But my lord Bolingbroke in mind
To get my warrant quickly fign'd:
"Confider, 'tis my fi.ft request.'
Be fatised, I'll do my beft.
Then prefently he falls to teaze:
"You may for certain, if you please;
"I doubt not, if his lordfhi krew-
"And, Mr. Dean, one word from you"
'Tis (let me fee) three years and more
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chole me for an humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;

As, "What's o'clock?" and, "How's the wind?"
"Whofe chariot's that we left behind?"
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country figns:
Or, "Have you nothing new to-day

"From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay "
Such tattle often entertains

My lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windfor, and again to town,
Where all that paffes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-crofs.

Yet fome I know with envy fwell,
Because t ey fee me us'd fo well.
"How think you of our friend the Dean?
"I wonder what fome people mean!
"My lord and he are grown fo great,

Always together, téte-à-tête:

"What! they admire him for his jokes? "See but the fortune of fome folks!"

There flies about a strange report Of fome expiefs arriv'd at court: I'm ftopp'd by all the fools I meet, And catechis'd in ev'ry street. "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great; "Inform us, will the Emperor treat? "Or do the prints and papers lye?" Faith, Sir, you know as much as I. "Ah, Doctor, how you love to jeft! "'Tis now no fecret."-I protest 'Tis one to me." Then tell us, pray, "When are the troops to have their pay?" And, though I folemnly declare I know no more than my lord mayor, They ftand amaz'd, and think me grown The clofeft inortal ever known.

Thus, in a fea of folly toft,
My choiceft hours of life are loft;
Yet always wifhing to retreat,
O could I fee my count y-feat!
There, leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or perufe fome ancient book;
And there in fweet oblivion drown

Thofe cares that haunt the court and town.

A batter'd, fhatter'd afh bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-fword poker, without point;
A pot that's crack'd across, around
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;

A wig, with hanging quite grown grey;
A curtain worn to half a stripe;

A pair of beilows, without pi e;

A dish which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottoin, wooden platter,
One is for meal, and one for water:
There likewife is a copper killet,
Which runs as faft out as you fill it;
A candlestick, fnuff-difh, and fave-all:
And thus his household goods you have all.
Thefe to your Lordship, as a end,
Till you have built, I freely Ird:
They'll serve your Lordship for a shift;
Why not, as well as Doctor Swift ?

tamer

By mortgage hath fecur'd the corpfe of Demar:
Nor can four hundred thousand fterling pound
Redeem him from his prifo. under ground.
His heirs might well, of all his wealth poffcfs'd,
Beftow to bury him one iron cheft.
Plutus the god of wealth will joy to know
His faithful steward's in the fhades below.
He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak;
He din'd and fupp'd at charge of other folk;
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms.
So, to the poor if e refus'd his pelf,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never faw his betters; Lords, knights, and fquires, were all his humble debtors;

And under hand and feal the Irish nation
Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.

He that could once have half a kingdom bought,
In half a minute is not worth a groat.
His coffers from the coffin could not fave,
Nor all his intereft keep him from the grave.
A golden monument could not be right,
Because we with the earth upon him light.

O London tavern! thou haft loft a friend, Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing speed: He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot; The hand that fign'd the mortgage paid the thot, Old as he was, no vulgar known difeafe

$33. Dr. Detany's Villa. WOULD you that Delville 1 defcribe?

Believe me, Sir, I will not jibe:

For who would be fatirical
Upon a thing fo very small?

You icarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A fingle crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compafs, we
Obferve a vast 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 fmall'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 check,
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 I to your kitchen-garden,

Where one poor moufe would fare but hard in;

And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a taylor's chalk;
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A fnail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a fhift to fqueeze
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 fhort, in all your boasted seat, There's nothing but yourfelf that's great.

§ 34. Mary the Cook-Maid's Letter to Dr. Sheridan. 1723.

WELL, if ever I faw fuch another man fince my mother bound my head!

You a gentleman! marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.

[cloth; I'm fure fuch words do not become a man of your

troth.

I would not give fuch language to a dog, faith and [ridan! 'tis a fhame Yes, you call'd my mafter a knave: fie, Mr. SheFor a parfon, who fhould know better things, to come out with fuch a name.

Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a fhame and a fin; [you and all your kin: And the Dean, my mafter, is an honefter man than He has more goodnefs in his little finger than you have in your whole body:

My matter is a perfonable man, and not a fpindlefhank'd hoddy-doddy. [excufe, And now, whereby I find you would fain make an Because my mafter one day, in anger, call'd you

goofe

Which, and I am fure I have been his fervant four years fince October,

And he never call'd me worfe than fweet-heart, drunk or fober: [to my knowledge, Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd Though you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your college. [eat grafs ! You fay you will eat grafs on his grave: a chriftian Whereby you now confefs yourfelf to be a goofe [die before ve; But that's as much as to fay, that my mafter should Well, well, that's as God pleafes; and I don't believe that's a truc ftory:

or an afs :

And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my [Mary.

mafter, what care I?

