In di'monds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,
And flutters in her pride.

So have I known those infects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)
Still vary shapes and dyes;
Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,

Then painted butterflies.

VII. Dr. SWIFT.

The Happy Life of a Country Parfon.

PARSON! these things in thy poffeffing
Are better than the bishop's blessing:

A wife that makes conferves; a steed
That carries double when there's need;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes lent gratis down and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd;
A large concordance, bound long fince;
Sermons to Charles the First when prince;
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chryfoftom to smooth thy band in:
The Polyglot-three parts-my text,
Howbeit-likewife-now to my next :
Lo here the Septuagint and Paul,
To fum the whole-the close of all.

He that has these may pass his life,
Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill,
And faft on Fridays if he will;
Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with churchwardens about pews,

Pray heartily for fome new gift,

And shake his head at Doctor S-t.

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24

5

IO

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24 BEING THE

PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

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To the First Publication of this Epistle. THIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun many years fince, and drawn up by snatches as the feveral occafions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some perfons of rank and fortune [the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-Court] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings, (of which, being public, the public is judge,) but my person, morals, and family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requifite. Being divided between the neceffity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the laft hand to this Epittle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most defirous to please, the truth and the fentiment; and if any thing offenfive, it will be only to those I am leaft forry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true: but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have fome of them know it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is infcribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my fide, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can poffibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness. P. EPISTLE

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I faid;
Tie up the knocker; fay I'm fick, I'm dead.

The dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

5

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred, not the church is free,
E'en Sunday shines no fabbath-day to me:
'Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

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15

Is there a parfon much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross ?
Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20

All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd Works the caufe:

Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,

25

And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life! (which, did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong,)

What drop or noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?

30

A dire dilemna! either way I'm sped:

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not he.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.
I fit with fad civility, I read

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With honest anguish, and an aching head,

And

39

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This faving counsel, "Keep your peace nine years."
Nine years! cries he, who, high in Drury-Lane,

Lull'd by foft zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends:

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; 45 "I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me; "You know his Grace;

"I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libell'd me-" But here's a letter

"Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

"Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine; "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn divine." Bleís me! a packet.-" 'Tis a stranger sues, "A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends;

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The play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the House rejects him, "Sdeath, I'll print it,
"And shame the fools--Your int'rest, Sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much :

"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, " Do, and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door;
"Sir, let me fee your works and you no more."
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring,
(Midas, a facred perfon and a king,)
His very minifter, who spy'd

'd them first,

(Some fay his queen,) was forc'd to speak or burst.
And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?

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A. Good friend! forbear; you deal in dang'rous I'd never name queens, minifters, or kings; [things; Keep close to ears, and those let afses prick,

'Tis nothing.-P. Nothing! if they bite and kick ?

Out

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an ass:
The truth once told, (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas flept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

No creature smarts so little as a fool.

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Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a fcribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the flight felf-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib, or fophistry, in vain;
The creature's at his dirty work agai
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet or peer
Loft the arch'd eyebrow or Parnaffian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?

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100

Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
Still Sappho.-A. Hold! for God's fake, you'll offend;
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:

I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these-P. One flatt'rer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

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It is the flaver kills and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

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One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!"

There are who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short;
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and, "Sir, you have an eye-"

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