Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.
But here's the captain that will plague them both,
Whose air cries arm! whose very look's an oath :
The captain's honest, sirs, and that's enough,
Though his soul's bullet, and his body buff.
He spits fore-right; his haughty chest before,
Like battering rams, beats open every door:
And with a face as red, and as awry,
As Herod's hangdogs in old tapestry,
Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curse,
Has yet a strange ambition to look worse:
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so
As men from jails to execution go;
For hung with deadly sins I see the wall,
And lin'd with giants deadlier than them all:
Each man an Askapart, of strength to toss
For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I sweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy.
Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine:
Charge them with Heaven's artillery, bold divine!
From such alone the great rebukes endure,
Whose satire's sacred, and whose rage secure :
"Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
To deluge sin, and drown a court in tears.
Howe'er, what's now Apocrypha, my wit,
In time to come, may pass for holy writ.
WRITTEN IN M DCC XXXVIII.
Fr. Nor twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
And when it comes, the court see nothing in't.
For saying our lady's Psalter. But 'tis fit
That they each other plague, they merit it.
You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel-
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye
Said,
"Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory"
And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
"To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter."
But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice:
Horace would say, sir Billy serv'd the crown,
Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,
In reverend bishops note soine small neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the king.
His sly, polite, insinuating style
Could please at court, and make Augustus smile:
An artful manager, that crept between
His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen,
But 'faith your very friends will soon be sore;
Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more
And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go see sir Robert-
P. See sir Robert !-hum-
And never laugh-for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power;
Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Would he oblige me! let me only find,
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
The only difference is, I dare laugh out.
F. Why yes: with scripture still you may be free;
A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty;
A joke on Jekyll, or some odd old whig,
Who never chang'd his principle, or wig;
A patriot is a fool in every age,
Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage:
These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still,
And wear their strange old virtue as they will.
If any ask you, "Who's the man, so near
But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both, His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?”
Who in the other extreme only doth
Call a rough carelesness good fashion:
Whose cloak his spurs tear, or whom he spits on,
He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm
To him; he rushes in, as if arm, arm,
He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, still
He strives to look worse; he keeps all in awe;
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd so As men from gaols to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung,
With these seven deadly sins?) being among
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-cross, for a bar, men that do know
No token of worth, but queens man, and fine
Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.
I shook like a spied spie-Preachers which are
Seas of wit and arts, you can, then dare,
Drown the sins of this place, but as for me
Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be
To wash the stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modesty) the known merit
Of my work lessen, yet some wise men shall,
I hope, esteem my writs canonical.
Why answer Lyttelton; and I'll engage
The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his verses vile, his whisper base,
You'd quickly find him in lord Fanny's case.
Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury,
But well may put some statesman in a fury.
Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes;
These you but anger, and you mend not those.
Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore,
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and folly to confine the jest,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest;
You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, Because you think your reputation made: Like good sir Paul, of whom so much was said, That when his name was up, he lay a-bed. Come, come, refresh us with a livelier song, Or, like sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long. P. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ. F. Correct! 'Tis what no genius can admit. Besides, you grow too moral for a wit.
Did not the sneer of more impartial men
At sense and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.
P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth:
Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth!
Come, harmless characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's oratory, Osborn's wit!
The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Young!
The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,
And all the well-whipp'd cream of courtly sense,
That first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then,
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that easy Ciceronian style,
So Latin, yet so English all the while,
As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may understand!
Then might I sing, without the least offence,
And all I sung should be the nation's sense;
Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn,
Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn,
And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
All parts perform'd, and all her children blest!
So-Satire is no more-I feel it die-
No gazetteer more innocent than I-
And let, a God's name, every fool and knave
Be grac'd through life, and flatter'd in his grave.
F. Why so? if Satire knows its time and place,
You still may lash the greatest-in disgrace:
For merit will by turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all satire in all changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave De-re.
Silent and soft, as saints remov'd to Heaven,
All ties dissolv'd, and every sin forgiven,
These may some gentle ministerial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a king;
There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport,
Lull'd with the sweet nepenthe of a court;
There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace
Once break their rest, or stir them from their place:
But past the sense of human miseries,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No cheek is kuown to blush, no heart to throb.
Save when they lose a question, or a job. [glory,
P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast their
Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory,
And when three sovereigns dy'd could scarce be vext,
Considering what a gracious prince was next.
Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things
As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings;
And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret,
Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
Ye gods! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke,
Swear like a lord, or Rich outwhore a duke?
A favourite's porter with his master vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill?
Or Japhet pocket, like his grace, a will?
Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
If Blunt dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man ;
And so mayst thou, illustrious Passeran!.
Ver. 112, in some editions: Who starves a mother
But shall a printer, weary of his life,
Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife?