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Every body knows that I love to tell truth, and [fhould be civil.

fhame the devil;

I am but a poor fervant, but I think gentlefolks Befides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here;

Lyear;

I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the And Saunders the man fays you are always jefting and mocking: [fter's ftocking), Mary, faid he (one day as I was mending my maMy mafter is to fond of that minifter that keeps

the fchool

He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a difhclout to his tail.

command.

35. Riddles, by Doctor Swift and his Friends, written in or about the Year 1724.

On a Pen.

IN youth exalted high in air,

Or bathing in the waters fair,
Nature to form me took delight,
And clad my body all in white,
My perfon tall, and slender waist,
On either fide with fringes grac'd;
Till me that tyrant man efpied,

And dragg'd me from my mother's fide :
No wonder now I look fo thin;
The tyrant ftript me to the fkin:
My fkin he flay'd, my hair he cropt;
At head and foot my body lopt:

And then, with heart more hard than stone,
He pick'd my marrow from the bone.
To vex me more, he took a freak
To flit my tongue, and make me speak:
But, that which wonderful appears,
I fpeak to eyes, and not to ears.
He oft employs me in difguife,
And makes me tell a thoufand lies:
To me he chiefly gives in truft
To please his malice or his luft;
From me no fecret he can hide,
I fee his vanity and pride:
And my delight is to expofe
His follies to his greatest foes.
All languages I can command,
Yet not a word I understand.
Without my aid, the beft divine
In learning would not know a line:
The lawyer muft forget his pleading;
The fcholar could not fhew his reading.
Nay, man, my master is my flave:
I give command to kill or fave;
Can grant ten thousand pounds a year,
And make a beggar's brat a peer.

But, while I thus my life relate,
I only haften on my fate.

My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd,
I hardly now can force a word.
I die unpitied and forgot,
And on fome dunghill left to rot.

On Gold.

ALL-RULING tyrant of the earth, To flaves I owe my birth.

THO

On a Corkscrew.

HOUGH I, alas! a prifoner be,
My trade is, prisoners to set free.
No flave his lord's commands obeys
With such infinuating ways.

My genius piercing, fharp, and bright,
Wherein the men of wit delight.
The clergy keep me for their ease,
And turn and wind me as they please.
A new and wondrous art I fhew
Of raifing fpirits from below;

In fcarlet fome, and fome in white:
They rife, walk round, yet never fright,
In at each mouth the fpirits pafs,
Diftinctly feen as through a glass:
O'er head and body make a rout,
And drive at last all fecrets out:
And ftill, the more I fhew my art,
The more they open ev'ry heart.

A greater chemist none than I,
Who from materials hard and dry
Have taught men to extract with skill
More precious juice than from a still.

Although I'm often out of cafe, I'm not afham'd to fhew my face. Though at the tables of the great I near the fide-board take my seat ; Yet the plain 'fquire, when dinner's done, Is never pleas'd till I make one : He kindly bids me near him ftand; And often takes me by the hand. I twice a day a hunting go; Nor ever fail to feize my foe; And, when I have him by the pole, I drag him upwards from his hole; Though fome are of fo ftubborn kind, I'm forc'd to leave a limb behind.

I hourly wait fome fatal end; For I can break, but fcorn' to bend.

On Ink.

I AM jet-black, as you may fee,
The fon of pitch, and gloomy night:
Yet all that know me will agree,
I'm dead except I live in light,
Sometimes in panegyric high,
Like lofty Pindar, I can foar;
And raise a virgin to the sky,

Or fink her to a pocky whore,
My blood this day is very fweet,

To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,
And fo applied to different use.
Most wondrous is my magic pow'r :
For with one colour I can paint;
I'll make the devil a faint this hour,
Next make a devil of a faint.

Through diftant regions I can fly,
Provide me but with paper wings;
And fairly fhew a reason why

There should be quarrels among kings.
And, after all, you'll think it odd,

When learned doctors will difpute,
That I fhould point the word of God,

And fhew where they can beft confute.
Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
'Tis Í that must the lands convey,
And ftrip the clients to their coats;
Nay, give their
very fouls away.

On the Five Senfes.

ALL of us in one you'll find,

Brethren of a wondrous kind;
Yet among us all no brother
Knows one tittle of the other.
We in frequent councils are,
And our marks of things declare,
Where, to us unknown, a clerk
Sits, and takes them in the dark.
He's the register of all

In our ken, both great and fmall;
By us forms his laws and rules;
He's our mafter, we his tools;
Yet we can with greatest ease
Turn and wind him where we pleafe,
One of us alone can fleep,
Yet no watch the reft will keep;
But the moment that he closes,
Ev'ry brother elfe repofes,

If wine's bought, or victuals dreft, One enjoys them for the rest.

