When shells and leather shall for money pass,
Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass 10.
But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed 11,
Who from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed ;
Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear,
And waste in luxury thy harvests there;
For pride and ignorance a proverb grown,
The jest of wits, and to the court unknown.

I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line,
And from this hour my patronage resign.

If bankrupts, when they are undone,
Into the senate-house can run,
And sell their votes at such a rate
As will retrieve a lost estate :
If law be such a partial whore,
To spare the rich, and plague the poor:
If these be of all crimes the worst,
What land was ever half so curst?

ON READING DR. YOUNG'S SATIRES

CALLED

THE UNIVERSAL PASSION,

BY WHICH HE MEANS PRIDE.
1726.

Ir there be truth in what you sing,
Such god-like virtues in the king;
A minister so fill'd with zeal
And wisdom for the common-weal:
If he 2 who in the chair presides
So steadily the senate guides:

If others, whom you make your theme,
Are seconds in the glorious scheme :
If every peer whom you commend,
To worth and learning be a friend:
If this be truth, as you attest,
What land was ever half so blest?
No falsehood now among the great,
And tradesmen now no longer cheat;
Now on the bench fair justice shines,
Her scale to neither side inclines;
Now pride and cruelty are flown,
And mercy here exalts her throne:
For such is good example's power,
It does its office every hour,
Where governors are good and wise;
Or else the truest maxim lies:
For so we find all ancient sages
Decree, that, ad exemplum regis,
Through all the realm his virtues run,
Ripening and kindling like the Sun.
If this be true, then how much more
When you have nam'd at least a score
Of courtiers, each in their degree,
If possible, as good as he?

Or take it in a different view.
I ask (if what you say be true)
If you affirm the present age
Deserves your satire's keenest rage:
If that same universal passion
With every vice hath fill'd the nation:
If virtue dares not venture down
A single step beneath the crown:
If clergymen, to show their wit,
Praise classics more than holy writ:

10 Wood's ruinous project in 1724. IRISH ED. 11 The absentees, who spent the income of their Irish estates, places, and pensions, in England. IRISH ED.

QUOTH the thief to the dog, "let me into your door,
And I'll give you these delicate bits." [you 're,
Quoth the dog, "I shall then be more villain than
And besides must be out of my wits.

"Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal,
But my master each day gives me bread;
You'll fly, when you get what you came here to
And I must be hang'd in your stead." [steal,
The stock-jobber thus from 'Change-alley goes down,
And tips you the freeman a wink;

"Let me have but your vote to serve for the town, And here is a guinea to drink."

Says the freeman, "your guinea to night would be Your offers of bribery cease:

[spent! I'll vote for my landlord, to whom I pay rent, Or else I may forfeit my lease."

From London they come, silly people to chouse,
Their lands and their faces unknown
Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
That would turn a man out of his own?

ADVICE

TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS.

1726.

YE poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets haste;
Ye rhymers dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign'd to paste;

I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 'tis a quaint device:
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing 1 Pope;
And when he sits to write,

No letter with an envelope

Could give him more delight.

When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;

Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And swear they are your own.

letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters themselves. N.

TO A LADY,

WHO DESIRED THE author to write some verses

UPON HER IN THE HEROIC STYLE.

WRITTEN AT LONDON IN 1726.

AFTER venting all my spite,
Tell me, what have I to write?
Every errour I could find
Through the mazes of your mind,
Have my busy Muse employ'd
Till the company was cloy'd.
Are you positive and fretful,
Heedless, ignorant, forgetful?
Those, and twenty follies more,
I have often told before,

Hearken what my lady says:
Have I nothing then to praise ?
Ill it fits you to be witty,

Where a fault should move your pity.
If you think me too conceited,
Or to passion quickly heated;
If my wandering head be less
Bet on reading than on dress;
If I always seem too dull t'fe;
I can solve the difficulty.

You would teach me to be wise;
Truth and honour how to prize;
How to shine in conversation,
And with credit fill my station;
How to relish notions high;
How to live, and how to die.

But it was decreed by fate-
Mr. Dean, you come too late.
Well I know, you can discern,
I am now too old to learn:
Follies, from my youth instill'd,
Have my soul entirely fill'd;
Ju my head and heart they centre,
Nor will let your lessons enter.

Bred a fondling and an heiress,
Drest like any lady mayoress,
Cocker'd by the servants round,
Was too good to touch the ground;
Thought the life of every lady
Should be one continual play-day--
Balls, and masquerades, and shows,
Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux.

Thus you have my case at large,
And may now perforth your charge.
Those materials I have furnish'd
When by you refin'd and burnish d,

Must, that all the world may know 'em,
Be reduc'd into a poem.