This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
Vice thus abus'd, demands a nation's care:
This calls the church to deprecate our sin,
And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin.
Let modest Foster, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple quaker, or a quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaffe in doctrine,-yea in life:
Let humble Allen, with an aukward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame;
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
She's still the same belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore ;
Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more,
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,
Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless;
In golden chains the willing world she draws,
And hers the gospel is and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
Old England's genius, rough with many a scar,
Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trails along the ground!
Our youth, all livery'd o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance: behind her, crawl the old!
See thronging millions to the pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or son!
Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the shame.
In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power,
'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more!
See, all our nobles begging to be slaves!
See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves!
The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,
Are what ten thousand envy and adore :
All, all look up, with reverential awe,
At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law:
While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry→→
"Nothing is sacred now but villainy."
Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain)
Show there was one who held it in disdain.
112 Fr. 'Tis all a libel-Paxton (sir) will say,
P. Not yet, my friend! tomorrow 'faith it may ;
And for that very cause I print to-day.
How should I fret to mangle every line,
In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine!
Vice with such giant-strides comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rising genius sins up to my song.
F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash;
Even Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash.
Spare then the person, and expose the vice.
P. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice!
Come on then, Satire! general, uncontin'd,
Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind.
Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all!
Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or hall!
Ye reverend atheists. F. Scandal! name them, who?
P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who starv'd a sister, who forswore a debt,
I never nam'd; the town's enquiring yet.
How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shin'd the soul unconquer'd in the Tower!
How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit:
Argyll, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
The poisoning dame-F. You mean-P. I don't-And shake alike the senate and the field:
F. You do.
P. See, now I keep the secret, and not you!
The bribing statesman-F. Hold, too high you go.
P. The brib'd elector-F. There you stoop too
low.
P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what;
Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not?
Must great offenders, once escap'd the crown,
Like royal harts, be never more run down?
Admit your law to spare the knight requires,
As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires?
Suppose I censure-you know what I mean-
To save a bishop, may I name a dean?
F. A dean, sir? no; his fortune is not made,
You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.
P. If not the tradesman who set up to day,
Much less the prentice who tomorrow may,
Down, down, proud Satire! though a realm be
spoil'd,
Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;
Or, if a court or country's made a job,
Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.
But, sir, I beg you, (for the love of Vice!)
The matter's weighty, pray consider twice;
Have you less pity for the needy cheat,
The poor and friendless villain, than the great?
Alas! the small discredit of a bribe
Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
Then better sure it Charity becomes
To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums;
Still better, ministers; or, if the thing
May pinch ev'n there--why lay it on a king.
F. Stop! stop!
P. Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years
Who now that obsolete example fears?
Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears.
F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad,
You make men desperate, if they once are bad.
Else might he take to virtue some years hence—
P. As S-k, if he lives, will love the prince.
F. Strange spleen to S-k!
P. Do I wrong the man?
God knows, I praise a courtier where I can.
When I confess, there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarborow name?
Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham's love)
The scene, the master, opening to my view,
I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!
Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert.
Secker is decent; Rundel has a heart;
Manners with candour are to Benson given;
To Berkley every virtue under Heaven.
But does the court a worthy man remove?
That instant, I declare, he has my love:
I shun his zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Sommers once, and Halifax, were mine.
Oft, in the clear, still mirrour of retreat,
I study'd Shrewsbury, the wise and great;
Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame,
Compar'd, and knew their generous end the same:
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions, and his own?
Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,
Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their
And if yet higher the proud list should end, [train ;
Still let me say, No follower, but a friend.
Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays:
I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise;
Points she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.
I never (to my sorrow I declare)
Din'd with the man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)
Have still a secret bias to a knave:
To find an honest man, I beat about;
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why so few commended?
P. Not so fierce;
Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praise-the task can ne'er be done :
Each mother asks it for her booby son,
Each widow asks it for the best of men,
For him she weeps, for him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground:
The number may be hang'd, but not he crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No
power the Muse's friendship can command;
No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine! [no sin,
-What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's
I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave,
And Lyttelton a dark, designing knave;
St. John has ever been a mighty fool-
But let me add, sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife,
But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
O all-accomplish'd St. John' deck thy shrine?
What? shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or cach new-pension'd sycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to mau! his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kick'd, that took his pay:
But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;
The prudent general turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the rest:
Which not at present having time to do [you?
F. Hold, sir! for God's sake, where's th' affront to
Against your worship when had S-k writ?
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend
[In power a servant, out of power a friend]
To W-le guilty of some venial siu;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery bedropt the crown,
How hurt he you, he only stain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came ;
Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole house did afterwards the same.
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly;
If one, through Nature's bounty or his lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in ;
The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse :
The last full fairly gives it to the house.
