ON THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL [DR. BOLTON], AND
BETTESWORTH.
DEAR Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move:
The world is in doubt whether hatred or love:
And while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,
They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite.
You certainly know, though so loudly you vapor,
His spite cannot wound who attempted the drapier.
Then, pr'ythee, reflect, take a word of advice,
And, as your old want is, change sides in a trice:
On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way;
And say of the men what all honest men say.
But if, still obdurate, your anger remains,
If still your foul bosom more rancour contains,
Say then more than they, nay, lavishly flatter;
'Tis your gross panegyrics alone can bespatter;
For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak plain,
Like very foul mops, dirty more than they clean.
ON THE IRISH CLUB. 1733.
YE paltry underlings of state,
Ye senators who love to prate;
Ye rascals of inferior note,
Who for a dinner sell a vote;
Ye pack of pensionary peers,
Whose fingers itch for poets' ears;
Ye bishops, far removed from saints,
Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This summoning of blackguard boys?
Why so sagacious in your guesses?
Your effs, and tees, and arrs, and esses?
Take my advice; to make you safe,
I know a shorter way by half.
The point is plain; remove the cause;
Defend your liberties and laws.
Be sometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely despise champagne at court,
And choose to dine at home with port:
Let prelates by their good behavior
Convince us they believe a Savior;
Nor sell what they so dearly bought,
This country, now their own, for nought.
Ne'er did a true satiric muse
Virtue or innocence abuse;
And 'tis against poetic rules
To rail at men by nature fools:
HORACE, PART OF BOOK I. SAT. IV., PARAPHRASED. 1733.
IF Noisy Tom should in the senate prate,
"That he would answer both for church and state;
And, further, to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;"
All mortals must be curious to inquire
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire?
"What! thou, the spawn of him 2 who shamed our isle,
Traitor, assassin, and informer vile!
Though, by the female side, you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king:
What was thy grandsire, but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year:
Whose master Moore preserved him from the halter,
For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter!
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase
Thy founder's grandson, and usurp his place?
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood
Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?7
Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,
In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"
ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY. 1734-5.
MAKE Rundle bishop! fie for shame!
An Arian to usurp the name!
A bishop in the isle of saints!
How will his brethren make complaints!
Dare any of the mitred host
Confer on him the IIoly Ghost,
In mother church to breed a variance,
By coupling orthodox with Arians?
Yet, were he heathen, Turk, or Jew,
What is there in it strange or new?
For, let us hear the weak pretence
His brethren find to take offence;
Of whom there are but four at most
Who know there is a Holy Ghost;
Sir Thomas Prendergast.
2 The father of sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot to murder king William III.; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and made a baronet.
A poor cottager condemned at Clonmell assizes to be hanged for stealing cows. The grandfather of Guy Moore, esq., who procured him a pardon.
Guy Moore was elected member of parliament for Clonmell; but sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the title of parson-hunters, petitioned the house against him.
"Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat."
Mr. George Faulkner. Mr. sergeant Bettesworth, a member of the Irish parliament, having made a complaint to the house of commons against the "Satire on Quadrille," they voted Faulkner the printer into custody.
The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it, Like Paul's Ephesians, never heard it; And, when they gave it, well 'tis known, They gave what never was their own. Rundle a bishop! well he may ;
He's still a christian more than they.
We know the subject of their quarrels ; The man has learning, sense, and morals. There is a reason still more weighty; 'Tis granted he believe a Deity;
Has every circumstance to please us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus.
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded?
And is not this objection odd
From rogues who ne'er believed a God?
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not so gospel-ward devout.
While others, hither sent to save us,
Come but to plunder and enslave us;
Nor ever own'd a power divine,
But Mammon and the German line.
Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?
Who show'd a better jus divinum?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refused episcopari.
Our bishop's predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus,
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay on hands:
But all his gold could not avail
To have the spirit set to sale.
Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee,
Be gone: thy money perish with thee."
Were Peter now alive, perhaps,
He might have found a score of chaps,
Could he but make his gift appear
In rents three thousand pounds a-year.
Some fancy this promotion odd,
As not the handiwork of God;
Though e'en the bishops disappointed
Must own it made by God's anointed,
And well we know the congé regal
Is more secure as well as legal;
Because our lawyers all agree,
That bishoprics are held in fee.
Dear Baldwin chaste, and witty Crosse,
How sorely I lament your loss!
That such a pair of wealthy ninnies
Should slip your time of dropping guineas; For, had you made the king your debtor,
FRIEND Rundle fell, with grievous bump,
Upon his reverential rump.
Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped,
Hadst thou been join'd to Boulter's head;
A head so weighty and profound
Would needs have kept thee from the ground.
A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION CLUB 1736.
WHILST Swift was writing these satires on the Irish parliament, he was seized with one of those fits, the effect of which was so dreadful that he left the poem unfinished; and after that period very rarely attempted a composition, either in verse or prose, that required a course of thinking, or perhaps more than one or two sittings to finish. One of these was "The Beast's Confession." From this time his memory was perceived gradually to decline; and his melancholy increased by the strength of his imagination brooding over the unhappy scene of misery which he foresaw was his lot, when he must become, as he said, a perfect slabberer. He was often heard to offer up his prayers to Almighty God, "to take him away from this evil to come." The prospect of this calamity, which he was daily lamenting, contributed very much, as his passions were violent, to pervert his understanding, to which many other particulars seem also to have concurred.
As I stroll the city, oft I
See a building large and lofty,
Not a bow-shot from the college;
Half the globe from sense and knowledge:
By the prudent architect
Placed against the church direct,
Making good my grandam's jest,
"Near the church"- you know the rest.
Tell us what the pile contains?
Many a head that holds no brains.
These demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion Club.
Such assemblies you might swear
Meet when butchers bait a bear:
Such a noise, and such haranguing,
When a brother thief is hanging:
Such a rout and such a rabble
Run to hear Jackpudding gabble:
Such a crowd that ordure throws
On a far less villain's nose.
Could I from the building's top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder-proof)
Should with poker fiery red
Crack the stones and melt the lead;
Drive them down on every skull,
The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it, Like Paul's Ephesians, never heard it; And, when they gave it, well 'tis known, They gave what never was their own. Rundle a bishop! well he may;
He's still a christian more than they.
We know the subject of their quarrels ;
The man has learning, sense, and morals.
There is a reason still more weighty;
'Tis granted he believe a Deity;
Has every circumstance to please us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus.
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded?
And is not this objection odd
From rogues who ne'er believed a God?
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not so gospel-ward devout.
While others, hither sent to save us,
Come but to plunder and enslave us;
Nor ever own'd a power divine,
But Mammon and the German line.
Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?
Who show'd a better jus divinum?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refused episcopari.
Our bishop's predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus,
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay on hands:
But all his gold could not avail
To have the spirit set to sale.
Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee,
Be gone: thy money perish with thee."
Were Peter now alive, perhaps,
He might have found a score of chaps,
Could he but make his gift appear
In rents three thousand pounds a-year.
Some fancy this promotion odd,
As not the handiwork of God;
Though e'en the bishops disappointed
Must own it made by God's anointed,
And well we know the congé regal
Is more secure as well as legal;
Because our lawyers all agree,
That bishoprics are held in fee.
Dear Baldwin chaste, and witty Crosse,
How sorely I lament your loss!
That such a pair of wealthy ninnies
Should slip your time of dropping guineas; For, had you made the king your debtor,
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