While others rack their bufy brains,
You are not in the leaft at pains.
Down to your deanry now repair,
And build a caftle in the air.
I'm fure a man of your fine fenfe
Can do it with a small expence.

There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ather.
When lady Luna is your neighbour,
She'll help your wife when the's in labour;
Well kill'd in midwife artifices,
For the herself oft' falls in pieces.
There you shall see a raree-fhow
Will make you fcorn this world below;
When you behold the milky way,
As white as snow, as bright as day;
The glittering conftellations roll
About the grinding Arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,
Wrought by the mufic of the fspheres---
Your spouse fhall then no longer hector;
You need not fear a curtain-lecture;
Nor fhall fhe think that she is undone
For quitting her belov'd London.
When he's exalted in the skies,
She'll never think of mutton-pies;
When you're advanc'd above dean Viz,
You'll never think of goody Griz.
But ever, ever, live at ease,

And strive, and strive, your wife to please;
In her you'll centre all your joys,
And get ten thousand girls and boys:
Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get,
And they like ftars fhall rife and fet;
While you and Spouse, transformn'd, shall soon
Be a new fun and a new moon:
Nor fhall you ftrive your horns to hide,
For then your horns shall be your pride.

VERSES BY STELLA.

IF it be true, celeftial Powers,
That you have form'd me fair,
And yet, in all my vainelt hours;
My mind has been my care;
Then, in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind,

What envious Time takes from my face,
Bestow upon my mind!

JEALOUSY. BY THE SAME

O SHIELD me from his rage, celestial Powers;
This tyrant that imbitters all my hours!
Ah, Love! you've poorly play'd the hero's part:
You conquer'd, but you can't defend my heart.
When first I bent beneath your gentle reign,
I thought this monfter banish'd from your train:
But you would raise him to fupport your throne;
And now he claims your empire as his own.
Or tell me, tyrants! have you both agreed,
That where one reigns, the other shall succeed?

DR. DELANY'S VILLA.

WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe:
For who would be fatirical
Upon a thing fo very small?

You fcarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A fingle crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm fhe takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Obferve a vaft variety;

Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs,
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and grafs, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought fo cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping :
A razor, though to fay't I'm loth,
Would have you and your meadows both.
Though small's the farm, yet here's a house
Full large to entertain a mouse,
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than favage Caledonian boar;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.

A little rivulet feems to fteal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek;
And this you call your fweet meander,
Which might be fuck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To fcoop the channel of the rill:
For fure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city-gutter.

Next come 1 to your kitchen-garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in ;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a tailor's chalk:
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A fnail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees;
And, once a year, a fingle rofe
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow for want of room.

In hort, in all your boasted seat,
There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT.

ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DEL

VILLE.

A BARD, grown defirous of faving his pelf, Built a house he was fare would hold none but himself.

This enrag'd god Apollo, who Mercury fent, And bid him go ask what his votary meant. "Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: " "Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns mifer!

"Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that fubject "of mine,

"I have fworn by the Styx to defeat his defign;

And 'twas but juft; for wife men say,
That every dog must have his day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't,
He'd either make a bog or dog on't;
And look'd, fince he has got his wish,
As if he had thrown down a difh.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,
He'll foon return to his own vomit.

Whig. Befides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.

Tory. Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
Whig. I prov'd my propofition full:
But Jacobites are strangely dull.
Now let me tell you plainly, Sir,
Our witness is a real cur,

A dog of spirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that's a name in every plot:
Refolv'd to fave the British nation,
Though French by birth and education;
His correfpondence plainly dated,
Was all decypher'd and tranflated:
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife committee:
Confefs'd as plain as he could bark;
Then with his fore-foot fet his mark.

Tory. Then all this while have I been bubbled,

I thought it was a dog in doublet:
The matter now no longer fticks;

For statesmen never want dog-tricks.
But fince it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,

That he's to have a place at court.

Whig. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in ;
A turn-fpit in the royal kitchen.
Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occafion for a plot :

And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it.

Tory. I own it was a dangerous project;
And you have prov'd it by dog-logic.
Sure fuch intelligence between
A dog and bishop ne'er was feen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops all are dogs indeed!

STELLA AT WOOD.PARK.

A Houfe of Charles Ford, Efq. near Dublin. 1723.

66 -Cuicumque nocere volebat,
"Veftimenta dabat pretiofa."

