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• Good morrow, good Captain, I'll wait on you | If I had expected so worthy a guestdown.'

'Lord, madam! your ladyship sure is in jest: • You shan't stir a foot.'-' You'll think me a You banter me,' niadam.-i The kingdom clown.

must grant, For all the world, Captain.' – Not half an You officers, Captain, are so complaisant !""


, , inch farther.'

“ Hist, hussy, Ithink I hear somebody coming." • You must be obey'd !'~'Your servant, Sir “No, madam, 'tis only Sir Arthur a humming. Arthur!

To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story) My humble respects to my Lady unknown.', The Captain at dinner appears in his glory:

house as your own.

The Dean and the Doctor have humbled their “Go bring me my smock, and leave off your pride, prate,

For the Captain's entreated to sit by your side: Thou hast certainly got a cup in thy pate.". And, because he's their betters, you carve for

Pray, madain, be quiet, what was it I said? him first: You had like to have put it quite out of my The parsons for envy are ready to burst. head.

The servants, amazed, are scarce ever able Next day, to be sure, the Captain will come To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table ; At the head of his troop, with trumpet and And Molly and I have thrust in our nose drum.

[state : To peep at the Captain in all his fine clo'es. Now, madam, observe how he marches in Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man,

a The man with the kettle-drums enters the Do but hear on the Clergy how glib his tongue

gate; Dub, dih, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, And, 'Madam,' says he • if such dinners you Tantara, tantara; while all the boys halloo.


(live. See now comes the Captain, all daub'd with You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you gold lace:

I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose : O la! the sweet gentleman! look in his face; But the Devil's 'as welcome wherever he goes. And see how he rides like a lord of the land, G-d-n me! they bid us reform and repent, With the fine famivg sword that he holds in But, z-ds! by their looks they never keep his hand;


[afraid And his horse, the dear cretur, it prances and Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, I'm rears,

You cast a sheep's eye on her Ladyship's maid: With ribands in knots at its tail and its ears : I wish she would lend you her preity white At last comes the troop, by the word of com


[band mand,

In mending your cassock, and smoothing your Drawn upin our court; when the Captain cries, (For the Dean was so shabby, and look like


a niny,

[Jiuns). Your Ladyship lifts-up the sash to be seen That the Captain suppos d he was curate to (For sure I have dizen'd you out like a queen). Whenever you see a cassock and gown,

The Captain, to show he is proud of the favor, | A hundred to one but it covers a clown. Looks up to your window, and cocks up his Observe how a Parson comes into a room ; beaver;

G-d-n me! he hobbles as bad as my groom : (His beaver is cock'd; pray, madam, mark that, A scollard, when just from his college broke For a Captain of horse never takes off his hat, loose, Because he has never a hand that is idle; Cau hardly tell how to cry to to a goose : For the right holds the sword, and the left holds Your + Noveds, and Blueturks, and Omurs, and the bridle ;)

stuff, Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, By GM, they don't signify this pinch of snuff; As a compliment due to a lady so fair ; To give a young gentleman right education, (How I tremble to think of the blood it hath The army's the only good school in the nation: spilt!)

My schoolmaster call’d me a dunce and a fool, Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the Butat cuffs I was always the cock of the school: hilt.

I never could take to my book for the blood o' Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin:


(o' me. Pray, Captain, be pleas'd to alight and walk in.' And the puppy confess'd he expected no good The Captain salutes you with congee profound, He caught me one morning coquetting his And your Ladyship curtsies half-way to the wife,

(life: ground.

But he mauid me, I ne'er was so maul'd in my Kit, run to your master, and bid hina come So I took to the road; and what's very odd,

The first man I robb’d was à parson, by GI'm sure he'll be proud of the honor you do us. Now, madam, you'll think it a strange ihing to And, Captain, you'll do us the favor to stay

say, And take a short dinner here with us to-day: But the sight of a book makes me sick to this

' You're heartily welcome: but as for good cheer, day.'-You come in the very worst time of the year;

* Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood. + Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.


