The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1

     [Footnote 1: Collated with the copy transcribed by
     Stella.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 2: Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of
     ephemerides.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in
     August, 1646, died in December, 1719. For a full account of him, see
     "Dictionary of National Biography."—W. E. B.]

     AETATIS SUAE fifty-two,
     A reverend Dean began to woo[2]
     A handsome, young, imperious girl,
     Nearly related to an earl.[3]
     Her parents and her friends consent;
     The couple to the temple went:
     They first invite the Cyprian queen;
     'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;"
     But Cupid in disdain could scarce
     Forbear to bid them kiss his ——
     The Graces next, and all the Muses,
     Were bid in form, but sent excuses.
     Juno attended at the porch,
     With farthing candle for a torch;
     While mistress Iris held her train,
     The faded bow bedropt with rain.
     Then Hebe came, and took her place,
     But show'd no more than half her face.
       Whate'er these dire forebodings meant,
     In joy the marriage-day was spent;
     The marriage-day, you take me right,
     I promise nothing for the night.
     The bridegroom, drest to make a figure,
     Assumes an artificial vigour;
     A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace
     His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face;
     Like the faint red upon a pippin,
     Half wither'd by a winter's keeping.
       And thus set out this happy pair,
     The swain is rich, the nymph is fair;
     But, what I gladly would forget,
     The swain is old, the nymph coquette.
     Both from the goal together start;
     Scarce run a step before they part;
     No common ligament that binds
     The various textures of their minds;
     Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears,
     Less corresponding than their years.
     The Dean desires his coffee soon,
     She rises to her tea at noon.
     While the Dean goes out to cheapen books,
     She at the glass consults her looks;
     While Betty's buzzing at her ear,
     Lord, what a dress these parsons wear!
     So odd a choice how could she make!
     Wish'd him a colonel for her sake.
     Then, on her finger ends she counts,
     Exact, to what his[4] age amounts.
     The Dean, she heard her uncle say,
     Is sixty, if he be a day;
     His ruddy cheeks are no disguise;
     You see the crow's feet round his eyes.
       At one she rambles to the shops,
     To cheapen tea, and talk with fops;
     Or calls a council of her maids,
     And tradesmen, to compare brocades.
     Her weighty morning business o'er,
     Sits down to dinner just at four;
     Minds nothing that is done or said,
     Her evening work so fills her head.
     The Dean, who used to dine at one,
     Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone;
     In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold,
     Looks like the chaplain of the household;
     Beholds her, from the chaplain's place,
     In French brocades, and Flanders lace;
     He wonders what employs her brain,
     But never asks, or asks in vain;
     His mind is full of other cares,
     And, in the sneaking parson's airs,
     Computes, that half a parish dues
     Will hardly find his wife in shoes.
       Canst thou imagine, dull divine,
     'Twill gain her love, to make her fine?
     Hath she no other wants beside?
     You feed her lust as well as pride,
     Enticing coxcombs to adore,
     And teach her to despise thee more.
       If in her coach she'll condescend
     To place him at the hinder end,
     Her hoop is hoist above his nose,
     His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5]
     She drops him at the church, to pray,
     While she drives on to see the play.
     He like an orderly divine,
     Comes home a quarter after nine,
     And meets her hasting to the ball:
     Her chairmen push him from the wall.
     The Dean gets in and walks up stairs,
     And calls the family to prayers;
     Then goes alone to take his rest
     In bed, where he can spare her best.
     At five the footmen make a din,
     Her ladyship is just come in;
     The masquerade began at two,
     She stole away with much ado;
     And shall be chid this afternoon,
     For leaving company so soon:
     She'll say, and she may truly say't,
     She can't abide to stay out late.
       But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married,
     Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried:
     The cause, alas! is quickly guest;
     The town has whisper'd round the jest.
     Think on some remedy in time,
     The Dean you see, is past his prime,
     Already dwindled to a lath:
     No other way but try the Bath.
       For Venus, rising from the ocean,
     Infused a strong prolific potion,
     That mix'd with Acheloüs spring,
     The horned flood, as poets sing,
     Who, with an English beauty smitten,
     Ran under ground from Greece to Britain;
     The genial virtue with him brought,
     And gave the nymph a plenteous draught;
     Then fled, and left his horn behind,
     For husbands past their youth to find;
     The nymph, who still with passion burn'd,
     Was to a boiling fountain turn'd,
     Where childless wives crowd every morn,
     To drink in Acheloüs horn;[6]
     Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs
     Where fruitful matter chiefly swims.
     And here the father often gains
     That title by another's pains.
       Hither, though much against his grain
     The Dean has carried Lady Jane.
     He, for a while, would not consent,
     But vow'd his money all was spent:
     Was ever such a clownish reason!
     And must my lady slip her season?
     The doctor, with a double fee,
     Was bribed to make the Dean agree.
       Here, all diversions of the place
     Are proper in my lady's case:
     With which she patiently complies,
     Merely because her friends advise;
     His money and her time employs
     In music, raffling-rooms, and toys;
     Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir,
     Since others oft have found one there;
     Where if the Dean by chance appears,
     It shames his cassock and his years.
     He keeps his distance in the gallery,
     Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery;
     For 'twould his character expose,
     To bathe among the belles and beaux.
       So have I seen, within a pen,
     Young ducklings foster'd by a hen;
     But, when let out, they run and muddle,
     As instinct leads them, in a puddle;
     The sober hen, not born to swim,
     With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8]
       The Dean, with all his best endeavour,
     Gets not an heir, but gets a fever.
     A victim to the last essays
     Of vigour in declining days,
     He dies, and leaves his mourning mate
     (What could he less?)[9] his whole estate.
       The widow goes through all her forms:
     New lovers now will come in swarms.
     O, may I see her soon dispensing
     Her favours to some broken ensign!
     Him let her marry for his face,
     And only coat of tarnish'd lace;
     To turn her naked out of doors,
     And spend her jointure on his whores;
     But, for a parting present, leave her
     A rooted pox to last for ever!