DON Carlos in a merry spight,
Did Stella to his house invite;
He entertain'd her half a year
With generous wines and coftly cheer.
Don Carlos made her chief director,
That the might o'er the fervants hector,
In half a week the dame grew nice,
Got all things at the highest price:
Now at the table-head fhe fits,
Prefented with the niceft bits:

She look'd on partridges with scorn,
Except they tafted of the corn;
A haunch of venifon made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette.
Don Carlos earnestly would beg,
Dear madam, try this pigeon's leg;
Was happy, when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail.
Through candle-light the view'd the wine,
To fee that every glass was fine.
At laft, grown prouder than the devil
With feeding high and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find
His malice work as he defign'd.
The winter-sky began to frown;
Poor Stella muft pack off to town:

From purling ftreams and fountains bubbling,
To Liffy's stinking tide at Dublin;
From wholesome exercife and air,
To foffing in an easy chair;

From ftomach fharp, and hearty feeding,
To piddle like a lady breeding;
From ruling there the household fingly,
To be directed here by Dingley *;
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thanked ;
From every meal Pontack in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty;
From Ford attending at her call,
To vifits of

From Ford who thinks of nothing mean,
To the poor doings of the Dean;
From growing richer with good cheer,
To running-out by ftarving here.

But now arrives the difmal day;
She must return to Ormond Quay †.
The coachman stopt; the look'd, and swore
The rafcal had mistook the door :
At coming in, you saw her stoop;
The entry brush'd against her hoop:
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curft the narrow winding stairs;
Began a thousand faults to spy:
The cieling hardly fix feet high;
The fmutty wainfcoat full of cracks;
And half the chairs with broken backs:
Her quarter's out at Lady-day;
She vows the will no longer stay
In lodgings like a poor Grizette,
While there are lodgings to be let.
Howe'er to keep her spirits up,
She fent for company to fup:
When all the while you might remark,
She strove in vain to ape Wood-park.
Two bottles call'd for (half her store;
The cupboard could contain but four):
A fupper worthy of herself,
Five nothings in five plates of delf.

Thus for a week the farce went on
When, all her country-favings gone,
She fell into her former fcene,
Small beer, a herring, and the Dean.
Thus far in jeft: though now, I fear,
You think my jefting too severe;

* The conftant companion of Stella
Where the two ladies lodged.

But poets, when a hint is new,
No matter whether falfe or true :
Yet raillery gives no offence,

Where truth has not the least pretence;
Nor can be more fecurely plac'd
Than on a nymph of Stella's tafte.
I must confefs, your wine and vittle
I was too hard upon a little :
Your table neat, your linen fine;
And, though in miniature, you fhine:
Yet, when you figh to leave Wood-park,
The fcene, the welcome, and the fpark,
To languish in this odious town,
And pull your haughty ftomach down;
We think you quite miftake the cafe,
The virtue lies not in the place:
For, though my raillery were true,
A cottage is Wood-park with you.

COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES ON MR. FORD.

Cour, be content, fince out it must, For Stella has betray'd her truft; And, whispering, charg'd me not to fay That Mr. Ford was born to-day; Or, if at laft I needs must blab it, According to my usual habit, She bid me, with a ferious face, Be fure conceal the time and place; And not my compliment to spoil, By calling this your native foil; Or vex the ladies, when they knew That you are turning forty-two: But, if these topics fhall appear Strong arguments to keep you here, I think, though you judge hardly of it, Good-manners must give place to profit. The nymphs with whom you firft began Are each become a barridan; And Montague fo far decay'd, Her lovers now muft all be paid; And every belle that fince arofe Has her contemporary beaux. Your former comrades, once fe bright, With whom you toasted half the night, Of rheumatism and pox complain, And bid adieu to dear champaign. Your great protectors, once in power, Are now in exile or the Tower. Your foes triumphant o'er the laws, Who hate your person and your cause, If once they get you on the spot, You must be guilty of the plot : For, true or falfe, they'll ne'er inquire, But ufe you ten times worfe than Prior. In London! what would you do there? Can you, my friend, with patience bear (Nay, would it not your paffion raise Worfe than a pun, or Irish phrase?) To fee a fcoundrel ftrut and hector, A foot-boy to fome rogue director, To look on vice triumphant round, And virtue trampled on the ground? Obferve where bloody * * * * * stands With torturing engines in his hands;

VOL. IX

Hear him blafpheme, and swear, and rail,
Threatening the pillory and jail:
If this you think a pleafing scene,
To London ftraight return again;
Where, you have told us from experience,
Are fwarms of bugs and prefbyterians.