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Never since I was born did I hear so much wit; Her end when Emulation misses, And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should She turns to Enry, stings and bisses : split.

[Dean, The strongest friendship yields to pride, So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the Unless the odds be on our side. As who should say,Nouam I Skinny-und-lean? Vain human kind! fantastic race ! But he durst not so much as once open his lips, Thy various follies who can trace ? And the Doctor was plaguily down in the hips.” Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,

Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, Their empire in our hearts divide. Till she heard the Dean call,“ Will your Lavy, Give others riches, pow's, and station, ship wa «?"

[down" Tis all to me an usurpation. Her Ladyship answers, “ I'm just coining I have no title to aspire; Then turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. Although it was plain in her heart she was glad, In Pope I cannot read a line, Cried—“ Hussy! why sure the wench is gone But, with a sigh, I wish it mine: mad!

[brains ? When he can in one couplet fix How could all these chimeras get into your More sense than I can do in six, Come hither, and take this old gown for your It gives me such a jealous fit, pains.

[ears, I cry, “Pox take him and his wit!" But the Dean, if this secret should come to his I grieve to be outdone by Gay Will never have done with his jibes and his In my own humorous biting way. jeers :

[ye; Arbuthnot is no more my friend, For your life, not a word of the matter, I charge Who dares to irony pretend, Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy.” Which I was born to introduce,

Refind it first, and show'd its use.

St. John as well as Pulteney knows § 258. On the Death of Dr. Swift. Occa- That I had some repute for prose;

sioned ly reading the following Murim in And, till they drove me out of dute, Rochefoucault : Dans l'adversité de nos

Could inaul a minister of state. meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque And made me throw my pen aside;

If they have mortified my pride, chose qui ne nous deplait pas."

If with such talents heaven hath bless'd'em, “In the adversity of our best friends we always Have I not reason to detest 'em ? find something that doth not displease us.'

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send As Rochefoucault his maxims drew

Thy gifts, but never to my friend : From nature, I believe them true:

I tamely can endure the first;
They argue no corrupted mind

But this with envy makes me burst.
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest

Thus much may serve by way of proem ;

Proceed we therefore to our poem.' Is thought too base for human breast : “ In all distresses of our friends,

The time is not remote, when I We first consult our private ends ;

Must, by the course of nature, die! While nature, kindly bent to ease us, When, I foresee, my special friends Points out some circumstance to please us.” Will try to find their private ends : If this perhaps your patience move,

And, though 'tis hardly understood Let reason and experience prove.

Which way my death may do them good, We all behold with envious eyes

Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : Our equals rais'd above our size.

“ See how the Dean begins to break! Who would not at a crowded show

Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! Stand high himself, keep others low?

You plainly find it in his face. I love my friend as well as you;

That old vertigo in his head But why should he obstruct my view?

Will never leave him till he's dead. Then let me bave the higher post,

Besides, his memory decays : Suppose it but an inch at most.

He recollects not what he says: If in a battle you should find

He cannot call his friends to mind; One, whom you love of all mankind,

Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Had some heroic action done,


with stories o'er and o'er; A champion kill'd, or trophy won:

He told them fifty times before. Rather than thus be over-topt,

How does he fancy we can sit Would you not wish his laurels cropt? To hear this out-of-fashion wit? Dear honest Ned is in the gout,

But he takes up with yoụnger folks, Lies rack'd with pain, and you

without: Who for his wine will bear his jokes. How patiently you hear him groan !

Faith! he must make his stories shorter, How glad the case is not your own!

Or change his comrades once a quarter : What poet would not grieve to see

In half the time he talks them round, His brothers write as well as he;

There must another set be found. But, rather than they should excel,

“ For poetry he's past his prime: Would wish his rivals all in hell ?

He takes an hour to find a rhyme ;

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His fire is out, his wit decay'd,

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd; His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.