     [Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated
     January, 1721-2.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 2:
       "A rich divine began to woo,"
       "A grave divine resolved to woo,"
     are Swift's successive changes of this line.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but
     he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."—Forster.]

     [Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin:
       "If by a more than usual grace
       She lends him in her chariot place,
       Her hoop is hoist above his nose
       For fear his gown should soil her clothes."—Forster.]

     [Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib.
     ix.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was
     erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to
     James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of
     Modena, having conceived after bathing there.—Collinson's "History of
     Somersetshire."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first
     draft.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.—Forster.]

     The farmer's goose, who in the stubble
     Has fed without restraint or trouble,
     Grown fat with corn and sitting still,
     Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill;
     And hardly waddles forth to cool
     Her belly in the neighbouring pool!
     Nor loudly cackles at the door;
     For cackling shows the goose is poor.
       But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
     And round the barren common strays,
     Hard exercise, and harder fare,
     Soon make my dame grow lank and spare;
     Her body light, she tries her wings,
     And scorns the ground, and upward springs;
     While all the parish, as she flies,
     Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.
       Such is the poet fresh in pay,
     The third night's profits of his play;
     His morning draughts till noon can swill,
     Among his brethren of the quill:
     With good roast beef his belly full,
     Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
     Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
     What poet e'er could take his flight?
     Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat,
     What poet e'er could sing a note?
     Nor Pegasus could bear the load
     Along the high celestial road;
     The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth,
     To raise the lumber from the earth.
       But view him in another scene,
     When all his drink is Hippocrene,
     His money spent, his patrons fail,
     His credit out for cheese and ale;
     His two-years coat so smooth and bare,
     Through every thread it lets in air;
     With hungry meals his body pined,
     His guts and belly full of wind;
     And, like a jockey for a race,
     His flesh brought down to flying case:
     Now his exalted spirit loathes
     Encumbrances of food and clothes;
     And up he rises like a vapour,
     Supported high on wings of paper.
     He singing flies, and flying sings,
     While from below all Grub-Street rings.

     Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto,
     Arma virûm, tabulaeque, et Troïa gaza per undas.
     VIRG.

