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Past six, and not a living soul !
But, conscious that they all speak true, I might by this have won a vole."
And give each other but their due, A dreadful interval of spleen!
It never interrupts the game, How shall we pass the time between?
Or makes them sensible of shame. “Here, Betty, let me take my drops ;
The time too precious now to waste, And feel my pulse, I know it stops :
The supper gobbled up in haste ; This head of mine, Lord, how it swims!
Again afresh to cards they run, And such a pain in all my limbs !"
As if they had but just begun. “Dear madam, try to take a nap.”
But I shall not again repeat, But now they hear a footman's rap:
How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. “Go, run, and light the ladies up:
At last they hear the watchman knock. It must be one before we sup."
"A frosty morn—past four o'clock.” The table, cards, and counters, set,
The chairmen are not to be found, And all the gamester-ladies met,
Come, let us play the other round.” Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,
Now all in haste they huddle on Our madam can sit up all night:
Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone, “Whoever comes, I'm not within."
But, first, the winner must invite Quadrille's the word, and so begin.
The company tomorrow night. How can the Muse her aid impart,
Unlucky madam, left in tears, Unskill'd in all the terms of art ?
(Who now again quadrille forswears,) Or in harmonious numbers put
With empty purse, and aching head,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.*
OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING In vain, alas! her hope is fed ;
MAXIM IN ROCHEFOUCAULT: She draws an ace, and sees it red;
Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons In ready counters never pays,
toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait pas. But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys : Ever with some new fancy struck,
"In the adversity of our best friends, we always find someTries twenty charms to mend her luck.
thing that doth not displease us." “This morning, when the parson came, I said I should not win a game.
As Rochefoucault his maxims drew This odious chair, how came I stuck in 't? From nature, I believe them true: I think I never had good luck in't.
They rrgue no corrupted mind I'm so uneasy in my stays ;
In him : the fault is in mankind. Your fan a moment, if you please.
This maxim more than all the rest Stand further, girl, or get you gone;
Is thought too base for human breast : I always lose when you look on."
“In all distresses of our friends, “ Lord! madam, you have lost codille !
We first consult our private ends; I never saw you play so ill.”
While nature, kindly bent to ease us, “ Nay, madam, give me leave to say,
Points out some circumstance to please us." 'Twas you that threw the game away :
If this perhaps your patience move, When lady Tricksey play'd a four,
Let reason and experience prove. You took it with a mattadore ;
We all behold with envious eyes I saw you touch your wedding-ring
Our equals rais'd above our size. Before my lady call'd a king ;
Who would not at a crowded show You spoke a word began with H,
Stand high himself, keep others low? And I know whom you meant to teach,
I love my friend as well as you : Because you held the king of hearts ;
But why should he obstruct my view ? Fie, madam, leave these little arts."
Then let me have the higher post; “ That's not so bad as one that rubs
Suppose it but an inch at most. Her chair, to call the king of clubs;
If in a battle you should find And makes her partner understand
One, whom you love of all mankind, A matladore is in her hand."
Had some heroic action done, “ Madam, you have no cause to flounce,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won ; I swear I saw you thrice renounce."
Rather than thus be over-topt, " And truly, madam, I know when,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Instead of five, you scor'd me ten.
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without :
* Written in November, 1731.—There are two distinc: I wish some folks would pare their nails."
poems on this subject, one of them containing many spu. While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, rious lines. In what is here printed, the genuine parts It passes but for common form :
of both are preserved. N.
How patiently you hear him groan!
What poel would not grieve to see
Her end when emulation misses,
To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thus much may serve by way of proem ; Proceed we therefore to our poem.
The time is not remote when I
“For poetry, he's past his prime;
And then their tenderness appears
He's older than he would be reckon'd, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach too begins to fail ; Last year we thought him strong and hale ; But now he's quite another thing : I wish he may hold out till spring !" They hug themselves, and reason thus : “ It is not yet so bad with us !"
In such a case they talk in tropes,
Yet should some neighbor feel a pain
My good companions, never fear;
Behold the fatal day arrive!
Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. “Oh! may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir ?" “I know no more than what the news is; "Tis all bequeath'd to public uses." “To public uses ! there's a whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He gave it all—but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation ? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own Aesh and blood !"
Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd ; With elegies the town is cloy'd : Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.
Suppose me dead; and then suppose
The Dean, if we believe report,
"Sir, I have heard another story ;
“Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt ? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters !"
“He should have left them for his betters:
" Perhaps I may allow the Dean
He would have deem'd it a disgrace,
go joyful back.
He never thought an honor done him,
“He kept with princes due decorum;
“Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
“ And, oh! how short are human schemes'
To save their sinking country lent,
For party he would scarce have bled :-
I say no more-because he's dead.
What writings has he left behind ?"
"I hear they ’re of a different kind :
A few in verse ; but most in prose"
Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose :
All scribbled in the worst of timer,
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes ;
To praise queen Anne, nay more, defend her,
As never favoring the Pretender:
Or libels yet conceal’d from sight,
Against the court to show his spite :
Perhaps his travels, part the third ;
A lie at every second word-
Offensive to a loyal ear :
But—not one sermon, you may swear."
“ He knew an hundred pleasing stories, Beheld the dire destructive scene :
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories :
Was cheerful to his dying day ;
And friends would let him have his way.
“ As for his works in verse or prose,
I own myself no judge of those.
Nor can I tell what critics thought them;
But this I know, all people bought them, “ By innocence and resolution,
As with a moral view design'd
To please and to reform mankind :
And, if he often miss'd his aim,
The world must own it to their shame,
The praise is his, and theirs the blame.
He gave the little wealth he had
To build a house for fools and mad;
To show, by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.
That kingdom he hath left his debtor ;
I wish it soon may have a better.
And, since you dread no further lashes,
Methinks you may forgive his ashes."
“To save them from their evil fate,
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO
YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHIL.
Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.
In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter-night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tatler'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon;
Who kindly did ihese saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;