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Past six, and not a living soul!

But, conscious that they all speak true, I might by this have won a vole."

And give each other but their due, A dreadful interval of spleen!

It never interrupts the game, How shall we pass the time between?

Or makes them sensible of shame. “Here, Betty, let me take my drops ;

The time too precious now to waste, And feel my pulse, I know it stops :

The supper gobbled up in haste; This head of mine, Lord, how it swims'

Again afresh to cards they run, And such a pain in all my limbs!"

As if they had but just begun "Dear madam, try to take a nap."

But I shall not again repeat, But now they hear a footman's rap:

How oft they squabble, sviarl, and cheat. "Go, run, and light the ladies up:

At last they hear the watchman knock. It must be one before we sup."

“ A frosty morn—past four o'clock." The table, cards, and counters, set,

The chairmen are not to be found, And all the gamester-ladies met,

“ Come, let us play the other round." Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,

Now all in haste they huddle on Our madam can sit up all night :

Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone, "Whoever comes, I'm not within."

But, first, the winner must invite Quadrille's the word, and so begin.

The company to-morrow night. How can the Muse her aid impart,

Unlucky madam, left in tears, Unskill'd in all the terms of art?

(Who now again quadrille forswears.) Or in harmonious numbers put

With empty purse, and aching head,
The deal, the shuffle, and the cut ?

Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
The superstitious whims relate,
That fill a female gamester's pate ?
What agony of soul she feels
To see a knave's inverted heels!
She draws up card by card, to find
Good-fortune peeping from behind;

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.*
With panting heart, and earnest eyes,
In hope to see spadillo rise :

OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING In vain, alas! her hope is fed ;

MAXIM IN ROCHEFOUCAULT: She draws an ace, and sees it red;

Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons In ready counters never pays,

toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait pas. But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys : Ever with some new fancy struck,

In the adversity of our best friends, we always find someon. Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.

thing that doth not displease us. " This morning, when the parson came, I said I should not win a game.

As Rochefoucault his moxims drew This odious chair, how came I stuck in 't ? From nature, I believe them true : I think I never had good luck in 't.

They argue no corrupted mind I'm so uneasy in my stays;

In him : the fault is in mankind. Your fan a moment, if you please.

This maxim more than all the rest Stand further, girl, or get you gone; .

Is thought too base for human breast : I always lose when you look on.”

"In all distresses of our friends, "Lord! madam, you have lost codille !

We first consult our private ends; I never saw you play so ill."

While nature, kindly bent to ease us, "Say, madam, give me leave to say,

Points out some circumstance to please us." Twas you that threw the game away ;

If this perhaps your patience move, When lady Tricksey play'd a four,

Let reason and experience prove. You took it with a mattadore ;

We all behold with envious eves I saw you touch your wedding-ring

Our equals rais'd above our size. Before my lady callid a king;

Who would not at a crowded show You spoke a word began with H,

Stand high himself, keep others low? And I know whom you meant to teach,

I love my friend as well as you : Because you held the king of hearts;

But why should he obstruct my view ? Fie, madam, leave these little arts."

Then let me have the higher post; “That's not so bad as one that rubs

Suppose it but an inch at most. Her chair, to call the king of clubs;

If in a battle you should find And makes her partner understand

One, whom you love of all mankind, A maltadore is in her hand.”

Had some heroic action done, "Madam, you have no cause to flounce,

A champion kill'd, or trophy won; I swear I saw you thrice renounce."

Rather than thus be over-topt, " And truly, madam, I know when,

Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Instead of five, you scor'd me ten.

Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Spadillo here has got a mark;

Lies rack'd with pain, and you without : A child may know it in the dark: I guess'd the hand : it seldom fails :

* Written in November, 1731.—There are two distinct Wish some folks would pare their nails."

poems on this subject, one of them containing many spuWhile thus they rail, and scold, and storm, rious lines In what is here printed, the genuine parts It passes but for common form :

of both are preserved.

