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The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
But true Englishmen may fill
A good health to General Hill;
For the Queen now enjoys her own again.
HORACE, BOOK I. E P. VII.
Addreffed to the Earl of OXFORD, 1713.
HARLEY, the nation's great fupport,
Returning home one day from court,
(His mind with public cares poffeft,
All Europe's business in his breast),
Obferv'd a parjon near Whitehall
Cheapening old authors on a ftall.
The priest was pretty well in cafe,
And fhew'd fome humour in his face;
Look'd with an eafy, careless mien,
A perfect ftranger to the spleen;
Of fize that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to fit ftill.
My Lord (who, if a man may say 't,
Loves mifchief better than his meat)
Was now difpos'd to crack a jest,
And bid friend Lewis* go in queft
(This Lewis is a cunning fhaver,
And very much in Harley's favour),,
In queft who might this parfon be,
What was his name, of what degree;
* Erafmus Lewis cfq. the treafurer's fecretary.
If poffible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.
Lewis his patron's humour knows, Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter fift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift;
A clergyman of special note
For fhunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes to run him down :
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no fort of vice,
Went where he pleas'd, faid what he thought;
Not rich, but ow'd no man a groat:
In ftate opinions à la mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad,
Had given the fa&ion many a wound,
And libel'd all the junto round:
And fince he could not fpend his fire,
He now intended to retire.
Said Harley, "I defire to know
"From his own mouth if this be fo;
Step to the Doctor strait, and say, "I'd have him dine with me to-day."
Swift feem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my Lord had fent;
So never offer'd once to ftir;
But coldly faid, "Your fervant, Sir !'
"Does he refufe me?" Harley cry'd;
"He does, with infolence and pride."
Some few days after Harley fpies
The Doctor faften'd by the eyes
At Charing-crofs among the rout,
Where painted monfters are hung out:
He pull'd the ftring, and ftopt his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.
Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came fneaking to the chariot-fide,
And offer'd many a lame excufe:
He never meant the leaft abufe
"Extremely proud - but I had din'd -
"I'm fure I never fhould neglect
"No man alive has more refpect -"
"Well, I fhall think of that no more,
"If you ll be fure to come at four."
The Doctor now obeys the fummons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Difplays his talent, fits till ten;
Next day invited comes again;
Soon grows domeftic, feldom fails
Either at morning or at meals:
Came early, and departed late;
In fhort, the gudgeon took the bait.
My Lord would carry on the jest,
And down to Windfor takes his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In fummer round the park to ride,
In winter, never to refide.
A canon! that's a place too mean;
No, Doctor, you fhall be a Dean;
Two dozen canons round your ftall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all:
You need but crofs the Irish feas,
To live in plenty, power, and ease.
Poor Swift departs; and, what is worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse,
Travels at least an hundred leagues,
And fuffers numberless fatigues.
Suppofe him now a Dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his feat;
The filver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cufhion-fide;
Suppofe him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,
First-fruits and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats
(The wicked laity's contriving
To hinder clergymen from thriving).
Now all the Doctor's money 's spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent;
The farmers, fpitefully combin'd,
Force him to take his tithes in kind:
And Parvifol* difcounts arrears
By bills for taxes and repairs.
Poor Swift, with all his loffes vex'd,
Not knowing where to turn him next,
Above a thousand pounds in debt,
Takes horse, and in a mighty fret
Rides day and night at fuch a rate,
He foon arrives at Harley's gate;
But was fo dirty, pale, and thin,
Old Read † would hardly let him in..
Said Harley, "Welcome, Reverend Dean! "What makes your worship look so lean ? Why, fure you won't appear in town
"In that old wig and rufty gown?
"I doubt your heart is fet on pelf
"So much, that you neglect yourself.
"What! I fuppofe, now ftocks are high,
"You 've fome good purchase in your eye?
"Or is your money out at ufe ?".
"Truce, good my Lord, I beg a truce," (The Doctor in a paffion cry'd)
Your raillery is mifapply'd;
"Experience I have dearly bought;
"You know I am not worth a groat:
"But you refolv'd to have your jeft;
"And 'twas a folly to conteft;
"Then, fince you now have done your worst, "Pray leave me where you found me first.”
* The Dean's agent, a Frenchman. + The Lord Treasurer's porter.