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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,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.*
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!
What poet would not grieve to se
Her end when emulation misses,
To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem.
The time is not remote when I
“For poetry, he's past his prime;
And then their tenderness appears
He's older than he would be reckond,
In such a case they talk in tropes,
Yet should some neighbor feel a pain
My good companions, never fear;
Behold the fatal day arrive!
Before the passing bell begun,
Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd
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,
By Stephen Duck, upon the queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
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.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
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;
Are taught to use them for their creod
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 :
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:
“ Perhaps I may allow the Dean
He would have deem'd it a disgrace,
"He never thought an honor done him,
"He kept with princes due decorum
“Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
“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,
Methinks you may forgive his ashes.”
" To save them from their evil fate,
HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.
TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER
Sent to him when in the Tower, 1617.
How blest is he who for his country dies,
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