But, I beg, suspend a while
That same paltry, burlesque style;
Drop for once your constant rule,
Turning all to ridicule;

Teaching others how to ape you;
Court nor parliament can 'scape you;
Treat the public and your friends
Both alike, while neither mends.

Sing my praise in strain sublime:
Treat me not with doggrel rhyme.
'Tis but just you should produce,
With each fault, each fault's excuse;
Not to publish every trifle,
And my few perfections stifle.

With some gifts at least endow me,
Which my very foes allow me.
Am I spiteful, proud, unjust?
Did I ever break my trust?
Which of all our modern dames
Censures less, or less defames?
In good manners am I faulty?
Can you call me rude or haughty ?
Did I e'er my mite withhold
From the impotent and old?
When did ever I omit

Due regard for men of wit?
When have I esteem express'd
For a coxcomb gaily dress'd?
Do I, like the female tribe,
Think it wit to fleer and gibe?
Who with less designing ends
Kindlier entertains their friends;

With good words, and countenance sprightly,
Strives to treat them more politely?

Think not cards my chief diversion:
'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion:
Never knew I any good in 'em,
But to dose my head like laudanum.
We by play, as men by drinking,
Pass our nights, to drive out thinking.
From my ailments give me leisure,
I shall read and think with pleasure;
Conversation learn to relish,
And with books my mind embellish.
Now, methinks, I hear you cry,
Mr. Dean, you must reply.

Madam, I allow 'tis true:
All these praises are your due.
You, like some acute philosopher,
Every fault have drawn a gloss ove
Placing in the strongest light
All your virtues to my sight.

Though you lead a blameless life,
Are an humble prudent wife,
Answer all domestic ends;
What is this to us your friends?
Though your children by a nod
Stand in awe without a rod;
Though, by your obliging sway,
Servants love you, and obey;
Though you treat us with a smile;
Clear your looks, and smooth your style;
Load our plates from every dish;
This is not the thing we wish.
Colonel

may be your debtor;

We expect employment better.
You must learn, if you would gain us,
With good sense to entertain us.
Scholars, when good sense describing
Call it tasting and imbibing:
Metaphoric meat and drink
Is to understand and think :
We may carve for others thus ;
And let others carve for us:
To discourse and to attend,
Is to help yourself and friend.
Conversation is but carving;
Carve for all, yourself is starving:
Give no more to every guest,
Than he 's able to digest;
Give him always of the prime,
And but little at a time.

Carve to all but just enough;

Let them neither starve nor stuff:
And, that you may have your due,
Let your neighbours carve for you.
This comparison will hold,
Could it well in rhyme be told
How conversing, listening, thinking,
Justly may resemble drinking;
For a friend a glass you fill,
What is this but to instill?

To conclude this long essay;
Pardon, if I disobey;

Nor, against my natural vein,
Treat you in heroic strain,
I, as all the parish knows,
Hardly can be grave in prose:
Still to lash, and lashing smile,
Ill befits a lofty style.
From the planet of my birth
I encounter vice with mirth.
Wicked ministers of state

I can easier scorn than hate:
And I find it answers right:

Scorn torments them more than spite.
All the vices of a court

Do but serve to make me sport.
Were I in some foreign realm,
Which all vices overwhelm ;
Should a monkey wear a crown,
Must I tremble at his frown?
Could I not, through all his ermine,
Spy the strutting, chattering vermin?
Safely write a smart lampoon,
To expose the brisk baboon ?

When my Muse officious ventures
On the nation's representers:
Teaching by what golden rules
Into knaves they turn their fools:
How the helm is rul'd by Walpole,

At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull;
Let the vessel split on shelves;
With the freight enrich themselves:
Safe within my little wherry,

All their madness makes me merry:
Like the watermen of Thames,
I row by, and call them names;
Like the ever-laughing sage,
In a jest I spend my rage
(Though it must be understood,
I would hang them, if I could):
If I can but fill my nitch,
I attempt no higher pitch;
Leave to D'Anvers and his mate
Maxims wise to rule the state,
Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns,
Scourge the villains with a vengeance :
Let me, though the smell be noisome,
Strip their bums; let Caleb hoise 'em ;
Then apply Alecto's whip,
Till they wriggle, howl, and skip.

Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean :
What can all this passion mean?

This poem, for an obvious reason, has been mutilated in many editions. N.

2 Caleb D'Anvers was the name assumed by Amhurst, the ostensible writer of the Craftsman. This unfortunate man was neglected by his noble patrons, and died in want and obscurity. N.

Mention courts! you 'll ne'er be quiet
On corruptious running riot,
And as it befits your station;
Come to use and application:
Nor with senates keep a fuss.

