Talk with fenfe whate'er you please on; Learn to relifh truth and reafon?

Thus we both thall gain our prize: I to laugh, and you grow wife.

A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT,

For the Stay of the DEAN in ENGLAND. 1726.
BLOW, ye Zephyrs, gentle gales;
Gently fill the fwelling fails.
Neptune, with thy trident long,
Trident three-fork'd, trident firong;
And ye Nereids fair and gay,
Fairer than the role in May,
Nereids living in deep caves,
Gently wash'd with gentle waves;
Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep
Ruflling ftorms, and ruffled deep;
All around, in pompous state,
On this richer Argo wait:
Argo, bring my Golden Fieece;
Argo, bring him to his Greece.
Will Cadenus longer stay?
Come, Cadenus, come away;
Come with all the hafe of love,
Come unto thy turtle-dove.
The ripen'd cherry on the tree
Hangs, and only hangs for thee;
Lucious peaches, mellow pears,
Ceres with her yellow ears,
And the grape, both red and white,
Grape infpiring juft delight;
All are ripe, and courting fue
To be pluck and prefs'd by you.
Pinks have loft their blooming red,
Mourning hang their drooping head;
Every flower lauguid fems,
Wants the colour of thy beams,
Beams of wondrous force and power,
Beams reviving every flower.
Come, Cadenus, blefs once mote,
Blefs again thy native fhore;
Bless again this drooping ifle,
Make its weeping beauties imile,
Beauties that thine abfence mourn,
Beauties withing thy return.
Come, Cadenus, come with hafte,
Come before the winter's blaft;
Swifter than the lightning fly;
Or I, like Vaneffa, dic.

A LETTER TO THE DEAN,
WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726.

You will excufe me, I fuppofe,
For fending rhyme inftead of profe,
Because hot weather makes me lazy,
To write in metre is more easy.

While you are trudging London town,
I'm trolling Dublin up and down;
While you converfe with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease,
I choofe companions as I please.
I'd rather have one fingle shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be faid,

Our best acquaintance are the dead;

While you're in raptures with Fauftina
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
While you are ftarving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butchers meat.
You fay, when with thofe lords you dine,
They treat you with the beft of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why fo can we, as well as they.
No reafon then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you may n't in Ireland hope
To find fuch folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would thare
But half the wit that you can fpare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that, in twelve days,
You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.

Our weather's good, our fky is clear;
We've every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and to bright a fky
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I fhall to Quilca go;
To fee M'Fayden's horny brothers
Firft fuck, and after bull their mothers;
To fee, alas! my wither'd trees!
To fee what all the country fees!
My stunted quicks, my famifh'd beeves,
My fervants fuch a pack of thieves;
My fhatter'd firs, my blafted oaks,
My houfe in common to all folks;
No cabbage for a fingle fnail,
My turnips, carrots, parfnips, fail;

My no greeen peas, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the pouts;
My horfes rid, or gone aftray;
My fith all stol'n, or run away;

My mutton lean, my pullets old,

My poultry ftarv'd, the corn all fold.

A man, come now from Quilca, fays,

They've ftol'n the locks from all your keys:" But, what muft fret and vex me more,

He fays, "They ftole the keys before.

They've ftol'n the knives from all the forks; "And half the cows from half the turks."

Nay more, the fellow fwears and vows,

They've ftol'n the fturks from half the cows:" With many more accounts of woe.

Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go : 'Twixt you and me, the reafon's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

PALINO DIA.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XVI.

GREAT Sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whofe verfes far his rays out-fhine,

Look down upon your quondam foc;
Oh let me never write again,
If e'er I difoblige you, Dean,

Should you compassion show.
Take thofe Iambics which I wrote,
When anger made me piping hot,

*Signora Fauftina, a famous Italian finger.

They is the grand thief of the county of Ca van; for whatever is ftolen, if you inquire of a fervant about it, the answer is," They have fo len it."

And give them to your cook,

To finge your fowl, or fave your paste,
The next time when you have a feast;
They'll fave you many a book.

To burn them, you are not content;
I give you then my free confent,

To fink them in the harbour:
If not, they'll ferve to fet off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your phyfic take,
I muft entreat you then to make

A proper application;
'Tis what I've done myself before,

With Dan's fine thoughts, and many more, Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do?

