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Sure, if I fpare the minifter, no rules

150

Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid
His faws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To fee a footman kick'd that took his pay:
But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave,
The prudent general turn'd it to a jest;
And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the reft:
Which not at prefent having time to do-

F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake, where's th' affront to you?

Against your worship when had S-k writ? Ur P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard whofe diftich all commend 160 [In power a fervant, out of power a friend] To W-le guilty of fome venial fin; What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in? The priest whofe flattery bedropt the crown, How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown. And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whole fpeech you took, and gave it to a friend? P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came; Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame, Since the whole houfe did afterwards the fame. Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply, As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly; If one, through nature's bounty or his lord's, Has what the frugal dirty foil affords, From him the next receives it, thick or thin, As pure a mefs almost as it came in ; The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd, Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind; From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse: The laft full fairly gives it to the house. F. This filthy fimile, this beastly line

Quite turns my ftomach

171

180

P. So does flattery mine: And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, Perfume to you, to me is excrement. But hear my father-Japhet, 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres fcarce could write or read, In all the courts of Pindus guiltlefs quite ; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; And muft no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, Because the deed he forg'd was not my own? 190 Muft never patriot then declaim at gin, Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse, Without a flaring reafon on his brows? And each blafphemer quite efcape the rod, Because the infult's not on man, but God? Afk you what provocation I have had? The ftrong antipathy of good to bad. When truth or virtue an affront endures,

Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.

Miue, as a foe profefs'd to false pretence,
Who think a coxcombs honour like his sense;

VARIATIONS.

Ver, 185, in the MS.

200

I grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed,
Japhet writ not, and Chartres fcarce could read.

Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're ftrangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no flave:
So impudent, I own myself no knave:
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to fee
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me :

Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone.

O facred weapon! left for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence! To all but heaven-directed hands deny'd, The mufe may give thee, but the gods must guide: Reverend I touch thee! but with honeft zeal; To rouze the watchmen of the public weal, To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the prelate flumbering in his stall. Ye tinfel infects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The mufe's wing shall brush you all away: All his grace preaches, all his lordship fings, All that makes faints of queens, and gods of kings. All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last gazette, or the last addrefs.

226

When black ambition ftains a public caufe, A monarch's fword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.

231

Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's

shrine

240

Her priestless muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the grave;
Far other stars than * and ** wear,
And may defcend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Houghs unfully'd mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)
Let envy howl, while heaven's whole chorus fings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let flattery fickening fee the incenfe rife,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the laft pen for freedom let me draw, When truth ftands trembling on the edge of law; Here, last of Britons! let your names be read; Are none, none living? let me praise the dead, And for that cause which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.

F. Alas, alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Effays on Man.

After ver. 227, in the MS.

Where's now the ftar that lighted Charles to rife?
-With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak fo well,
How chanc'd ye nod, when lucklefs Sorel fell?
Hence, lying miracles! reduc'd fo low
As to the regal touch and papal toe;
Hence haughty Edgar's title to the Main,
Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain !

IMITATIONS OF HORACE.

EPISTLE VII.

IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.

'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to Auguft, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am fick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The shops fhut up in every freet,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a duft in every place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W* and H both in town!

"The dog-days are no more the case."
'Tis true, but winter comes apace:
Then fouthward let your bard retire,
Hold out fome months 'twixt fun and fire,
And you fhall fee, the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.

My lord, your favours well I know;

'Tis with distinction you beftow;

And not to every one that comes,
Juft as a Scotfman does his plums.

Pray take them, Sir-Enough's a feast:
"Eat fome, and pocket up the reî”-
What, rob your boys? thofe pretty rogues!
"No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs."
Thus fools with compliments befiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;
And 'tis but juft, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wife man always is or fhould
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll fay, you'll find in me

A fafe companion and a free;

But if you'd have me always nearA word, pray, in your honour's car. I hope it is your refolution To give me back my conftitution! The sprightly wit, the lively eye, Th' engaging fmile, the gaiety, That laugh'd down many a fummer fun, And kept you up fo oft till one : And all that voluntary vein, As when Belinda rais'd my strain.

A weazel once made fhift to flink In at a corn-loft through a chink; But having amply stuff'd his skin, Could not get out as he got in; Which one belonging to the house ('Twas not a man, it was a mouse) Obferving, cry'd, « You 'fcape not fo, "Lean as you came, Sir, you must go."

Sir, you may spare your application, I'm no fuch beaft, nor his relation; Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with Ortolans: Extremely ready to refign

All that may make me none of mine.
South-Sea fubfcriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.
'I'was what I faid to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modefty, and fmil'd.
Give me, I cry'd, (enough for me)
My bread, and independency!
So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd juft as you fee I do ;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that finking fund, my life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
Shrink back to my paternal cell,
A little house, with trees a-row,
And, like its mafter, very low.
There dy'd my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor werfe nor better.
To fet this matter full before ye,
Our old friend Swift will tell his story.
Harley, the nation's great fupport”.
But you may read it, I stop short.

