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

And 'tis but just, I'll tell you 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 near-
A word, pray, in your honour's ear:
I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution!
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' 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 weazel 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;
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,
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.
There died my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse 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, B, II.*

O CHARMING noons! and nights divine!
Or when I sup, 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 served with all decorum:
Each willing to be pleased, and please,
And e'en the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How fais or that Italian sings,

A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's,
Or what's in either of the houses:
But something much more our concern,
And quite a scandal not to learn:
Which is the happier, or the wiser,
A man of merit, or a miser?

Whether we ought to choose our friends,
For their own worth, or our own ends?

See the first Part in Swift's Poems.

What good, or better, we may call,
And what the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremelyà-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 hospitable,
Received a town mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet loved his friend, and had a soul,
Knew what was handsome, and would do't,
On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.'
He brought him bacon (nothing lean);
Pudding that might have pleased a dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his sake;
Yet, to his guest though no way sparing,
He ate himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But shew'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his best to seem to eat,

And cried, I vow you're mighty neat.
But, lord, my friend, this savage scene!
For God's sake come, and live with men :
Consider, 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 veriest 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 sat late).
Behold the place, where if a poet
Shined in description, he might shew it:
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:

But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins 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 ashamed-'tis mighty rude
To eat so much-but all's so good.
I have a thousand thanks to give-
My lord alone knows how to live.'
No sooner said, 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 save 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 peasant:

This same dessert is not so pleasant:

Give me again my hollow tree,

A crust of bread, and liberty!'

BOOK IV. ODE I.

TO VENUS.

AGAIN? new tumults in my breast;
Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
I am not now, alas! the man

As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne.
Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,

Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms! Mother too fierce of dear desires!

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires:

To number five direct your doves,

There spread round Murray all your blooming loves; Noble and young, who strikes the heart

With every sprightly, every decent part;

Equal the injured to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. He, with a hundred arts refined,

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, embosom'd in the grove,

Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:

Thither the silver-sounding lyres

Shall call the smiling Loves and young Desires; There, every grace and muse shall throng,

Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in consort 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 desire: Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the soul !

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 nonsense, 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 softly glide by the canal;

Now shewn by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.