And that, if thou'lt agree to think it best,
Shall be our tale of heads, without one other guest.
I've nothing more, now this is said, to say,
But to request thou'lt instantly away,
And leave the duties of thy present post,
To some well-skill'd retainer in a host:
Doubtless he'll carefully thy place supply,
And o'er his grace's horses have an eye.

While thou, who slunk through postern more than once,
Dost by that means avoid a crowd of duns,

And, crossing o'er the Thames at Temple Stairs,
Leav'st Phillips with good words to cheat their ears.

IN SICKNESS.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND IN OCTOBER, 1714.

'Tis true then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul's concern:
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid,
Who knows his art but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit or his fee.

Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,

I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay
Can act as decently as they;
But no obliging, tender friend,
To help at my approaching end.
My life is now a burthen grown
To others, ere it be my own.

Ye formal weepers for the sick,

In your last offices be quick;
And spare my absent friends the grief
To hear, yet give me no relief;
Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow,
When known, will save a double sorrow.

As, in despite of a censorious race,

I must incontinently suck my face.

What mighty projects does not he design

Whose stomach flows and brain turns round with wine?
Wine, powerful wine, can thaw the frozen cit,
And fashion him to humor and to wit;
Makes even S**** to disclose his art,
By racking every secret from his heart,
As he flings off the statesman's sly disguise,
To name the cuckold's wife with whom he lies.
Ev'n Sarum, when he quaffs it 'stead of tea,
Fancies himself in Canterbury's see,
And S******, when he carousing reels,
Imagines that he has regain'd the seals:
W******, by virtue of his juice, can fight,
And Stanhope of commissioners make light.
Wine gives lord Wingham aptitude of parts,
And swells him with his family's deserts:
Whom can it not make eloquent of speech;
Whom in extremest poverty not rich?
Since, by the means of the prevailing grape,
Th****n can Lechmere's warmth not only ape,
But, half-seas-o'er, by its inspiring bounties,
Can qualify himself in several countries.
What I have promised, thou may'st rest assured
Shall faithfully and gladly be procured,
Nay, I'm already better than my word,

New plates and knives adorn the jovial board:

And, lest thou at their sight should'st make wry faces,
The girl has scour'd the pots and wash'd the glasses,
Ta'en care so excellently well to clean 'em,

That thou may'st see thine own dear picture in 'em.
Moreover, due provision has been made

That conversation may not be betray'd;
I have no company but what is proper

To sit with the most flagrant Whig at supper.
There's not a man among them but must please,
Since they're as like each other as are peas.
Toland and Hare have jointly sent me word
They'll come; and Kennet thinks to make a third,
Provided he's no other invitation

From men of greater quality and station.
Room will for Oldmixon and J-s be left:
But their discourses smell so much of theft,
There would be no abiding in the room,
Should two such ignorant pretenders come.
However, by this trusty bearer write,
If I should any other scabs invite;
Though, if I may my serious judgment give,
I'm wholly for king Charles's number five:
That was the stint in which that monarch fix'd,

And that, if thou'lt agree to think it best,
Shall be our tale of heads, without one other guest.
I've nothing more, now this is said, to say,
But to request thou'lt instantly away,
And leave the duties of thy present post,
To some well-skill'd retainer in a host:
Doubtless he'll carefully thy place supply,
And o'er his grace's horses have an eye.

While thou, who slunk through postern more than once,
Dost by that means avoid a crowd of duns,

And, crossing o'er the Thames at Temple Stairs,
Leav'st Phillips with good words to cheat their ears.

I. - 43

IN SICKNESS.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND IN OCTOBER, 1714.

'Tis true then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,

Where I am neither loved nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul's concern:
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid,
Who knows his art but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit or his fee.

Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,

I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay
Can act as decently as they ;
But no obliging, tender friend,
To help at my approaching end.
My life is now a burthen grown
To others, ere it be my own.

Ye formal weepers for the sick,
In your last offices be quick;
And spare my absent friends the grief
To hear, yet give me no relief;
Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow,
When known, will save a double sorrow.

THE PABLE OF THE BITCHES.

WRITTEN IN THE TEAR 1711 5 AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE

TEST ACT.

A BITCH 1 was fill pregnant w
By all the dogs and cars in wh
Finding her ripen'd time was come,
Her liner teeming from her womb,
Went here and there, and everywhere,
To find an easy place to lay her.

At length to Mosie's Brase1 she came.
And begg ́d like one both Mini and lame;
“My cily friend, my dear,” said she,

You see 'tis mere necessity

Hath sent me to your house to whelp:
I die if you refuse your help."

With fawning whine and rueful tone,
With artful sigh and feigned groan,
With couchant cringe and flattering tale,
Smooth Bawiy did so far prevail

That Music gave her leave to litter;

(But mark what follow'd-faith! she bit her;)
Whole baskets full of bits and scraps,

And broth enough to fill her paps:

For well she knew her numerous brood,
For want of milk, would suck her blood.

But when she thought her pains were done,
And now 'twas high time to be gone,

In civil terms, "My friend," said she,
"My house you've had on courtesy ;
And now I earnestly desire

That you would with your cubs retire;
For, should you stay but one week longer,
I shall be starved with cold and hunger."
The guest replied —“My friend, your leave
I must a little longer crave;

Stay till my tender cubs can find

Their way for now, you see, they're blind;
But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear,
We'll to our barn again repair."

The time pass'd on; and Music came
Her kennel once again to claim;
But Bawty, lost to shame and honor,
Set all her cubs at once upon her;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cried-"A bite! bite!"

THE MORAL.

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse
Conceal a fatal armed force:
No sooner brought within the walls
But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.

HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD-TREASURER.
Sent to him when in the Tower, 1716.

How blest is he who for his country dies,
Since death pursues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack;
With trembling knees, and Terror at his back;
Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.

Virtue repulsed yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honor shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.
Virtue, to crown her favorites, loves to try
Some new unbeaten passage to the sky;
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give
To those who die for meriting to live.

Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward;
Within our breast be every secret barr'd!
He who betrays his friend shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship, with me:
For who with traitors would his safety trust,
Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just?
And though the villain 'scape a while, he feels
Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER. GOOD Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapors; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not we no danger see, And were they hang'd there would no danger be. But we must silent be amidst our fears, And not believe our senses, but the peers. So ravishers, that know no sense of shame,

First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH.

IIIGH Church is undone,

As sure as a gun,

For old Peter Patch is departed;

And Eyres and Delaune,

And the rest of that spawn,

Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum,

That decoctum amarum,

Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail;
Which will make them resign
Their flasks of French wine,

And spice up their Nottingham ale.