With elegies the town is cloy'd:
I'd have him throw away his pen;

Some paragraph in every paper,
But there's no talking to some men !" To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.
And then their tenderness appears

The Doctors, tender of their fame,
By adding largely to my years:

Wisely on me lay all the blame.
He's older than he would be reckond, “ We must confess his case was nice,
And well remembers Charles the Second. But he would never take advice.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine ;

Had he been rul'd, for aught appears,
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

He might have liv'd these twenty years ; His stomach too begins to fail:

For when we open'd him, we found Last year we thought him strong and hale; That all his vital parts were sound.” But now he's quite another thing:

From Dublin soon to London spread, I wish he may hold out till spring!"

'Tis told at court, “ The Dean is dead." They hng themselves, and reason thus: And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, “ It is not yet so bad with us!"

Runs laughing up to tell the Queen: In such a case they talk in tropes,

The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, And by their fears express their hopes: Cries, “ Is he gone? 'tis time he should. Some great misfortune to portend,

He's dead, you say? then let him rot: No enemy can match a friend;

I'm glad the medalsf were forgot. With all the kindness they profess,

I promis'd him, I own; but when?
The merit of a lucky guess

I only was the Princess then :
(When daily how-d'ye's come of course, But now, as consort of the King,
And servants answer, “Worse and worse !") You know, 'tis quite another thing."
Would please them better, than to tell

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's leree,
That, “ God be prais’d, the Dean is well.” Tell-, with a sneer, the tidings heary:
Then he who prophesied the best,

“ Why, if he died without his shoes," Approves his foresight to the rest :

Cries Bob, “I'm sorry for the news. “'You know I always fear'd the worst, O were the wretch but living still, And often told you so at first.”.

And in his place my good friend Will! He'd rather choose that I should die,

Or had a mirre on his head, Than his predictions prove a lie.

Provided Bolingbroke were dead!". Not one foretels I should recover;

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains : But all agree to give me over.

“ Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains !" Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain And then, to make them pass the glibber, Just in the parts where I complain ;

“ Revis'd by Tibbald, Moore, and Cibber." How many a message would he send,

He'll treat me as he does my betters,
With hearty pray’rs that I should mend ! Publish my will, my life, my letters,
Inquire what regimen I kept,

Revive the libels born to die,
What gave me ease, and how I slept ; Which Pope must bear as well as I.
And more lament when I was dead,

Hege shift the scene, to represent
Than all the sniv'lers round my bed.

How those I lov'd my death lament. My good companions, never fear;

Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay For though you may mistake a year,

A week, and Arbuthnot a day : Though your prognostics run too fast, St. John himself will scarce forbear They must be verified at last.

To bite his pen and drop a tear. Behold the fatal day arrive!

The rest will give a shrug, and cry, “ How is the Dean?"-" He's just alive.” “I'm sorry—but we all must die!" Now the departing-pray'r is read;

Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, “ He hardly breathes--the Dean is dead!" All fortitude of mind supplies : Before the passing-bell begun,

For how can stony bowels melt
The news through half the town is run ; In those who never pity felt?
“ () may we all for death prepare !

When we are lash'd they kiss the rod,
What has he left? and who's his heir ? Resigning to the will of God.
I know no more than what the news is; The fools, my juniors by a year,
"Tis all bequeath'd to public uses.

Are tortur’d with suspense and fear;
To public uses! there's a whim ;

Who wisely thought my age a screen, What had the public done for him?

When death approach'd, to stand between : Mere envy, avarice, and pride!

The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling: He gave it all-but first he died.

They mourn for me without dissembling. And had the Dean, in all the nation,

My female friends, whose tender hearts No worthy friend, no poor relation ?

Have better learn d to act their parts, So ready to do strangers good,

Receive the news in doleful damps: Forgetting his own Hesh and blood !" “ The Dean is dead : (pray what is trumps ?)