I thought my very fpleen would burst,
When fortune hither drove me first;
Was full as hard to please as you,
Nor perfons names nor places knew :
But now I act as other folk,
Like prifoners when their jail is broke.
If you have London itill at heart,
We'll make a small one here by art:
The difference is not much between
St. James's Park, and Stephen's Green;
And Dawfon-treet will ferve as well
To lead you thither as Pall-Mall.
Nor want a paffage through the palace,
To choke your fight, and raife your malice:
The Deanry-houfe may well be match'd,
Under correction, with the Thatcht *.
Nor thall I, when you hither come,
Demand a crown a quart for flum.
Then, for a middle-aged charmer,
Stella may vie with your Monthermer;
She's now as handsome every bit,
And has a thousand times her wit.
The Dean and Sheridan, I hope,
Will half fupply a Gay and Pope.
Corbett, though yet I know his worth not,
No doubt will prove a good Arbuthnot.
I throw into the bargain Tim;
In London can you equal him?
What think you of my favourite clan,
Robin, and Jack, and Jack and Dan,
Fellows of modeft worth and parts,
With cheerful looks and honeft hearts?
Can you on Dublin look with fcorn?
Yet here were you and Ormond born.

Oh! were but you and I fo wife,
To fee with Robert Grattan's eyes!
Robin adores that spot of earth,
That literal fpot which gave him birth;
And fwears," Belcamp is, to his tafte,
"As fine as Hampton-court at least."
When to your friends you would enhance
The praife of Italy or France,
For grandeur, elegance, and wit,
We gladly hear you, and fubmit:
But then, to come and keep a clutter,
For this or that fide of the gutter,
To live in this or t' other ille,
We cannot think it worth your while;
For, take it kindly or amifs,
The difference but amounts to this:
We bury on our fide the channel
In linen; and on yours in flannel §.

A famous tavern in St. James's firect. t Dr. Corbet, afterwards dean of St. Pa

trick's.

↑ R. and I. Grattan, and J. and D. Jackson. In Fingall, about five miles from Dublin. The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in 1 1733.

To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,
Since cruel fate hath funk our juftice Boat.
Why should he fink, where nothing feem'd to
prefs,

His lading little, and his ballast lefs?

Toft in the waves of this tempestuous world,
At length, his anchor fixt and canvas furl'd,
To Lazy-hill retiring from his court,

*

At his Ring's-end he founders in the port.
With water fill'd, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a strong boat.

A poft fo fill'd on nature's laws entrenches:
Benches on boats are plac'd, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat (how fhall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Beat, and in one fenfe a pilot.
With every wind he fail'd, and well could tack;
Had many pendents, but abhorr'd a Jack ‡.
He's gone, although his friends began to hope
That he might yet be lifted by a rope.

Behold the awful bench, on which he fat!
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet, when his fand was out, we find at last,
That death has overfet him with a blaft.
Our Boat is now fail'd to the Stygian ferry,
There to fupply old Charon's leaky wherry:
Charon in him will ferry fouls to hell;

A trade our Boat § hath practis'd here fo well;
And Cerberus hath ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, fpite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old post again.
The way is thus; and well deferves your thanks:
Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, confpicuous to be feen,
Form'd like the triple-tree near Stephen's-green [];

* Two villages near the fea.

It was faid he died of a dropsy.
A cant word for a Jacobite.

In condemning malefactors, as a judge.
Where the Dublin gallows ftands.

And, when we view it thus with thief at end on 't, [the pendant! We'll cry, Look, here's our Boat, and there's

THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies judge Boat within a coffin;
Pray, gentle folks, forbear your scoffing.
A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder?
A wooden judge is no fuch wonder.
And in his robes, you must agree,
No Boat was better deckt than he.
'Tis needless to defcribe him fuller;
In short, he was an able fculler.

PETHOX THE GREAT,

FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
But who thy father, no man knows;
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race;
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Difcovers Vulcan for thy fire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin fing'd the foil
(From whence, philofophers agree,
An equal power defcends to thee);
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high defcent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, fhow numerous scars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Thofe honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And ftill the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader's tent;
Or whether, as the learn'd contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul defcend;
Or from Parthenope the proud,
Where numberless thy votaries crowd;
Whether thy great forefather came
From realms that bear Vefputio's name
(For fo conjecturers would obtrude,
And from thy painted fkin conclude);
Whether, as Epicurus fhows,
The world from juftling feeds arose,
Which, mingling with prolific ftrife
In chaos, kindled into life:
So your production was the fame,
And from contending atoms came.

Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd
Thy head with fparkling rubies round:
Beneath thy decent fteps the road
Is all with precious jewels ftrow'd.
The bird of Pallas knows his post,
Thee to attend, where'er thou goeft.

Byzantians boaft, that on the clod
Where once their Sultan's horfe had trod
Grows neither grafs, nor fhrub, nor tree:
The fame thy fubjects boaft of thee.

The greatest lord, when you appear,
Will deign your livery to wear,
In all the various colours feen
Of red and yellow, blue and green.
With half a word, when you require,
The man of bufinefs muft retire.

*This name is plainly an anagrame