or Frothiest Froth!
Needless to be understood;
Meaning neither Harm nor Good:
Including neither False, or True;
Vanishing like Morning Dew;
Or the Wind, that's past and gone,
Yet blowing still, and blowing on:
That Fam'd, oft-quoted Wind! I trow,
Which Good to Nobody does blow.
To ye, ye Pygmey Poets, I
Prince of Pygmiest Pygmies, hie,
And command you, quite, to quit,
This Laconic Fit of Wit,
For to me, without Dispute,
Appertain All Things minute.
Prince of Pygmiest Pygmies, hie,
And command you, quite, to quit,
This Laconic Fit of Wit,
339
Appertain All Things minute.
Minute Metre, Dapper Wit;
Tiney Thoughts, which Bit by Bit,
Straining through a Nutshell Brain,
Form The Genuine Fairy Strain.
Banishing, with All His gay Tricks,
From my Court Dean of Saint Patrick's;
Who is a meer USURPER grown,
And aims at Oberon's Rightful Crown:
Tiney Thoughts, which Bit by Bit,
Straining through a Nutshell Brain,
Form The Genuine Fairy Strain.
Banishing, with All His gay Tricks,
From my Court Dean of Saint Patrick's;
Who is a meer USURPER grown,
And aims at Oberon's Rightful Crown:
Thus I warn ye, o'er and o'er,
In Epitom to write no more:
Without Knowledge, without Reading:
Without Sense, and without Breeding;
Nought amusing, nothing pleasing,
No—no—no—nothing but teizing;
And this I do Command, again,
On this Penalty and Pain;
My Imps, they all, shall teize ye,
My Nymphs shall never please ye,
Not one Wink shall ye sleep,
Till Broad Day, forth, doth peep:
Your Crambo's I'll conceal,
Your Pen and Ink I'll steal;
And if ye hit on somewhat witty,
A Changling shall supplant the Ditty.
In Epitom to write no more:
Without Knowledge, without Reading:
Without Sense, and without Breeding;
Nought amusing, nothing pleasing,
No—no—no—nothing but teizing;
And this I do Command, again,
On this Penalty and Pain;
My Imps, they all, shall teize ye,
My Nymphs shall never please ye,
340
Till Broad Day, forth, doth peep:
Your Crambo's I'll conceal,
Your Pen and Ink I'll steal;
And if ye hit on somewhat witty,
A Changling shall supplant the Ditty.
Given at our Court, at Kensington, the 20th
Day of the 6th Month in the World, under the Moon.
Counter sign'd, Pusillo Pygmatio Sec. Stat.
341
An Indian Tale: Occasion'd by the Verses, on the Quidnunchi's; Miscellanies, Vol. 3. p. 229, apply'd to the joint Authors of that Volume.
Lord! How uncertain's Human Fate!Who wou'd be Witty, Wise or Great?
When Sw---t and P---p---e, so fam'd for writing!
Are Names, now, hardly worth reciting,
While, singly, they Oblige the Town,
And each, His own Way, writ, alone,
Their Pieces pleas'd us, well enough;
Whether Sheer Wit, or Sorry Stuff;
If one Day brought a Stupid Letter,
Another might produce A Better.
But, when, Together, they wou'd write;
And Club their Praise, or join their Spite;
Th'unequal Sociats, soon, betray'd
The Weak Alliance, they had made:
342
Then mark, I pray, my Indian Tale.
Over a Deep, Wide, Rapid Flood,
A Tall and Lovely Tree, there stood;
With Fruit of Gaudiest, Golden Hue,
Beauteous as that which Virgil drew.
Rare was the Tree; Of Tender Make:
Its Branches, very apt to Break:
Rare too, The Fruit! But hard to Pluck;
Tenacious, to the Stalk it stuck.
And Marmouzette agreed to climb
By turns, and crop the Goodly Fruit;
But Fast it held, they cou'd not do't.
Oft times howe'er, These baffled Friends,
Up, singly, climb, to gain their Ends:
But, Baulk'd, Leap down, and Fret and Grin,
And Scratch, and Scold, and burn within,
343
And not to Taste the Fruit of Gold.
Tir'd out, at length, with Expectation:
And urg'd and spurr'd, with meer Vexation;
They Both resolve, whate'er comes on't,
The Dangerous Tree, at once, to mount.
And, to remove all sort of Fear,
Things they deliberately, prepare;
Join all their Cunning, and their Skill,
With Safety, to obtain their Will.
And urg'd and spurr'd, with meer Vexation;
They Both resolve, whate'er comes on't,
The Dangerous Tree, at once, to mount.
And, to remove all sort of Fear,
Things they deliberately, prepare;
Join all their Cunning, and their Skill,
With Safety, to obtain their Will.
They Fast; they Wake; their Limbs anoint,
And try the Strength of ev'ry Joint:
Then, pleas'd, as if they'd got their Prey,
They Sneer, and Skip, and Scratch, and Play:
Pleas'd! that the Sacred Fruit is known,
And Gather'd by themselves, alone.
Laughing, with all their Mimick Face,
At the whole Tribe of Monkey-Race;
From whom the Happy Fruit's conceal'd:
Or, if, perchance, it be Reveal'd,
Laughing, with every sawcy Feature,
At every paultry Fellow Creature,
To whom, for want of Wit or Sleight,
The Tree ne'er gave a true Delight.
Thus Puff'd, together, up they Bounce;
And try the Strength of ev'ry Joint:
Then, pleas'd, as if they'd got their Prey,
They Sneer, and Skip, and Scratch, and Play:
Pleas'd! that the Sacred Fruit is known,
And Gather'd by themselves, alone.
Laughing, with all their Mimick Face,
At the whole Tribe of Monkey-Race;
From whom the Happy Fruit's conceal'd:
Or, if, perchance, it be Reveal'd,
344
At every paultry Fellow Creature,
To whom, for want of Wit or Sleight,
The Tree ne'er gave a true Delight.
But Break the Branch, and down they Flounce
Into the Deep and Rapid Stream:
They Kick; Embrace, and Scratch and Scream:
Thrice to the Surface, from the Ground,
Clasp'd Arm in Arm, th'Adventurers bound;
But sink, for ever sink, into the Vast Profund.
FINIS.
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