* Mrs. Howard, at one time a favourite with the Dean. + Which the Dean in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the Princess

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Then Lord have mercy on his soul!

That all his miracles were cheats, (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole)

Perform'd as jugglers do their feats : Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: The church had never such a writer ; (I wish I knew what king to call.)

A shame he hath not got a mitre !" Madam, your husband will attend

Suppose me dead; and then suppose The funeral of so good a friend?"

A club assembled at the Rose ; “ No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;

Where, from discourse of this and that, And he's engag’d to-morrow night:

I grow the subject of their chat: My Lady Club will take it ill

And while they toss my name about, If he should fail at her quadrille.

With favor some, and some without,
He lov'd the Dean-(I lead a heart)

One, quite indifferent in the cause,
But dearest friends, they say, must part. My character impartial draws:
His time was come: he ran his race;

* The Dean, if we believe report, We hope he's in a better place."

.Was never ill receiv'd at court;
Why do we grieve that friends should die? Although, ironically grave,
No loss more easy to supply:

He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave;
One year is pasta different scene!

To steal a hint was never known, No farther mention of the Dean;

But what he writ was all his own." Who now, alas! no more is miss'd

“ Sir, I have heard another story: Than if he never did exist.

He was a most confounded Tory; Where's now the favourite of Apollo? And grew, or he is much belied, Departed—and his works must follow; Extremely dull before he died.” Must undergo the common fate;

“ Can we the Drapier then forget ? His kind of wit is out of date.

Is not our nation in his debt?
Some country squire to Lintot goes, 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters !"
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose.

“ He should have left them for his betters;
Says Lintot, “ I have heard the naine; We had, a hundred abler men,
He died a year ago?"-" The same.” Nor need depend upon his pen.
He searches all the shop in vain :

Say what you will about his reading, “ Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane: You never can defend his breeding; I sent their with a load of books,

Who, in his satires running riot, Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's.

Could never leave the world in quiet; To fancy they could live a year!

Attacking, when he took the whim, I find you're but a stranger here.

Court, city, camp all one to him. The Dean was famous in his time,

But why should he, except he slobber'd, And had a kind of knack at rhyme.

Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, His way of writing now is past :

Whose counsels aid the sovereign pow'r The town has got a better taste.

To save the nation every hour? I keep no antiquated stuff;

What scenes of evil he unravels But spick and span I have enough.

In satires, libels, lying travels : Pray do but give me leave to show 'em : Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem ; But eats into it, like a moth !" This ode you never yet have seen,

Perhaps I may allow the Dean By Stephen Duck upon the Queen.

Had too much satire in his vein,
Then here's a letter finely penn'd

And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Against the Craftsman and his friend: Because no age could more deserve it.
It clearly shows that
all reflection

Yet malice never was his aim;
On ministers is disaffection.

He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,

No individual could resent, And Mr. Henley's last oration;

Where thousands equally were meant : The hawkers have not got them yet:

His satire points at no defect Your honor please to buy a set? [tion; But what all mortals may correct;

“ Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edi- For he abhorr’d the senseless tribe 'Tis read by every politician:

Who call it humor when they jibe. The country-members, when in town, He spar'd a hump or crooked nose, To all their boroughs send them down: Whose owners set not up for beaux : You never met a thing so smart;

True genuine dulness mov'd his pity, The courtiers have them all by heart.

Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those maids of honor who can read

Those who their ignorance confess'd
Are taught to use then for their creed; He ne'er offended with a jest;
The reverend author's good intention But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
Hath been rewarded with a pension": A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.
He doth an honor to his gown,

Vice, if it e'er can be abasb’d,
By bravely running priestcraft down :

Must be or ridicold or lash'd.
He shows, as sure as God's in Glo'ster, If you resent it, who's to blame?
That Moses was a grand impostor ;

Hé neither knows you, nor your naine.
* Wolston is here confounded with Wollaston.

