ON STEALING A CROWN,
WHEN THE DEAN WAS A SLEEF.
DEAR dean, since you in sleepy wise
Have ope'd your mouth and closed your eyes,
Like ghost I glide along your floor,
And softly shut the parlor door:
For, should I break your sweet repose,
Who knows what money you might lose:
Since oftentimes it has been found
A dream has given ten thousand pound?
Then sleep, my friend: dear dean, sleep on,
And all you get shall be your own;
Provided you to this agree,
That all you lose belongs to me.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER.
So, about twelve at night, the punk
Steals from the cully when he's drunk:
Nor is contented with a treat,
Without her privilege to cheat:
Nor can I the least difference find,
But that you left no clap behind.
But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,
My twelve thirteens and sixpence-ha'penny.
To eat my meat and drink my medlicot,
And then to give me such a deadly cut-
But 'tis observed, that men in gowns
Are most inclined to plunder crowns.
Could you but change a crown as easy
As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye!
I thought the lady at St. Catherine's
Knew how to set you better patterns;
For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,3
And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.
A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY
PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL.
Spoken by one of the scholars.
As in a silent night a lonely swain,
"Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain,
To heaven around directs his wandering eyes,
And every look finds out a new surprise;
So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view
Our lower sphere made more serene by you,
A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.
Agmondisham Vesey, esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and
O could such light in my dark bosom shine,
What life, what vigor, should adorn each line!
Beauty and virtue should be all my theme,
And Venus brighten my poetic flame.
The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one,
Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;
Majestic light his feeble art defies,
And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.
Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
Sink far below your too exalted praise:
Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain:
No, we're sincere, - to flatter you were vain.
You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied,
And all perfections but your beauties hide.
Then, as you're fair, we hope you will be kind,
Nor frown on those you see so well inclined
To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then
Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.
Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell,
Have we not play'd our parts extremely well?
We think we did, but if you do complain,
We're all content to act the play again:
'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most,
And time well spent in school cannot be lost.
But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above?
We guess'd long since you all desired to move:
But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir
Who does not take up Plautus first, and construe.
Him we'll dismiss that understands the play;
He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay.
Though this new method may provoke your laughter,
To act plays first, and understand them after;
We do not care, for we will have our humor,
And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more. Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge;
How much they've read, I'll leave you all to judge.
A parody on the popular song beginning,
"My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."
Mr time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent
When Bacchus went with me wherever I went;
For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest;
Was ever a toper so merrily bless'd?
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear,"
And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer.
My daughter I ever was pleased to see
Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee:
My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said,
Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head:
But now, out of humor, I with a sour look
Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book;
And I'll give her another; for why should she play,
Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away?
Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become,
That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum?
Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile,
While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done,
Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone.
Then since it is so, bring me here a supply;
Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.
A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR.
LET me thy properties explain:
A rotten cabin, dropping rain;
Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke,
Stools, stables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
Here elements have lost their uses,
Air ripens not, nor earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah1 toil.
Fire will not roast nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want in triumph reigns;
And her chief officers of state,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE. 1725.
FAR from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Nor seen by our betters.
THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
A COMPANION with news; a great want of shoes;
Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews;
Our horses astray; no straw, oats, or hay;
December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.
ON THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO N-ROOM.
IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER.
Written in the year 1725.
Quæque ipse miserrima vidi. - VIRG.
IMPRIMIS, there's a table blotted,
A tatter'd hanging all bespotted.
A bed of flocks, as I may rank it
Reduced to rug and half a blanket
A tinder-box without a flint
An oaken desk with nothing in't;
A pair of tongs bought from a broker,
A fender and a rusty poker;
A penny pot and basin, this
Design'd for water, that for piss;
A broken-winded pair of bellows,
Two knives and forks, but neither fellows;
Item, a surplice, not unmecting
Either for table-cloth or sheeting;
There is likewise a pair of breeches,
But patch'd and fallen in the stitches,
Hung up in study very little,
Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle,
An airy prospect all so pleasing,
From my light window without glazing.
A trencher and a college bottle
Piled up on Locke and Aristotle.
A prayer-book, which he seldom handles;
A save-all and two farthing candles.
A smutty ballad, musty libel,
A Burger's dicius and a bible.
The C****Seasons and the Senses
By Overton, to save expenses.
Item (if I am not much mistaken),
A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon.
A candlestick without a snuffer,
Whereby his fingers often suffer.
Two odd old shoes I should not skip here,
Each strapless serves instead of slipper.
And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em,
But each of them without a bottom.
Thus I in rhyme have comprehended
PALINODIA.
HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XVI.
GREAT sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays outshine,
Look down upon your quondam foe:
O! let me never write again,
If e'er I disoblige you, dean,
Should you compassion show.
Take those iambics which I wrote,
When anger made me piping hot,
And give them to your cook,
To singe your fowl or save your paste
The next time when you have a feast;
They'll save you many a book.
To burn them you are not content;
I give you then my free consent
To sink them in the harbor:
If not, they'll serve to set off blocks
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
So give them to your barber.
Or, when you next your physic take,
I must entreat you then to make
A proper application;
'Tis what I've done myself before,
With Dan's fine thoughts and many more, Who gave me provocation.
What cannot mighty anger do?
It makes the weak the strong pursue,
A goose attack a swan;
It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
Her husband's hands and face assail,
While he's no longer man.
Though some, we find, are more discreet,
Before the world are wondrous sweet,
And let their husbands hector:
But when the world's asleep, they wake,
That is the time they choose to speak:
Witness the curtain lecture.
Such was the case with you, I find;
All day you could conceal your mind;
But when St. Patrick's chimes
Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse,
When I engaged for better for worse,)
You scolded with your rhymes.
Have done! have done! I quit the field,
To you as to my wife, I yield:
As she must wear the breeches:
So shall you wear the laurel crown,
Win it and wear it, 'tis your own;
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