And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur ;
And wheezing Asthma, loath to stir;
Voluptuous Ease, the child of Wealth,
Infecting thus our hearts by stealth:
None seek thee now in open air ;
To thee no verdant altars rear;
But in their cells and vaults obscene
Present a sacrifice unclean,
From whence unsav'ry vapours rose,
Offensive to thy nicer nose.
Ah! who, in our degen'rate days,
As Nature prompts, his off'ring pays?
Here Nature never diff'rence made
Between the sceptre and the spade.
Ye great ones! why will ye disdain
To pay your tribute on the plain ?
Why will you place, in lazy pride,
Your altars near your couches' side?
When from the homeliest earthen ware
Are sent up off'rings more sincere,
Than where the haughty duchess locks
Her silver vase in cedar-box.
Yet some devotion still remains
Among our harmless northern swains,
Whose off'rings, plac'd in golden ranks,
Adorn our crystal rivers' banks,
Nor seldom grace the flow'ry downs
With spiral tops and copple crowns;
Or gilding in a sunny morn
The humble branches of a thorn;
So, poets sing, with golden bough
The Trojan hero paid his vow.
Hither by luckless error led,
The crude consistence oft' I tread;
Here, when my shoes are out of case,
Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace;
Here by the sacred bramble ting'd,
My petticoat is doubly fring'd.
Be witness for me, Nymph divine!
I never robb'd thee with design;
Nor will the zealous Hannah pout
To wash thy injur'd off'rings out.
But stop, ambitious Muse! in time,
Nor dwell on subjects too sublime.
In vain on lofty heels I tread,
Aspiring to exalt my head;
With hoop expanded wide and light
In vain I 'tempt too high a flight.
Me Phoebus in a midnight dream
Accosting, said, Go shake your cream.
Be humbly minded, know your post; ;
Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast.
Thee best befits a lowly style;
Teach Dennis how to stir the guile;
With Peggy Dixon thoughtfui sit,
Contriving for the pot and spit :
Take down thy proudly-swelling sails,
And rub thy teeth, and pare thy nails:
At nicely carving shew thy wit,
But ne'er presume to eat a bit:
Turn ev'ry way thy watchful eye,
And ev'ry guest be sure to ply:
Let never at your board be known
An empty plate except your own.
Be these thy arts, nor higher aim
Than what befits a rural dame.
But Cloacina, goddess bright,
claims her as his right;
And Smedley*, flow'r of all divines,
Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's lines.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.
Occasioned by reading the following
Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplaist pas.
"In the adversity of our best friends we always find "something that doth not displease us.'
Written in Nov. 1731.
As Rochefoucault his Maxims drew
From Nature, I believe them true;
*A very stupid, insolent, factious, deformed, conceited parson, a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Grafton for his wit.
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast,
"In all distresses of our friends
"We first consult our private ends,
"While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
"Points out some circumstance to please us.'
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
We all behold with envious eyes
Our equal rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you,
But why should he obstruct my view?
Then let me have the higher post,
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One whom you love of all mankind
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won,
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without;
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!
What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?
Her end when Emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses.
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Vain human-kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, pow'r, and station,
'Tis all on me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire,
Yet when you sink I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line
But, with a sigh, I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix,
More sense than I can do in six,
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry, Pox take him and his wit.
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own hum'rous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use.
St. John, as well as Pultney, knows
That I had some repute for prose,
And till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
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