THE LATTER Part of satire VI".

O charming noons! and nights divine!
Or when fup, or when I dine,
My friends above, my folks below,
Chatting and laughing all-a-row,
The beans and bacon set before 'em,
The grace-cup ferv'd with all decorum:
Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And even the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian fings,
A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's,
Or what's in either of the houfes :
But fomething much more our concern,
And quite a fcandal not to learn:
Which is the happier, or the wifer,
A man of merit, or a mifer?
Whether we ought to choose our friends,
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what, the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremely "à propos:"
Name a town life, and in a trice
He had a ftory of two mice.
Once on a time (fo runs the fable)
A country moufe, right hofpitable,
Receiv'd a town mouse at his board,
Jult as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal moufe, upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a foul,

Knew what was handsome, and would do't,
On juft occafion," coûte qui coûte."
He brought him bacon (nothing lean;)
Pudding, that might have pleas'd a dean;
Cheefe, fuch as men in Suffolk make,
But wifh'd it Stilton for his fake;
Yet, to his guest though no way sparing,
He eat himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But fhow'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his beft to feem to eat,
And cry'd," I vow you're mighty neat.
But lord, my friend, this favage scene!
"For God's fake, come, and live with men :.
"Confider mice, like men, muft die,
"Both small and great, both you and I :
"Then spend your life in joy and fport,
(This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court.")
The verieft hermit in the nation

May yield, God knows, to strong temptation.
Away they came, through thick and thin,
To a tall houfe near Lincoln's-Inn:
('Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their lordships had fat late).

Behold the place, where if a poet
Shin'd in defcription, he might show it;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with the filver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotefco roofs, and stucco floors:

* See the first part in Swift's Poems.

But let it (in a word) be faid,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkin's white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice fat, " tête à tête."

Our courtier walks from difh to dish,
Taftes for his friend of fowl and fish;
Tells all their names, lays down the law,
16 Que ça eft bon! Ah goûtez ça !
"That jelly's rich, this malmfey healing,
"Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in."
Was ever fuch a happy fwain?

He stuffs and fwills, and stuffs again. "I'm quite afham'd-'tis mighty rude "To cat fo much but all's fo good. "I have a thousand thanks to give"My lord alone knows how to live." No fooner faid, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all: "A rat, a rat! clap to the door" The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods to fave them in a trice! (It was by providence they think, For your damn'd ftucco has no chink). "An't please your honour, quoth the peasant, "This fame defert is not so pleasant: "Give me again my hollow tree, "A cruft of bread, and liberty!"

BOOK IV. ODE I.

TO VENUS.

AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?

Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me reft!

I am not now, alas! the man

As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. Ah, found no more thy foft alarms,

Nor circle fober fifty with thy charms! Mother too fierce of dear defires!

}

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires. To number five dire direct your doves,

There spread round Murray all your bloom

ing loves;

Noble and young, who ftrikes the heart

With every sprightly, every decent part; Equal, the injur'd to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend.

He, with a hundred arts refin'd,

Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind : To him each rival shall submit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace,

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face; His houfe, embofom'd in the grove,

Sacred to focial life and focial love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,
Where Thames reflects the vifionary scene:
Thither the filver-founding lyres

Shall call the fmiling loves, and young defires
There, every grace and mufe fhall throng,
Exalt the dance, or aniinate the fong;

There youths and nymphs in confort gay,
Shall hail the rifing, close the parting day.
With me, alas! thofe joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu fond hope of mutual fire,

The ftill-believing, ftill renew'd defire; Adieu the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the foul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? Why words fo flowing, thoughts fo free,

Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee, drefs'd in fancy's airy beam,

Abfent I follow through th' extended dream; Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my arms; And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or foftly glide by the canal, Now fhown by Cynthia's filver ray,

And now on rolling waters fnatch'd away.

PART OF THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK!
A FRAGMENT.

LEST you fhould think that verse shall die,
Which founds the filver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;
Though daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native muses play;
Nor yet fhall Waller yield to mine,

Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay—
Sages and chiefs long fince had birth

Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd; Then rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And those, new heavens and systems fram’¿. Vain was the chief's, the fage's pride!

They had no poet, and they died:
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.

MISCELLANIES.

On receiving from the Right Honourable THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY,

A STANDISH AND TWO PENS.

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EPISTLE

то

ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD,

AND

EARL MORTIMER.

SUCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet fung,
Till death untimely ftopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, juft beheld, and loft admir'd, and mourn'd!
With fofteft manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in every strain !
Dear to the mufe! to Harley dear-in vain!

For him, thou oft haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, defpis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from flattery to wit.

Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recal thofe nights that clos'd thy toilfome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of intereft, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or. deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a foul like thine :
A foul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, and paffion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deferts thy retreat is made;
The mufe attends thee to thy filent fhade:
'Tis her's, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify difgrace.
When intereft calls off all her fncaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain ;
She waits or to the fcaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now, the fhades thy evening-walk with bays
(No hireling fhe, no proftitute to praise);

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