It makes the weak the strong purfue,
A goole attack a swan;

It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
Her husband's hands and face affail,
While he's no longer man.

Though fome, we find, are more difcreet,
Before the world are wondrous fweet,

And let their husbands hector:

But, when the world's afleep, they wake,
That is the time they choose to speak;
Witnefs the curtain-lecture.

Such was the cafe with you, I find:
All day you could conceal your mind;

But when St. Patrick's chimes
Awak'd your mufe (my midnight curse,
When I engag'd for better for worse),
You fcolded with your rhymes.
Have done! have done! 1 quit the field;
To you, as to my wife, I yield:

As the muft wear the breeches; So fhall you wear the laurel-crown, Win it, and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

BEC'S BIRTH-DAY.
NOVEMBER 8. 1726.

THIS day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;
Had Fate a luckier one, the'd give it ye:
She chofe a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for ftrength;
Nor will be able with her thears
To cut it off these forty years.
Then who fays care will kill a cat?
Rebecca fhows they're out in that.
For the, though over-run with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair.
As, if the gout thould fieze the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to th' extremeft parts,
They give the fick man joy, and praife
The gout, that will prolong his days;
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,
Who drives her cares to hands and feet:
For, though philofophers maintain
The limbs are guided by the brain,
Quite contrary Rebecca's led,

By arbitrary power convey her;
She ne'er confiders why, or where:
Her hands may meddle, feet may wander,
Her head is but a mere by-ftander;
And all her bustling but fupplies
The part of wholefome exercife.
Thus nature hath refolv'd to pay her
The cat's nine lives, and eke the care.
Long may the live, and help her friends
Whene'er it fuits her private ends;
Domestic bulinefs never mind
Till coffee has her ftomach lin'd;
But, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stella's chicken-porridge;
I mean when Tiger has been ferv'd,
Or elie poor Stella may be ftarv'd.

May Bec have many an evening nap,
With Tiger flabbering in her lap;
But always take a special care

She does not overfet the chair!
Still be the curious, never hearken
To any speech but Tiger's barking!

And when he's in another fcene,
Stella long dead, but firft the Dean,
May fortune and her coffee get her
Companions that may pleafe her better!
Whole afternoons will fit befide her,
Nor for neglects or blunders chide her,
A goodly iet as can be found
Of hearty goffips prating round;
Fresh from a wedding or a chriftening,
To teach her ears the art of liftening.
And please her more to hear them tattle,
Than the Dean ftorm, or Stella rattle.

Late be her death, one gentle nod,
When Hermes waiting with his rod,
Shall to Elyfian fields invite her,
Where there shall be no cares to fright her!

ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER,

MRS. DINGLEY'S LAP-DOG. PRAY fteal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's, Whole heart in this four-footed thing lies.

EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS.
Most of them written in 1726.

I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN.
WE fly from luxury and wealth,
To hardships, in pursuit of health;
From generous wines and coftly fare,
And dofing in an easy chair;
Purfue the Goddefs Health in vain,
To find her in a country fcene,
And every where her footsteps trace,
And fee her marks in every face;
And ftill her favourites we meet,
Crowding the roads with naked feet.
But, oh! fo faintly we purfue,
We ne'er can have her in full view.

VI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD*.
O NEPTUNE! Neptune! must I still
Be here detain'd against my will?
Is this your juftice when I'm come
Above two hundred miles from home?
O'er mountains steep, o'er dufty plains,

Half chok'd with duft, half drown'd with rains;
Only your godship to implore,

To let me kifs your other fhore?
A boon fo fmall! but I may weep,
While you're, like Baal, fast asleep.

VII. ANOTHER, written upon a window where there was no writing before.

THANKS to my stars, I once can see
A window here from fcribbling free;
Here no conceited coxcombs país,
To fcratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party-fool is calling names,

Or dealing crowns to George and James.

WIII. On feeing verfes written upon windows at inns.

THE fage who faid he should be proud

Of windows in his breast,

Because he ne'er a thought allow'd

That might not be confeft;

TO JANUS, ON THE NEW-YEAR'S-DAY
Two-fac'd Janus, god of Time!

Be my Phoebus while I rhyme;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new-year's-gift:
She has got but half a face:
Janus, fince thou haft a brace,
To my lady once be Find;
Give her half thy face behind.