Pierce us all with wounding steel, One for all of us will feel.

Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful found. Do what is not fit to tell, There's but one of us can fmell.

On an Echo.

EVER fleeping, still awake,

NPleafing molt when molt I speak :

The delight of old and young,
Though I fpeak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog or cow,

I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can fing
Like the warblers of the fpring.
Let the love-fick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy fwain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice;
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out;
Then I clafh, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.

Jove, with all his loudeft thunder,
When I'm vex'd, can't keep me under;
Yet fo tender is my ear,

That the loweft voice I fear.
Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date;
For I hate a filent breath,
And a whisper is my death.

On a Shadow in a Glafs. BY fomething form'd, I nothing am, Yet ev'ry thing that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet ev'ry where I may be feen; In all things false, yet always true, I'm ftill the fame-but ever new. Lifelefs, life's perfect from I wear, Can fhew a nofe, eye, tongue, or car, Yet neither fmell, fee, tafte, or hear. All shapes and features I can boast, No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost: All colours, without paint, put on, And change like the cameleon. Swiftly I come, and enter there Where not a chink lets in the air; Like thought I'm in a moment gone, Nor can I ever be alone; All things on earth I imitate Fafter than nature can create; Sometimes imperial robes I wear, Anon in beggar's rags appear; A giant now, and ftraight an elf, I'm ev'ry one, but ne'er myself; Ne'er fad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice; I move my lips, but want a voice; I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die: Then pr'ythce tell me, what am I?

On the Vowels.

WE are little airy creaturas,

All of diff'rent voice and features:

One of us in glass is fet,
One of us you'll find in jet,
T'other you may fee in tin,
And the fourth a box within;
If the fifth you should purfuc,
It can never fly from you.

On Snow.

FROM heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,

No lady alive can fhew fuch a fkin. I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark when you fqueeze me together. Though candour and truth in my afpect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to enfnare. Though fo much of heaven appears in my make, The fouleft impreffions I eafily take. My parent and I produce one another, The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

On a Cannon.

BEGOTTEN, and born, and dying with noise,
The terror of women, and picafure of boys,
Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
I'm chiefly unruly when ftrongeft confin'd.
For filver and gold I don't trouble my head,
But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a fhip or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my foul's all ■-fire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

§ 36. To Quilca, a Country-House of Dr. Sheridan, in no very good Repair. 1725.

LET me thy properties explain:

A rotten cabbin, dropping rain;
Chimnies with fcorn rejecting fmoke;
Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
Here elements have loft their uses:
Air ripens not, nor earth produces;
In vain we make poor Shcelah toil,
Fire will not roaft, nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddefs Want in triumph reigns:
And her chief officers of ftate,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

$37. The grand Question debored: Whether Hamilton's Bawn Hould be turned into a Barrack or a Mall-Houfe. 1729.

THUS spoke to my Lady the Knight + full of

care,

"Let me have your advice in a weighty affair:

* The name of an Irish fervant.

"This Hamilton's bawn, whilst it fticks on my "hand,

"I lofe by the houfe what I get by the land; "But how to difpofe of it to the best bidder, "For a barrack § or malt-houfe, we now muft "confider.

"First, let me fuppofe I make it a malt-house, "Here I have computed the profit will fall t' us; "There's nine hundred pounds for labour and "grain,

"I increase it to twelve, fo three hundred remais; "A handfome addition for wine and good cheer, "Three difhes a day, and three hogsheads a year: "With a dozen large veffels my vault shall be "ftor'd;

"No little fcrub joint fhall come on my board; "And you and the Dean no more fhall combine "To ftint me at night to one bottle of wine; "Nor fhall I, for his humour, permit you to pur"loin

"A ftone and a quarter of beef from my furloin. "If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant; My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on t "In poundage and drawbacks I lofe halt my rent: Whatever they give me, I must be content, "Or join with the court in every debate; "And rather than that I would lofe my eftate." Thus ended the Knight. Thus began his meck

66

wife:

"It must and it fhall be a barrack, my life. "I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes "But a rabble of tenants and rufty dull rums : "With parfons what lady can keep herself clean? "I'm all over daub'd when I fit by the Dear; "But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, "The Captain, I'm fure, will always come here; "I then thall not value his Deaufhip a straw, « For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe; "Or, fhould he pretend to be brifk and alert, "Will tell him that chaplains should not be fɑ "pert;

"That men of his coat should be minding their "pray'rs,

"And not among ladies to give themselves airs."
Thus argued my Lady, but argued in vain;
The Knight his opinion refolv'd to maintain.
But Hannah ¶, who liften'd to all that was paft,
And could not endure fo vulgar a taste,
As foon as her Ladyfhip call'd to be dreft,
Cried, Madam, why furely my mafter's pof-
"felt.

Sir Arthur the maltter! how fipe it will

**Two of Sir Arthur's managers.