How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to se
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 heart divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
"Tis all to 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 humorous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin’d at first, and show'd its use.
St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride.
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents Heaven hath bless'd 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em ?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts ; but never to my friend :
I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote when I
Must by the course of nature die ;
When, I foresee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak:
“ See how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays :
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind ;
Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifiy times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith! he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter;
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

“For poetry, he's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhyme :
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen ;
But there's no talking to some men !"

And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years :

He's older than he would be reckond,
And well remembers Charles the Second
He hardly drinks a pint of wine ;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach too begins to fail ;
Last year we thought him strong and halo
But now he's quite another thing:
I wish he may hold out till spring !"
They hug themselves, and reason thus :
“ It is not yet so bad with us!"

In such a case they talk in tropes,
And by their fear express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess
(When daily how-d'ye's come of course,
And servants answer, “Worse and worse!)
Would please them better, than to tell,
That, “ God be prais'd, the Dean is well."
Then he who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest :
“ You know I always fear'd the worsi,
And often told you so at first."
He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his predictions prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover;
But, all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbor feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain;
How many a message would he send !
What hearty prayers that I should meno!
Inquire what regimen I kept ?
What gave me ease, and how I slept ?
And more lament, when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear;
For, though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
“How is the Dean ?"_" He's just alive."
Now the departing prayer is read;
He hardly breathes-the Dean is dead.

Before the passing bell begun,
The news through half the town is run
“ Oh! may we all for death prepare!
What has he left? and who's his heir ?"
“I know no more than what the new's is
"Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."
« To public uses! there's a whim!
What had the public done for him ?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride :
He gave it all-but first he died.
And had the Dean, in all the nation,
No worthy friend, no poor relation ?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood !"

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd
With elegies the town is cloy'd :
Some paragraph in every paper,
To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier

The doctors, tender of their fame,

Madam, your husband will attend Wisely on me lay all the blame.

The funeral of so good a friend? “We must confess, his case was nice;

No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; But he would never take advice.

And he's engag'd to-morrow night : flad he been rul’d, for aught appears,

My lady Club will take it ill, He might have liv'd these twenty years:

If he should fail her at quadrille. For, when we open'd him, we found

He lov'd the Dean-(I lead a heart :) That all his vital parts were sound."

But dearest friends, they say, must part. From Dublin soon 10 London spread,

His time was come; he ran his race; "Tis told at court, “ the Dean is dead."

We hope he's in a better place." And lady Suffolk,* in the spleen,

Why do we grieve that friends should die Runs laughing up to tell the queen.

No loss more easy to supply. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,

One year is past; a different scene! Cries, “ Is he gone! 'tis time he should.

No farther mention of the Dean, He's dead, you say ; then let him rot.

Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, I'm glad the medalst were forgot.

Than if he never did exist. I promis'd him, I own; but when ?

Where's now the favorite of Apollo ? I only was the princess then :

Departed :-and his works must follow ; But now, as consort of the king,

Must undergo the common fate; You know, 'tis quite another thing."

His kind of wit is out of date. Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,

Some country squire to Lintot goes, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:

Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. “Why, if he died without his shoes,”

Says Lintot, “I have heard the name; Cries Bob, “I'm sorry for the news :

He died a year ago.”—“The same." Oh, were the wretch but living still,

He searches all the shop in vain. And in his place my good friend Will!

“Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane : Or had a mitre on his head,

I sent them, with a load of books, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"

Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains : To fancy they could live a year! Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains !

I find you 're but a stranger here. And then, to make them pass the glibber,

The Dean was famous in his time, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber

And had a kind of knack at rhyme. He'll treat me as he does my betters,

His way of writing now is past : Publish my will, my life, my letters;

The town has got a better taste. Revive the libels born to die :

I keep no antiquated stuff; Which Pope must bear as well as I.

But spick and span I have enough. Here shift the scene, to represent

Pray, do but give me leave to show 'en:: How those I love my death lament.

Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay

This ode you never yet have seen,
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

By Stephen Duck, upon the queen.
St. John himself will scarce forbear

Then here's a letter finely penn'd
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.

Against the Craftsman and his friend : The rest will give a shrug, and cry,

It clearly shows that all reflection “I'm sorry--but we all must die!"

On ministers is disaffection.
Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise,

Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
All fortitude of mind supplies:

And Mr. Henley's last oration. For how can stony bowels melt

The hawkers have not got them yet: In those who never pity felt!

Your honor, please to buy a set ? When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,

“Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition, Resigning to the will of God.

"Tis read by every politician: The fools, my juniors by a year,

The country-members, when in town, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;

To all their boroughs send them down; Who wisely thought my age a screen,

You never met a thing so smart;
When death approach'd, to stand between: The courtiers have them all by heart.
The screen remov'd, their hearts are crembling; Those maids of honor who can read,
They mourn for me without dissembling.

Are taught to use them for their creod
My female friends, whose tender hearts

The reverend author's good intention Have better learn'd to act their parts,

Hath been rewarded with a pension :* Receive the news in doleful dumps :

He doth an honor to his gown, The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?)

By bravely running priestcraft down : Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!

He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)

That Moses was a grand impostor; Six deans, tney say, must bear the pall:

That all his miracles were cheats, (I wish I knew what king to call.)

Perform'd as jugglers do their feats :
The church had never such a writer:

A shame he hath not got a mitre!" * Mrs. Howard, at one time a favorite with the Dean.

| Which the Dean in vain expected, in return for a sin all present he had sent to the princess.

1 * Wolston is here confounded with Woolaston.

Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose ; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favor some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws. “The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill receiv'd at court, Although, ironically grave, He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the kravo; To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own."

“Sir, I have heard another story; He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died.”

“Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters !"

“He should have left them for his betters:
We had a hundred abler men,
Nor need depend upon his pen.-
Say what you will about his reading,
You never can defend his breeding ;
Who, in his salires running riot,
Could never leave the world in quiet;
Attacking, when he took the whim,
Court, city, camp-all one to him.-
But why would he, except he slobber'd,
Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert,
Whose counsels aid the sovereign power
To save the nation every hour!
What scenes of evil he unravels,
In satires, libels, lying travels ;
Not sparing his own clergy cloth,
But eats into it, like a moth!"

“ Perhaps I may allow the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein,
And seem'd determind not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim; .
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name.
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant:
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe
Who call it humor when they gibe:
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dullness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be willy.
Those who their ignorance confest,
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace learn'd by rote
Vice, if it e'er can be a bash'd,
Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd
If you resent it, who's to blame?
He neither knows you, nor your name.
Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,
Because its owner is a duke?
His friendships, still to few confin'd,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, or mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed :
Where titles give no right or power,
And peerage is a wither'd power;

He would have deem'd it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain :
******* squires to market brought,
Who sell their souls and **** for nought:
The **** **** go joyful back,
To rob the church, their tenants rack,
Go snacks with ***** justices,
And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In every job to have a share,
A gaol or turnpike to repair;
And turn ******* to public roads
Commodious to their own abodes.

"He never thought an honor done him,
Because a peer was proud to own him ;
Would rather slip aside, and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
And scorn the tools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration ;
Or no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs,
He gave himself no haughty airs :
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatterers; no allies in blood :
But succor'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.

"He kept with princes due decorum
Yet never stood in awe before 'em,
He follow'd David's lesson just;
In princes never put his trust;
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair LIBERTY was all his cry;
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone ;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head ;
But not a traitor could be found,
To sell him for six hundred pound

“Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men
But power was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat:
Ingratitude he often found,
And pitied those who meant the wound;
But kept the tenor of his mind,
To merit well of human-kind;
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labor'd many a fruitless hour,
To reconcile his friends in power;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin.
But, finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.