F. This filthy simile, this beastly line
Quite turns my stomach-
P. So does flattery mine:
And all your courtly civet-cats can veut,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me farther-Japhet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read,
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;
And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Must never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God?
Ask you what provocation I have had?
The strong antipathy of good to bad.
When Truth or Virtue an affront endures,
To all but heaven-directed hands deny'd,'
The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal;
To rouse the watchinen of the public weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings.
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last gazette, or the last address. 227
When black ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when inad vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar,
Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.
Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine,
Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's
Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, [shrine,
And opes the temple of eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than such as Anstis cast into the grave;
Far other stars than * and ** wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Hough's unsully'd mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)
Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let Flattery sickening see the incense. rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for Freedom let me draw,
When Truth stands trembling on the edge of law;
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read ;
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead,
And for that cause which made your fathers shine,
Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.
F. Alas, alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.
IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.
'Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours."Tis truc, my lord, I gave my word,
Mine, as a foe profest to false pretence,
Who thinks a coxcomb's honour like bis sense;
Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no slave:
So impudent, I own myself no knave:
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud: I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me:
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.
O sacred weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
Ver. 185, in the MS.
1 grant it, sir; and further 'tis agreed,
I would be with you June the third,
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it--as you do at court.
After ver. 227, in the MS.
Where's now the star that lighted Charles to rise?
-With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels that watch'd the royal oak so well,
How chane'd ye nod, when luckless Sorel feil?
Hence, lying miracles! reduc'd so low
As to the regal touch and papal toe;
Heuce haughty Edgar's title to the rain.
Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain !
QUISQUE dies tibi pollicitus me rure futurum,
Sextilem totum iren ax desideror. atqui,
Si me vivere vis sanum recteque valentem ;
Japhet writ not, and Chartres scarce could read.Quam mihi das agro, dabis agrotare timenti,
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores :
And what a dust in every place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And Wand H** both in town!
"The dog-days are no more the case."
"Fis true, but Winter comes apace :
Then southward let your bard retire,
Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire,
And you shall see, the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.
My lord, your favours well I know;
'Tis with distinction you bestow;
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 :
Mæcenas, veniam: dum ficus prima calorque
Designatorum decorat lictoribus atris :
Dum pueris omnis pater, et natercula pallet;
Officiosaque sedulitas et opella forensis
Adducit febres, et testamenta resignat
Quod si bruma nives Albanis illinet agris;
Ad mare descendet vates tuus, et sibi parcet,
Contractusque leget; te, dulcis amice, reviset
Cum Zephyris, si concedes, et hirundine prina.
Non, quo more pyris vesci Calaber jubet hospes,
Tu me fecisti locupletem. Vescere sodes.
Jam satis est. At tu quantumvis tolle. Benigne.
Non invisa feres pucris inunuscula parvis.
Tam teneor dono, quam si dimittar onustus.
Ut libet: hæc porcís hodie comedenda relinques.
Prodigus et stultus donat quæ spernit et odit:
Hæc seges ingrates tulit et feret omnibus annis.
Vir bonus et sapiens, dignis ait esse paratum!
Nec tamen ignorat, quid distent æra lupinis ?
Dignum præstabo me, etiam pro laude merentis?
Quod si me noles usquam discedere; reddes
Forte latus, nigros angusta fronte capillos:
'Reddes dulce loqui: reddes ridere decorum, et
Inter vina fugam Cynaræ mærere protervæ.
Forte per angustam tenuis vulpecula rimam
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd 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, cry'd, "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 prais'd my modesty, and smil'd.
"Give me," I cry'd (enough for me)
"My bread, and independency!"
So bought an annual-rent or two,
And liv'd 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 dy'd 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.1
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 serv'd with all decorum :
Fach willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And even the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian sings,
Repserat in cumeram frumenti: pastaque, rursus
Ire foras pleno tendebat corpore frustra,
Cui mustela procul, si vis, ait, effugere istine,
Macra cavum repetes arctum, quem macra subisti.
Hac ego si compellar imagine, cuncta resigno;
Nec somnum plebis laudo fatur altilium, nec
Ocia divitiis Arabum liberrima muto.
Sæpe verecundum laudasti: Rexque, paterque
Audisti coram, nec verbo parcius absens:
Inspice, si possum donatur reponere lætus.
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Parvum parva decent. mihi jam non regia Roma, Sed vacuum Tibur placet, aut imbelle Tarentum. Strenuus et fortis, causisque Philippus agendis Clarus, &c.
O noctes cœnæque Deûm! quibus ipse meique, Ante larem proprium vescor, vernasqué procaces Pasco libatis dapibus: cum, ut cuique libido est Siccat inæquales calices conviva. solutus
See the first part in Swift's poems,
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