God of Time, if you be wife,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward fight
Well, if you could lofe it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This
poor *ifle's approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vaft
Sees the glorious ages paft?
Happy nation, were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind!

Drown your morals, madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back.
Give me Time when coming on:
Who regards him when he's
gone ?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New-years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new-year's lace
Burnishes an old year's face:
Give me velvet and quadrille.
I'll have youth and beauty ftill.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. WRITTEN AFTER THE NEWS OF THE KING'S

DEATH.

RICHMOND-LODGE is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It was usually granted by the Crown for a leafe of two years. The Duke of Ormond was the laft who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of *Ireland.

↑ George I. who died after a fhort fickness by eating a melon, as Ofnaburg, in his way to Hanover, June 11. 1727.---The poem was carrried to

as it is prefumed, in Dr. Swift's hand.

Caroline.

in a mile of Richmond.

MARBLE-HILL is a houfe built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bed-chamber, now Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the ftole to the Queen. It is on the Middlefex fide, near Twickenham, where Mr. Pope lived, and about two miles from Richmond-lodge. Mr. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler and keeper of the Ice-houfe. Upon King George's death, these two houfes met, and had the following Dialogue.

In spite of Pope, in spite of Gay,
And all that he or they can fay,
Sing on I muft, and fing I will
Of Richmond-lodge and Marble-hill.
Laft Friday night, as neighbours use,
This couple met to talk of news:
For by old proverbs it appears,

That walls have tongues, and hedges ears.

MARBLE-HILL.

Quoth Marble-hill, right well I ween, Your mistress now is grown a queen: You'll find it foon by woeful proof; She'll come no more beneath your roof.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

The kingly prophet well evinces,
That we should put no truft in princes:
My royal mafter promis'd me
To raife me to a high degree;
But he's now grown a king, God wot,
I fear I fhall be foon forgot.

You fee, when folks have got their ends,
How quickly they neglect their friends;
Yet I may fay, 'twixt me and you,
Pray God, they now may find as true!

MARBLE-HILL.

My houfe was built but for a fhow, My lady's empty pockets know; And now the will not have a fhilling, To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; For all the courtly madams round Now pay four fhillings in the pound : 'Tis come to what I always thought: My dame is hardly worth a groat. Had you and I been courtiers born, We should not thus have lain forlorn: For those we dextrous courtiers call, Can rife upon their mafter's fall; But we, unlucky and unwife, Muft fall because our masters rife.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

My mafter, fcarce a fortnight fince, Was grown as wealthy as a prince; But now it will be no fuch thing, For he'll be poor as any king; And by his crown will nothing get, But like a king to run in debt.

MARBLE-HILL.

No more the Dean, that grave divine, Shall keep the key of my no-wine; My ice-houfe rob, as heretofore,

Bedraggled in my walks fo green: Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; And here no more will dangle Pope.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

Here won't the Dean, when he's to feek, To fpunge a breakfast once a week; To cry the bread was ftale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be faid, No butter fticks upon his bread. We foon fhall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highness walking: Whilft lady Charlotte *, like a ftroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller, A goodly fight to fee her ride With ancient Mirmont at her fide. In velvet cap his head lies warm; His hat for fhow beneath his arm.

MARBLE-HILL.

Some South Sea broker from the city Will purchase me, the more's the pity; Lay all my fine plantations waste, To fit them to his vulgar taste : Chang'd for the worse in every part, My mafter Pope will break his heart.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

In my own Thames may I be drownded, If e'er I ftoop beneath a crown'd head: Except her majefty prevails

To place me with the prince of Wales;
And then fhall I be free from fears,
For he'll be prince these fifty years.
I then will turn a courtier too,
And ferve the times, as others do.
Plain loyalty, not built on hope,

I leave to your contriver, Pope :

None loves his king and conntry better,
Yet none was ever lefs their debtor.
MARBLE-HILL.

Then let him come and take a nap
In fummer on my verdant lap;
Prefer our villas, where the Thames is,
To Kenfington, or hot St. James's:
Nor fhall I dull in filence fit;
For 'tis to me he owes his wit;
My groves, my echoes, and my birds,
Have taught him his poetic words.
We gardens, and you wilderneffes,
Affift all poets in diftreffes.
Him twice a week I here expect,
To rattle Moody ‡ for neglect;
An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge
In tippling at the Dog and Partridge;
And I can hardly get him down
Three times a week to brush my gown.

