The Works of Jonathan Swift ...

For among good friends I love to be plain;
All their false deluded hopes

Will, or ought to end in ropes

"But the queen shall enjoy her own again."

II.

Sunderland's run out of his wits,
And Dismal double Dismal looks;
Wharton can only swear by fits,
And strutting Hal is off the hooks;
Old Godolphin, full of spleen,

Made false moves, and lost his queen;
Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane:
But a prince of high renown

Swore he'd rather lose a crown,
"Than the queen should enjoy her own again."

III.

Our merchant-ships may cut the line,
And not be snapp'd by privateers,
And commoners who love good wine,
Will drink it now as well as peers:
Landed men shall have their rent,
Yet our stocks rise cent. per cent.

The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain,
We'll bring on us no more debts,

Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes;

"And the queen shall enjoy her own again."

IV.

The towns we took ne'er did us good;
What signified the French to beat?

We spent our money and our blood,
To make the Dutchmen proud and great:
But the lord of Oxford swears
Dunkirk never shall be theirs.

The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
But true Englishmen may fill

A good health to general Hill :

"For the queen now enjoys her own again."

HORACE, BOOK I. EP. VII.

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.

HARLEY, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
(His mind with public cares possess'd,
All Europe's business in his breast,)
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheapening old authors on a stall,
The priest was pretty well in case,

1713.

Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My lord (who, if a man may say 't,
Loves mischief better than his meat)
Was now disposed to crack a jest,
And bid friend Lewis' go in quest,
(This Lewis is a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley's favor) -
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory
Lewis his patron's humor knows,
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was doctor Swift;
A clergyman of special note

For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes to run him down:
No libertine, nor over nice,

Addicted to no sort of vice,

Went where he pleased, said what he thought, Not rich, but owed no man a groat:

In state opinion à la mode,

He hated Wharton like a toad.

Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell'd all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ:

His works were hawk'd in every street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended to retire.

Said Harley, "I desire to know
From his own mouth if this be so;
Step to the doctor straight, and say
I'd have him dine with me to-day."
Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my lord had sent;
So never offer'd once to stir,

He pull'd the string and stopp'd his coach,
Beckoning the doctor to approach.
Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to the chariot-side,
And offer'd many a lame excuse:
He never meant the least abuse.
"My lord, the honor you design'd -
Extremely proud-but I had dined -
I'm sure I never should neglect -
No man alive has more respect"-
Well, I shall think of that no more,
If you'll be sure to come at four."

64

The doctor now obeys the summons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talents, sits till ten;
Next day invited, comes again;
Soon grew domestic, seldom fails
Either at morning or at meals;
Came early and departed late;
In short the gudgeon took the bait.
My lord would carry on the jest,
And down to Windsor take his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In summer round the Park to ride,
In winter - never to reside.

A canon!-that's a place too mean;
No, doctor, you shall be a dean;
Two dozen canons round your stall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all:
You need but cross the Irish seas,
To live in plenty, power, and ease.
Poor Swift departs, and, what is worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse,
Travels at least a hundred leagues,
And suffers numberless fatigues.

Suppose him now a dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his seat;

The silver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cushion side;

Suppose him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,

First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats-
The wicked laity's contriving

To hinder clergymen from thriving.
Now, all the doctor's money spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent;
The farmers, spitefully combined,
Force him to take his tithes in kind,
And Parvisol' discounts arrears
By bills for taxes and repairs.

Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd,
Not knowing where to turn him next,
Above a thousand pounds in debt,
Takes horse, and in a mighty fret
Rides day and night at such a rate,
He soon arrives at Harley's gate;
But was so dirty, pale, and thin,
Old Read would hardly let him in,

Said Harley, "Welcome, reverend dean!
What makes your worship look so lean?
Why, sure you won't appear in town
In that old wig and rusty gown?
I doubt your heart is set on pelf
So much that you neglect yourself,
What! I suppose, now stocks are high,
You've some good purchase in your eye:
Or is your money out at use?"-

"Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce,"
(The doctor in a passion cried,)

Your raillery is misapplied;

Experience I have dearly bought;
You know I am not worth a groat:
But you resolved to have your jest,
And 'twas a folly to contest;

Then, since you now have done your worst,
Pray leave me where you found me first."

2

*

pursued,

A crazy prelate, and a royal prude; 3
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On every genius that attempts to rise;
And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod,
Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God.
So clowns on scholars as on wizards look,
And take a folio for a conjuring book.

Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime;
Nay, 'tis affirm'd he sometimes dealt in rhyme;
Humor and mirth had place in all he writ;

He reconciled divinity and wit:

He mov'd and bow'd, and talk'd with too much grace;

Nor show'd the parson in his gait or face;

The lord-treasurer's porter.

Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the deanery of Canterbury to the archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February 2, 1712-13.

ย Queen Anne.

He pull'd the string and stopp'd his coach,
Beckoning the doctor to approach.
Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to the chariot-side,
And offer'd many a lame excuse:
He never meant the least abuse

No man alive has more respect"-
"Well, I shall think of that no more,
If you'll be sure to come at four."

The doctor now obeys the summons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talents, sits till ten;
Next day invited, comes again;
Soon grew domestic, seldom fails
Either at morning or at meals;
Came early and departed late;
In short the gudgeon took the bait.
My lord would carry on the jest,
And down to Windsor take his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In summer round the Park to ride,
In winter- -never to reside.