TO BETTY,

THE GRISETTE. 1730.

QUEEN of wit and beauty, Betty,
Never may the Muse forget ye,
How thy face charms every shepherd,
Spotted over like a leopard!
And thy freckled neck, display'd,
Envy breeds in every maid;
Like a fly-blown cake of tallow,
Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow;
Or a tawny speckled pippin,
Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping.
And thy beauty thus despatch'd,
Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd.
Sets of phrases, cut and dry,
Evermore thy tongue supply;
And thy memory is loaded

With old scraps from plays exploded;
Stock'd with repartees and jokes,
Suited to all christian folks;

Shreds of wit and senseless rhymes,
Blunder'd out a thousand times;
Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing,
Which can ne'er be worse for wearing.
Picking wit among collegians,
In the playhouse upper regions;
Where in the eighteen-penny gallery,
Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery.
But thy merit is thy failing,
And thy raillery is railing.

Thus with talents well endued

To be scurrilous and rude;
When you pertly raise your snout,

Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout;
This among Hibernian asses

For sheer wit and humor passes.

Thus indulgent Chloe, bit,

Swears you have a world of wit.

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.

[A French gentleman dining with some company on a fastday, called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which are translated.]

PEUT on croire avec bon sens

Qu'un lardon le mit en colère,

Ou, que manger un hareng,

C'est un secret pour lui plaire?
En sa gloire envelopé,

WHO can believe with common sense
A bacon slice gives God offence;
Or, how a herring has a charm
Almighty vengeance to disarm?
Wrapp'd up in majesty divine,
Does he regard on what we dine?

EPIGRAM. 1712.

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to the street, and fled for his life:

Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventured to give him some sober advice-
But Tom is a person of honor so nice,

Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning.
Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life;
Went home and was cudgell'd again by his wife.

ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS.

BEHOLD, those monarch oaks, that rise
With lofty branches to the skies,
Have large proportion'd roots that grow
With equal longitude below:

Two bards that now in fashion reign
Most aptly this device explain:

If this to clouds and stars will venture,
That creeps as far to reach the centre;
Or, more to show the thing I mean,
Have you not o'er a sawpit seen
A skill'd mechanic, that has stood
High on a length of prostrate wood,
Who hired a subterraneous friend
To take his iron by the end?
But which excell'd was never found,
The man above or under ground.
The moral is so plain to hit,
That, had I been the god of wit,
Then, in a sawpit and wet weather,
Should Young and Philips drudge together.

2

EPITAPHI.

ON GENERAL GORGES, AND LADY MEATH.2

UNDER this stone lies Dick and Dolly.
Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy;
For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.

Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear:
But Dick lost by doll twelve hundred a-year;
A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.

Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd;
Thought much of his Doll and the jointure he lost;
The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.

Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried;
To live without both full three days he tried:
But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.

Dick left a pattern few will copy after:
Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water;
For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.

Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late,
The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate:
And Cuffee grins, for getting the Alicant plate.
Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day,
Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday,
And here rest- sic transit gloria mundi!

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT.

My latest tribute here I send;
With this let your collection end;
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction
To leave one handle for detraction.

DB. SWIFT TO HIMSELF.

ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

GRAVE dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass
That you, who know music no more than an ass,
That you, who so lately were writing of drapiers,
Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers?

Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.

Dorothy, dowager of Edward, earl of Meath. She was married to the general

1

AN APOLOGY TO LADY Ꮯ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭲ Ꭼ Ꭱ Ꭼ Ꭲ .

To act such an opera once in a year,

So offensive to every true protestant ear,

With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing,
Will sure the pretender and popery bring in ;
No protestant prelate, his lordship or grace,
Durst there show his right or most reverend face;
How would it pollute their croziers and rochets,
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets !
[The rest is wanting.]

AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION.
THE furniture that best doth please
St. Patrick's dean, good sir, are these:
The knife and fork with which I eat;
And next the pot that boils the meat;
The next to be preferred, I think,
Is the glass in which I drink;

The shelves on which my books I keep,
And the bed on which I sleep;
An antique elbow-chair between,
Big enough to hold the dean;
And the stove that gives delight
In the cold bleak wintry night:
To these we add a thing below,
More for use reserved than show:
These are what the dean do please;
All superfluous are but these.

EPIGRAM.'

BEHOLD a proof of Irish sense;
Here Irish wit is seen!

When nothing's left that's worth defence,
We build a magazine!

AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET.

A LADY,

wise as well as fair,

Whose conscience always was her care,
Thoughtful upon a point of moment,

Would have the text as well as comment;

379

The dean, in his lunacy, had some intervals of sense; at which time his guardians or physicians took him out for the air. On one of these days, when they came to the park, Swift remarked a new building, which he had never seen, and asked what it was designed for? To which Dr. Kingsbury answered, "That, Mr. Dean, is the magazine for arms and powder for the security of the city.""Oh! oh!" says the dean, pulling out his pocket-book; "let me take an item of that. This is worth remarking: -- My tablets,' as Hamlet says, 'my tablets memory, put down that!" Which produced the above lines, said to be the

So hearing of a grave divine,

She sent to bid him come and dine.
But you must know he was not quite
So grave as to be unpolite:

Thought human learning would not lessen
The dignity of his profession;

And if you'd heard the man discourse,
Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse.
He long had bid the court farewell,
Retreating silent to his cell;
Suspected for the love he bore

To one who sway'd some time before;
Which made it more surprising how
He should be sent for thither now.

The message told, he gapes and stares,
And scarce believes his eyes or ears:
Could not conceive what it should mean,
And fain would hear it told again.
But then the squire so trim and nice,
'Twere rude to make him tell it twice;
So bow'd, was thankful for the honor,
And would not fail to wait upon her.
Ilis beaver brush'd, his shoes and gown,
Away he trudges into town;
Passes the lower castle yard,

And now advancing to the guard,

He trembles at the thoughts of state,
For, conscious of his sheepish gait,

His spirits of a sudden fail'd him;

He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. What was the message I received?

Why certainly the captain raved!

To dine with her! and come at three!
Impossible! it can't be me.

Or maybe I mistook the word;
My lady-it must be my lord.

66

My lord's abroad; my lady too: What must the unhappy doctor do? Is captain Cracherode here, pray?". 'Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." Am I awake, or do I dream?

66

"No."

I'm sure he call'd me by my name;
Named me as plain as ho could speak,
And yet there must be some mistake.
Why, what a jest should I have been,
Had now my lady been within!
What could I've said? I'm mighty glad
She went abroad-she'd thought me mad.
The hour of dining now is past:
Well, then, I'll e'en go home and fast:
And since I'scaped being made a scoff,