Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind; And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no slave:
Sure, if I fpare the minister, no rules
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
Which not at present having time to do-
P. Hold, Sir! for God's fake, where's th' affront
Against your worship when had S-k writ?
Ur P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend 166
[In power a servant, out of power a friend]
To W-le guilty of some venial fin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery bedropt the crown,
How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech 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 house did afterwards the fame.
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
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,
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 scarce could write or read,
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;
And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own? 190
Must never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blafphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult'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
Šo impudent, I own myself no knave :
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me :
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 Yet touch'd and sham'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 muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: Reverend I touch thee! but with honest zeal; To rouze the watchmen of the public weal, To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall. Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The muse's wing shall brush you all away: All his grace preaches, all his lordship fings, All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings. All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last gazette, or the last address.
Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's
Her priestless muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than such as Anstis 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 sings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let flattery sickening see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands 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 Efssays on Man.
After ver. 227, in the MS.
Where's now the star that lighted Charles to rise?
-With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak so well,
How chanc'd ye nod, when luckless Sorel fell?
Hence, lying miracles! reduc'd so 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!
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 August, 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 shut up in every Areet,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a dust 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 some months 'twixt fun and fire,
And you shall fee, the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.
My lord, your favours well I know;
'Tis with diftinction you bestow;
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotsman does his plums.
"Pray take them, Sir-Enough's a feast:
"Eat fome, and pocket up the rest"
What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
"No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs."
Thus fools with compliments besiege 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 should
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.
Now this I'll say, you'll find in me
A fafe companion and a free;
But if you'd have me always near
A 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 smile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a fummer fun,
And kept you up so oft till one :
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.
A weazel once made shift 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 'scape 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 resign
All that may make me none of mine.
South Sea fubfcriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.
'Twas what I faid to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty, and smil'd.
Give me, I cry'd, (enough for me)
My bread, and independency !
So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd just as you see I do;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that sinking 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 master, very low.
There dy'd my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor werse nor better.
To set this matter full before ye,
Our old friend Swift will tell his story.
Harley, the nation's great support"
But you may read it, I stop short.
THE LATTER PART OF SATIRE VI".
O charming noons! and nights divine !
Or when Pfup, 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 serv'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 sings,
A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's,
Or what's in either of the houses ;
But fomething much more our concern,
And quite a scandal 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 story of two mice.
Once on a time (so runs the fable)
A country mouse, right hofpitable,
Receiv'd a town mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a foul,
Knew what was handsome, and would do't,
On just occafion, "coûte qui coûte."
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 sat, " tête à tête."
Our courtier walks from dish to dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, "Que ça est bon! Ah goûtez ça ! "That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing, " Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." Was ever such a happy swain?
He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. " I'm quite asham'd-'tis mighty rude "To cat so 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 stucco has no chink). " An't please your honour, quoth the peafant, " This same defert is not so pleasant: "Give me again my hollow tree, " A cruft of bread, and liberty!"
Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
He brought him bacon (nothing lean;) Pudding, that might have pleas'd a dean;
AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
Cheese, fuch as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his fake;
I am not now, alas! the man
And cry'd, "I vow you're mighty neat. * But lord, my friend, this savage scene! "For God's fake, come, and live with men:. "Confider mice, like men, must die, "Both small and great, both you and I: "Then spend your life in joy and sport, " (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 house 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,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:
* See the first part in Swift's Poems.
As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. Ah, found no more thy soft alarms,
Nor circle sober 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
Noble and young, who strikes the heast
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 house, embofom'd in the grove,
Sacred to focial life and social love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:
Thither the filver-founding lyres
Shall call the smiling loves, and young defires;
There, every grace and muse shall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the fong;
There youths and nymphs in confort gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day.
With me, alas! those joys are o'er;
For me the vernal garlands bloom no more.
Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,
The still-believing, still renew'd defire;
Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,
And all the kind deceivers of the fool!
But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn nonfenfe, at one glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,
Absent 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 shown by Cynthia's filver ray, And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.
PART OF THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK!
LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which founds the filver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar fong;
Though daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native muses play;
Nor yet shall 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'd
Vain was the chief's, the sage'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.
On receiving from the Right Honourable
THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY,
Yrs, I beheld th' Athenian queen Defcend in all her fober charnis; "And take (she said, and smil'd serene) "Take at this hand celestial arms.
* Secure the radiant weapons wield; "This golden lance shall guard defert, "And if a vice dares keep the field, "This steel shall stab it to the heart."
Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky;
And dipp'd them in the fable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.
* What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries)
" A standish, steel and golden pen!
"It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
"I gave it you to write again.
"But, friend, take heed whom you attack;
"You'll bring a house (I mean of peers)
Red, blue, and green, nay white and black,
"Land all about your ears.
"You'd write as smooth again on glass,
"And run, on ivory, fo glib,
"As not to stick at fool or ass,
"Nor stop at flattery or fib.
"Athenian queen! and sober charms!
"I tell you, fool, there's nothing in't :
"'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;
"In Dryden's Virgil see the print.
"Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,
"That dares tell neither truth nor lies,
"I'll lift you in the harmless roll
* Of those that fing of these poor eyes."
SUCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet fung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and loft admir'd, and mourn'd!
With foftest manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, blest in every strain!
Dear to the muse! 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 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear) Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays, Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or. deeming meanest 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 supreme, in each hard instance try'd, Above all pain, and paffion, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deferts thy retreat is made; The muse attends thee to thy filent shade: 'Tis her's, the brave man's latest steps to trace, Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When interest calls off all her sneaking train, And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain; She waits or to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. Ev'n now, she shades thy evening-walk with bays (No hireling the, no prostitute to praise);
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