VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN ON HIS
WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND.
You've read, sir, in poetic strain,
How Varus and the Mantuan swain
Have on my birth-day been invited,
(But I was forced in verse to write it,)
Upon a plain repast to dine,
And taste my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilios hate,
Though long familiar with the great,
Nor glory in my reputation,
Am come without an invitation;
And, though I'm used to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste lërnian ;
But fearing that you might dispute
(Had I put on my common suit)
My breeding and my politesse,
I visit in my birth-day dress :
My coat of purest Turkey-red,
With gold embroidery richly spread;
To which I've sure as good pretensions,
As Irish lords who starve on pensions,
* This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered
What though proud ministers of state
Did at your antichamber wait;
What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns,
Have at your levee paid attendance;
And Peterborrow and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid aside the general's staff,
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I some friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling sons of fame;
For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Though they made Lewis beg a parley;
And as for Mordaunt, your loved hero,
I'll match him with my Drusus Nero.
You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope;
But Virgil is as good, I hope.
I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helsham and Delany;
Since Athens brought forth Socrates,
A Grecian isle, Hippocrates;
Since Tully lived before my time,
And Galen bless'd another clime.
You'll plead, perhaps at my request,
To be admitted as a guest,
"Your hearing's bad!"-But why such fears?
I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason wisely took
The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd by slow devouring moths,
By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths;
By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes,
By Creech's rhymes, and Dunster's prose;
I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire :
Yet still they but in vain assail'd;
For, had their violence prevail'd.
And in a blast destroy'd my frame,
They would have partly miss'd their aim ;
Since all my spirit in my page
Defies the Vandals of this age.
'Tis yours to save these small remains
From future pedant's muddy brains,
And fix my long uncertain fate,
You best know how-" which way?"-TRANSLate.
INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF
"HERE learn from moral truth and wit refined, How vice and folly have debased mankind; Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; Thus her great votary vindicates her laws : While bold and free the glowing colours strike; Blame not the picture, if the picture's like."
At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,
Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire:
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;
Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle?
Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,
Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm
place.
She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain ;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main.
To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit;
For her taste is almost as refined as her wit.
To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market,
It would do your heart good, to see how she will
Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears,
She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears.
JAMES BRYDGES† and the Dean had long been friends ; James is beduked; of course their friendship ends:
* Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of the poem in p. 337.-F.
James Brydges was created Duke of Chandos, April 30, 1719.
But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke.
Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,
His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The duke and dean seem near upon a level.
O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry, From bailiff's claws thou scarce could'st keep thy bum free.
A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown:
Thy brother* (far thy better) wore a gown.
Well, but a duke thou art; so pleased the king:
O! would his majesty but add a string!
ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER 1734.
VERTIGINOSUS, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis ; Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, Ñon clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures.
* The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.-N.
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