To be sure, to be rich was always my guide;
To take, when I could, a fee on each side.
All this you well know. But pr'ythee now tell
If I have any more acquaintance in hell.
Is not that Tullamore ?*
You see how he trudges At the head of a shoal of unrighteous judges. By oppression and cheating, by rapine and lust, We shall in good time have the rest of the Trust. But our Master, the Devil, has solemnly swore, Till they're out of commission, not to admit more. If you speak me but fair, you shall not go far To meet with your friends of the Bench or the Bar: Look at Reynolds, and Lyndon, and Whitshed, and Keating,
The four rogues are all got together a prating,
Pr'ythee, where is fat Hely? I durst lay my life, That he's got to heaven, by help of his wife.
You'll ever be urging a reason that's faint;
If that would have done, we might each be a saint.
But what is become of Sir Toby and Stephen? †
There's neither of them, I am sure, gone to heaven.
* John Moore, of Croghan, in the King's County; created in 1715, Baron Moore of Tullamore: in 1716, and again in Feb. 1722-3, appointed one of the Lords Commissioners for holding the Great Seal during the absence of Lord Chancellor Middleton. -BARRETT.
+ Probably Sir Theobald Butler, and Sir Stephen Rice. The latter was Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.-BARRETT.
Does your brother as yet speak law in a cause; And has Pauca left off making use of his claws? Does the Bar from the Bench with patience still pocket
The calling them rogue, and rascal, and blockhead?
Faith, Thady, our Judges are grown very humble;
And one is suspicious, he'll soon have a tumble.
The new ones they keep the old ones in awe,
And have taught them civility, prudence, and law.
Pox take me, Sir William, why was not I asking, All this time you've been here, for poor Clara Gascoyne?
The woman that lay so long by my side;—
But I show'd I forgot her before that I died.
I believe she's unmarried, for I think I took care
To leave her but little, and much to my heir.
She still is thy widow, thou barbarous teague;
Both living and dead, thous't to her been a plague:
It's not for that sin, that I am come here,
Having left all the wealth I had to my dear.
That thou e'er wert a blockhead, you need not now
But this thy last action all others does crown:
Thou scarce wert got hither, thou pitiful cully,
Before she had gotten a lusty young bully:
I have of our Master a proverb to tell you;
What's got o'er his back, is spent under his belly.
This Dialogue is taken from the same MS.; and ascribed to Swift on conjecture. It must have been written about 1703; about which time Sir William Handcock, Recorder of Dublin, died, and was succeeded in that office by Mr John Forster. Thady Fitzpatrick represented the town of Maryborough in King James's Parliament.-BARRETT,
TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE, OCTOBER 31, 1713.
[Lord Harley married Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, the daugh. ter and sole heiress of John Duke of Newcastle. Bolingbroke malignantly called this match "the ultimate end of a certain administration." It was certainly the only advantage which the Earl of Oxford's family derived from his possession of ministerial power.]
AMONG the numbers who employ
Their tongues and pens to give you joy,
Dear Harley! generous youth, admit
What friendship dictates more than wit.
Forgive me, when I fondly thought
(By frequent observations taught)
A spirit so inform'd as yours
Could never prosper in amours.
The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts,
With all acquir'd and natural parts,
Whose harp could savage beasts enchant,
Was an unfortunate gallant.
Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd,
The nymph had soon been brought to yield:
Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued,
The nymph would ne'er have been a prude.
Ten thousand footsteps, full in view,
Mark out the way where Daphne flew :
For such is all the sex's flight,
They fly from learning, wit, and light:
They fly, and none can overtake
But some gay coxcomb, or a rake.
How then, dear Harley, could I guess
That you should meet, in love, success?
For, if those ancient tales be true,
Phoebus was beautiful as you:
Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace,
For wit and learning spoil'd his face.
And since the same resemblance held
In gifts wherein you both excell'd,
I fancy'd every nymph would run
From you, as from Latona's son.
Then where, said I, shall Harley find
A virgin of superior mind,
With wit and virtue to discover,
And pay the merit of her lover?
This character shall Ca'endish claim,
Born to retrieve her sex's fame.
The chief among the glittering crowd,
Of titles, birth, and fortune proud,
(As fools are insolent and vain)
Madly aspir'd to wear her chain:
But Pallas, guardian of the maid,
Descending to her charge's aid,
Held out Medusa's snaky locks,
Which stupify'd them all to stocks.
The nymph with indignation view'd
The dull, the noisy, and the lewd:
For Pallas, with celestial light,
Had purify'd her mortal sight;
Show'd her the virtues all combin'd,
Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind.
Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts,
Display their various nets for hearts:
Their looks are all by method set,
When to be prude, and when coquette;
Yet, wanting skill and power to choose,
Their only pride is to refuse.
But, when a goddess would bestow
Her love on some bright youth below,
Round all the earth she casts her eyes;
And then, descending from the skies,
Makes choice of him she fancies best,
And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd.
Thus the bright empress of the morn
Chose for her spouse a mortal born:
The goddess made advances first;
Else what aspiring hero durst?
Though, like a virgin of fifteen,
She blushes when by mortals seen;
Still blushes, and with speed retires,
When Sol pursues her with his fires.
Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen, Struck with Endymion's graceful mien, Down from her silver chariot came, And to the shepherd own'd her flame.
Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright,
And chaster than the Queen of Night,
Descended from her sphere to find
A mortal of superior kind.
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