I submit, and answer thus:
If the machinations brewing,
To complete the public ruin,
Never once could have the power
To affect me half an hour;
Sooner would I write in buskins,
Mournful elegies on Blueskins 3,
If I laugh at Whig and Tory,

I conclude, à fortiori,
All your eloquence will scarce
Drive me from my favourite farce.
This I must insist on: for, as
It is well observ'd by Horace *,
Ridicule hath greater power
To reform the world than sour.
Horses thus, let jockies judge else,
Switches better guide than cudgels,
Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse,
Only dulness can produce;
While a little gentle jerking
Sets the spirits all a-working.

Thus, I find it by experiment,

Scolding moves you less than merriment.
I may storm and rage in vain ;
It but stupifies your brain.
But with raillery to nettle,

Sets your thoughts upon their mettle;
Gives imagination scope;
Never lets the mind elope;

Drives out brangling and contention,
Beings in reason and invention,
For your sake, as well as mine,
I the lofty style decline.

I should make a figure scurvy,
And your head turn topsy-turvy.
I, who love to have a fling
Both at senate-house and king;
That they might some better way tread,
To avoid the public hatred ;

Thought no method more commodious,
Than to show their vices odious;
Which I chose to make appear,

Not by anger, but a sneer.

As my method of reforming

Is by laughing, not by storming

(For my friends have always thought Tenderness my greatest fault);

Would you

have me change my style?

On your faults no longer smile;
But, to patch up all our quarrels,
Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals;
Or from Solomon produce

Maxims teaching wisdom's use?

If I treat you like a crown'd-head,
You have cheap enough compounded;
Can you put-in higher claims,
Than the owners of St. James ?
You are not so great a grievance,
As the hirelings of St. Stephen's,

3 The famous thief, who, whilst on his trial at the Old Bailey, stabbed Jonathan Wild. N. 4 Ridiculum acri, &c.

You are of a lower class
Than my friend sir Robert Brass.
None of these have mercy found;

I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round.
Have you seen a rocket fly?
You would swear it pierc'd the sky:
It but reach'd the middle air,
Bursting into pieces there :
Thousand sparkles falling down
Light on many a coxcomb's crown:
See what mirth the sport creates ;
Singes hair, but breaks no pates.
Thus, should I attempt to climb,
Treat you in a style sublime
Such a rocket is my Muse:
Should I lofty numbers choose,
Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top,
I should burst, and bursting drop;
All my fire would fall in scraps ;
Give your head some gentle raps;
Only make it smart awhile :
Then could I forbear to smile,
When I found the tingling pain
Entering warm your frigid brain;
Make you able upon sight

To decide of wrong and right;

Talk with sense whate'er you please în; Learn to relish truth and reason?

Thus we both shall gain our prize:

I to laugh, and you grow wise.

BLOW, Ye Zephyrs, gentle gales;

Gently fill the swelling sails. Neptune, with thy trident long, Trident three-fork'd, trident strong; And ye Nereids fair and gay, Fairer than the rose in May, Nereids living in deep caves, Gently wash'd with gentle waves: Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep! All around in pompous state, On this richer Argo wait: Argo, bring my Golden Fleece; Argo, bring him to his Greece. Will Cadenus longer stay? Come, Cadenus, come away; Come with all the haste of love, Come unto thy turtle-dove. The ripen'd cherry on the tree Hangs, and only hangs for thee; Luscious peaches, mellow pears, Ceres with her yellow ears, And the grape, both red and white, Grape inspiring just delight; All are ripe, and courting sue To be pluck'd and press'd by you. Pinks have lost their blooming red, Mourning hang their drooping head; Every flower languid seems; Wants the colour of thy beams,

Beams of wondrous force and power,
Beams reviving every flower.
Come, Cadenus, bless once more,
Bless again thy native shore;
Bless again this drooping isle,
Make its weeping beauties smile,
Beauties that thine absence mourn,
Beauties wishing thy return.
Come, Cadenus, come with haste,
Come before the winter's blast;
Swifter than the lightning fly;

Or I, like Vanessa, die.

A LETTER TO THE DEAN,
WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726.

You will excuse me, I suppose,
For sending rhyme instead of prose,
Because hot weather makes me lazy;
To write in metre is more easy.

While you are trudging London town,
I'm strolling Dublin up and down ;
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease,

I choose companions as I please.
I'd rather have one single shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For after all that can be said,

Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you 're in raptures with Faustina ';
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
While you are starving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butchers meat.
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you may n't in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.

Our weather 's good, our sky is clear;
We 've every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and so bright a sky
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go;
To see M'Fayden's horny brothers
First suck, and after bull their mothers;
To see, alas! my wither'd trees!
To see what all the country sees!
My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves,
My servants such a pack of thieves;
My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks,
My house in common to all folks ;
No cabbage for a single snail,
My turnips, carrots, parsnips, fail;
My no green peas, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the pouts;

1 Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.