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Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,

Nor made a sacrifice of those Because its owner is a duke?

Who still were true, to please his foes. His friendships, still to few confin'd,

He labor’d inany a fruitless hour Were always of the middling kind;

To reconcile his friends in pow'r; No fools of rank or mongrel breed,

Saw mischief by a faction brewing, Who fain would pass for lords indeed : While they pursued each other's ruin! Where titles give no right or pow's,

But, finding vain was all his care, And peerage is a wither'd fow'r,

He left the court in mere despair. He would have deem'd it a disgrace

And, O! how short are human schemes! If such a wretch had known his face.

Here ended all our golden dreains. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, What St. John's skill in state-affairs, He vented oft his wrath in vain.

What Ormond’s valour, Oxford's cares, squires to market brought,

To save their sinking country lent,
Who sell their souls and - for nought; Was all destroy'd by one event.
go joyful back,

Too soon that precious life was ended,
To rob the church, their tenants rack, On which alone our weal depended :
Go snack with
- justices,

When up a changerous faction stans,
And keep the peace to pick up fees;

With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; In every job to have a share,

By solemn league and cov'nant bound, A gaol or turnpike to repair ;

To ruin, slaughter, and confound; And turn to public roads

To turn religion to a fable, Commodious to their own abodes.

And make the government a Babel; “ He never thought an honor done him Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, Because a peer was proud to own him; Corrupt the senate, rob the crown ; Would rather slip aside, and choose

To sacrifice Old England's glory,
To talk with wits in dirty shoes ;

And make her infamous in story.
And scorn the tools with stars and garters, When such a tempest shook the land,
So often seen caressing Chartres.

How could unguarded Virtue stand?
He never courted men in station ;

With horror, grief, despair, the Dean No persons held in admiration ;

Beheld the dire destructive scene: Of no man's greatness was afraid,

His friends in exile, or the Tower, Because he sought for ro man's aid.

Himself within the frown of power ; Though trusted long in great affairs,

Pursued by base envenom'd pens, He gave himself no haughty airs ;

Far to the land of s- and feus; Without regarding private ends,

A servile race in folly nurst, Spent all his credit for his friends ;

Who truckle most when treated worst. And only chose the wise and good,

By innocence and resolution, No flatterers, no allies in blood,

He bore continual persecution; But succour'd virtue in distress,

While numbers to preferment rose,
And seldom fail'd of good success;

Whose merit was, io be his foes :
As numbers in their heart must own, When e'en his own particular friends,
Who, but for him, had been unknown. Intent upon their private ends,
He kept with princes due decorum,

Like renegadoes now he feels
Yet never stood in awe before 'ein.

Against him lifting up their heels. He follow'd David's lesson just;

The Dean did, by his pen, defeat In princes never put his trust;

An infamous, destructive cheat; And, would you make him truly sour, Taught fools their interest how to know, Provoke him with a slave in powr.

And gave them arins to ward the blow. The if you

Envy hath own'd it was his doing, With what impatience he declaim'd ! To save that hapless land from ruin; Fair LIBERTY was all his cry,

While they who at the steerage stood, For her he stood prepar’d to die;

And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. For her he boldly stood alone;

To save ihem from their evil fate, For her he ost expos'd his own.

In him was held a crime of state. Two kingdoms, just as faction led,

A wicked monster on the bench, Had set a price upon his head :

Whose fury blood could never quench; But not a traitor could be found,

As vile and profligate a villain To sell him for six hundred pound.

As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; “ Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen, Who long all justice had discarded, He might have rose like other men:

Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded; But pow'r was never in his thought,

Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, And wealth he valued not a groat :

And make hiin of his zeal

repent. Ingratitude he often found,

But heaven his innocence defends, And pitied those who meant the wound: The grateful people stand his friends : But kept the tenor of his mind,

Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, To merit well of human-kind;

Nor topics brought to please the crowil,

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