“And, oh! how short are human schemes Here ended all our golden dreams. What St. John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valor, Oxford's cares,

To save their sinking country lent,

For party he would scarce have bled Was all destroy'd by one event.

I say no more-because he's dead Too soon that precious life was ended,

What writings has he left behind ?” On which alone our weal depended.

"I hear they 're of a different kind : When up a dangerous faction starts,

A few in verse ; but most in prose " With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;

“Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose : By solemn league and covenant bound,

All scribbled in the worst of timer, To ruin, slaughter, and confound;

To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes ; To turn religion to a fable,

To praise queen Anne, nay more, defend her And make the government a Babel,

As never favoring the Pretender: Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,

Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;

Against the court to show his spite : To sacrifice Old England's glory,

Perhaps his travels, part the third ; And make her infamous in story :

A lie at every second wordWhen such a tempest shook the land,

Offensive 10 a loyal ear:How could unguarded virtue stand!

But-not one sermon, you may swear." “ With horror, grief, despair, the Dean

“ He knew an hundred pleasing stories, Beheld the dire destructive scene :

With all the turns of Whigs and Tories : His friends in exile, or the Tower,

Was cheerful to his dying day; Himself within the frown of power;

And friends would let him have his way. Pursued by base envenom'd pens,

“ As for his works in verse or prose, Far to the land of s— and fens;

I own myself no judge of those. A servile race in folly nurs'd,

Nor can I tell what critics thought them; Who truckle most, when treated woret.

But this I know, all people bought them, " By innocence and resolution,

As with a moral view design'd He bore continual persecution;

To please and to reform mankind : While numbers to preferment rose,

And, if he often miss'd bis aim, Whose merit was to be his foes;

The world must own it to their shame, When eu'n his own familiar friends,

The praise is his, and theirs the blame. Intent upon their private ends,

He gave the little wealth he had Like renegadoes now he feels,

To build a house for fools and mad; Against him lifting up their heels.

To show, by one satiric touch, « The Dean did, by his pen, defeat

No nation wanted it so much. An infamous destructive cheat;

That kingdom he hath left his debtor; Taught fools their interest how to know,

I wish it soon may have a better. And gave them arms to ward the blow.

And, since you dread no further lashes,
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,

Methinks you may forgive his ashes.
To save that hapless land from ruin;
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.

" To save them from their evil fate,
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench ;

HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.
As vile and profligate a villain,

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER
As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian;
Who long all justice had discarded,

Sent to him when in the Tower, 1617.
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded ;
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,

How blest is he who for his country dies,
And make him of his zeal repent :

Since Death pursues the coward as he flies ! But Heaven his innocence defends,

The youth in vain would fly from fate's attack, The grateful people stand his friends; With trembling knees and terror at his back; Not strains of law, nor judges' frown,

Though fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Yet swifter fate will seize him from behind. Nor witness hird, nor jury pick'd,

Virtue repuls'd, yet knows not to repine, Prevail to bring him in convict.

But shall with unattainted honor shine; * In exile, with a steady heart,

Nor stoops to take the staff,* nor lays it down, He spent his life's declining part;

Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Where folly, pride, and faction sway,

Virtue, to crown her favorites, loves to try Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay." Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; “ Alas, poor Dean! his only scope

Where Jove a seat among the gods will give Was to be held a misanthrope.

To those who die for meriting to live. This into general odium drew him,

Next, faithful silence hath a sure reward; Which if he lik’d, much good may't do him. Within our breast be every secret barr'd! His zeal was not to lash our crimes,

He who betrays his friend, shall never be But discontent against the times :

Under one roof, or in one ship, with me. For, had we made him timely offers,

For who with traitors would his safety trust, To raise his posl, or fill his coffers,

Lest, with the wicked, Heaven involve the just ? Perhaps he might have truckled down, And, though the villain 'scape awhile, he feels Like other brethren of his gown ;

Slow vengeance, like a blood-hound, at his heels

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