THE SEVENTH EPISTLE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.

'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Changed it to August; and, in short,

Have kept it as you do at court.

You humor me when I am sick;
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street;
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 southward let your bard retire;
Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire;
And you shall see, the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.

My lord, your favors, well I know, "Tis with distinction you bestow;

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And not to every one that comes, Just as a Scotsman does his plums. 'Pray take them sir.'-Enough's a feast: 25 'Eat some, 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 favors on a fop,
Ingratitude 's the certain crop;

And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore ;
You give the things you never care for.
A wise 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 safe companion, and a free;

But if

you' 'd have me always nearA word, pray, in your honor's ear. I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution,
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
The engaging smile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda raised my strain.

A weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft through a chink;
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in:

IMITATIONS OF HORACE.

Which one belonging to the house
('Twas not a man, it was a mouse)
Observing, cried, 'You 'scape not so;
Lean as you came, sir, you must go.'
Sir, you may spare your application;
I'm no such beast, 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 subscriptions take who please, 65
Leave me but liberty and ease.

'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who praised my modesty, and smiled.
Give me,' I cried, enough for me,
My bread and independency!
So bought an annual rent or two,
And lived-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 :

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75

There died my father, no man's debtor;
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better. 80

67 Child. Sir Francis Child, the banker.

67 Craggs and Child. Pope had some South-sea stock, which he kept until it sank to nothing. Warburton, to the credit of the poet's equanimity, informs us, that he used to say,--' It was a satisfaction to him that he did not grow rich by the public calamity.'

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 SIXTH SATIRE

OF THE

SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN THE YEAR 1714 BY DR. SWIFT;

THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS.

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear
For life, six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace-walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this and more,

I ask not to increase my store;
But here a grievance seems to lie ;—
All this is mine but till I die;

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I can't but think 'twould sound more clever,

To me and to my heirs for ever.

If I ne'er got or lost a groat,

By any trick, or any fault;
And if I pray by reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools:

As thus, Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t' other acre:

Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,

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Direct my plough to find a treasure :' 20

1 I've often wish'd. Pope's part of this poem begins at the hundred and twenty-fifth line; but such is his dexterity of imitation, that the change is scarcely discoverable.