RICHMOND-LODGE.

I pity you, dear Marble-hill;

But hope to fee you flourish ftill All happiness---and fo adieu.

*Lady Charlotte de Rouffy, a French lady. + Marquis de Mirmont, a French man of qua.

'Tis ftrange, what different thoughts inspire
In men, Poffeffion and Defire;
Think what they with fo great a bleffing;
So difappointed when poffeffing!

A moralift profoundly fage

(I know not in what book or page,
Or whether o'er a pot of ale)
Related thus the following tale.

Poffeffion, and Defire his brother,
But fill at variance with each other,
Were feen contending in a race;
And kept at firft an equal pace:
"Tis faid their courfe continued long;
For this was active, that was ftrong:
Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt,
Milled them many a league about.
Seduc'd by fome deceiving light,
They take the wrong way for the right;
Through flippery by-roads dark and deep,
They often climb, and often creep.

Defire, the fwifter of the two,
Along the plain like lightning flew;
Till, entering on a broad highway,
Where power and titles scatter'd lay,
He ftrove to pick up all he found,
And by excurfions loft his ground:
No fooner got, than with difdain
He threw them on the ground again;
And hafted forward to pursue
Fresh objects fairer to his view,
In hope to fpring fome nobler game;
But all he took was just the fame :
Too fcornful now to stop his pace,
He fpurn'd them in his rival's face.

Where many a

Poffeffion kept the beaten road,
And gather'd all his brother ftrow'd;
But overcharg'd, and out of wind,
Though ftrong in limbs, he lagg'd behind.
Defire had now the goal in fight:
It was a tower of monstrous height,
Where on the fummit Fortune ftands,
A crown and fceptre in her hands;
Beneath, a chaf as deep as hell,
bold adventurer fell.
Defire in rapture gaz'd a while,
And faw the treacherous goddeis fmile;
But, as he climb'd to graip the crown,
She knock'd him with the fceptre down.
He tumbled in the gulph profound,
whirl an endless round.
There doom'd to
Poffeffion's load was grown fo great,
He funk beneath the cumberous weight:
And, as he now expiring lay,
Flocks every ominous bird of
prey;
The raven, vulture, owl, and kite,
At once upon his carcafe light,
And ftrip his hide, and pick his bones,
Regardless of his dying groans.

ON CENSURE.* 1727.
YE wife, inftrust me to endure
An evil which admits no cure;

Or how this evil can be borne,

Which breeds at once both hate and fcorn.
Bare innocence is no fupport,

When you are try'd in Scandal's court.
Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit:
All others who inferior fit,

Conceive themselves in confcience bound
To join, and drag you to the ground.
Your altitude offends the eyes

Of those who want the power to rife.
The world, a willing ftander-by,
Inclines to aid a fpecious lye;
Alas! they would not do you wrong;
But all appearances are ftrong!

Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay
On what detracting people say?
For let mankind difcharge their tongues
In venom, till they burst their lungs,
Their utmoft malice cannot make
Your head, or tooth, or finger ake;
Nor fpoil your shape, difort your face,
Or put one feature out of place;
Nor will you find your fortune fink
By what they speak or what they think;
Nor can ten hundred thousand lies
Make you lefs virtuous, learn'd, or wife.

The most effectual way to baulk Their malice, is---to let them talk.

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MINE.

1727.

A SET of phrafes learnt by rote;
A pallion for a fcarlet coat?
When at a play, to laugh, or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reafon why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute
While all the prates has nothing in it;
Whole hours can with a coxcomb fit,
And take his nonfenfe all for it;
Her learning mounts to read a fong,
But half the words pronouncing wrong?
Hath every repartee in store

She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments fupply
On all occafions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parfon's gown,
The fight will put her in a fwoon;
For converfation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a fcruple to expofe
Your bandy leg, or crooked nofe;
Can at her morning tea run o'er
The fcandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.
In choofing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs difpute,
What linen beft the filk will fuit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a moufe creeps in her fights
Can finely counterfeit a fright;