As eels delight to creep in mud,
To cels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy lousy son!
Puff'd up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall Virtue hide her face,
And leave her votaries in disgrace?
Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains.-
Let purse-proud C- -n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach!
A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipp'd,
Ilis tongue with oily accents tipp'd,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland-"
VERSES ON BLENHEIM.
Atria longe patent, sed nec conantibus usquam,
Nec somno, locus est: quam bene non habitas!
SEE, here's the grand approach,
That way is for his grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;1
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design'd
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
A lion tearing a cock to pieces was placed in front of Blenheim house; a
wretched pun in architecture, deservedly criticised in the Spectator.
AND shall the patriot who maintain'd your cause,
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn'd for parricide.
Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd!
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief.
But if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast?
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down, your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence:
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom whilst yourselves are free.
UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY.
THIS is an address of congratulation to the grand jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer.
POOR Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it? A judge or a peer.!
Which nobody can deny.
This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which nobody can deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which nobody can deny.
So Nell of the dairy before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which nobody can deny.
Some sell it for profit 'tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which nobody can deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these.
There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerrard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland and haters of Wood.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on 't in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We'll paint 'em in colors as black as their crime.
But P- -r and copper L-h we'll excuse;
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse;
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.
DR. KING, archbishop of Dublin, rose high in Swift's estimation, by his opposition to Wood's coinage.
BY HONEST JO, ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL.
I SING not of the drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In every council and debate he stands for what is right,
AND shall the patriot who maintain'd your cause,
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn'd for parricide.
Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd!
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief.
But if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast?
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down, your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence:
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom whilst yourselves are free.
UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY.
THIS is an address of congratulation to the grand jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer.
POOR Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it? A judge or a peer.'
This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which nobody can deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which nobody can deny.
So Nell of the dairy before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which nobody can deny.
Some sell it for profit 'tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which nobody can deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these.
There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerrard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland and haters of Wood.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on 't in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We'll paint 'em in colors as black as their crime.
But Pr and copper L-h we'll excuse;
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse;
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF Dublin.
DR. KING, archbishop of Dublin, rose high in Swift's estimation, by his opposition to Wood's coinage.
BY HONEST JO, ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL.
I SING not of the drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In every council and debate he stands for what is right,
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