     For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt,
     projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and
     ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst,
     see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays,"
     Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and
     arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his
     grandfather.—W. E. B.

     Ye wise philosophers, explain
       What magic makes our money rise,
     When dropt into the Southern main;
       Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes?

     Put in your money fairly told;
       Presto! be gone—'Tis here again:
     Ladies and gentlemen, behold,
       Here's every piece as big as ten.

     Thus in a basin drop a shilling,
       Then fill the vessel to the brim,
     You shall observe, as you are filling,
       The pond'rous metal seems to swim:

     It rises both in bulk and height,
       Behold it swelling like a sop;
     The liquid medium cheats your sight:
       Behold it mounted to the top!

     In stock three hundred thousand pounds,
       I have in view a lord's estate;
     My manors all contiguous round!
       A coach-and-six, and served in plate!

     Thus the deluded bankrupt raves,
       Puts all upon a desperate bet;
     Then plunges in the Southern waves,
       Dipt over head and ears—in debt.

     So, by a calenture misled,
       The mariner with rapture sees,
     On the smooth ocean's azure bed,
       Enamell'd fields and verdant trees:

     With eager haste he longs to rove
       In that fantastic scene, and thinks
     It must be some enchanted grove;
       And in he leaps, and down he sinks.

     Five hundred chariots just bespoke,
       Are sunk in these devouring waves,
     The horses drown'd, the harness broke,
       And here the owners find their graves.

     Like Pharaoh, by directors led,
       They with their spoils went safe before;
     His chariots, tumbling out the dead,
       Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore.

     Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes,
       The young adventurer o'er the deep
     An eagle's flight and state assumes,
       And scorns the middle way to keep.

     On paper wings he takes his flight,
       With wax the father bound them fast;
     The wax is melted by the height,
       And down the towering boy is cast.

     A moralist might here explain
       The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1]
     Describe his fall into the main,
       And from a fable form a truth.

     His wings are his paternal rent,
       He melts the wax at every flame;
     His credit sunk, his money spent,
       In Southern Seas he leaves his name.

     Inform us, you that best can tell,
       Why in that dangerous gulf profound,
     Where hundreds and where thousands fell,
       Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd?

     So have I seen from Severn's brink
       A flock of geese jump down together;
     Swim where the bird of Jove would sink,
       And, swimming, never wet a feather.

     But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact,
       Directors better knew their tools;
     We see the nation's credit crack'd,
       Each knave has made a thousand fools.

     One fool may from another win,
       And then get off with money stored;
     But, if a sharper once comes in,
       He throws it all, and sweeps the board.

     As fishes on each other prey,
       The great ones swallowing up the small,
     So fares it in the Southern Sea;
       The whale directors eat up all.

     When stock is high, they come between,
       Making by second-hand their offers;
     Then cunningly retire unseen,
       With each a million in his coffers.

     So, when upon a moonshine night,
       An ass was drinking at a stream,
     A cloud arose, and stopt the light,
       By intercepting every beam:

     The day of judgment will be soon,
       Cries out a sage among the crowd;
     An ass has swallow'd up the moon!
       The moon lay safe behind the cloud.

     Each poor subscriber to the sea
       Sinks down at once, and there he lies;
     Directors fall as well as they,
       Their fall is but a trick to rise.

     So fishes, rising from the main,
       Can soar with moisten'd wings on high;
     The moisture dried, they sink again,
       And dip their fins again to fly.

     Undone at play, the female troops
       Come here their losses to retrieve;
     Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops,
       Like Lapland witches in a sieve.

     Thus Venus to the sea descends,
       As poets feign; but where's the moral?
     It shows the Queen of Love intends
       To search the deep for pearl and coral.

     The sea is richer than the land,
       I heard it from my grannam's mouth,
     Which now I clearly understand;
       For by the sea she meant the South.

     Thus, by directors we are told,
       "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes;
     Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold,
       Look round, and see how thick it lies:

     "We, gentlemen, are your assisters,
       We'll come, and hold you by the chin."—
     Alas! all is not gold that glisters,
       Ten thousand sink by leaping in.

     O! would those patriots be so kind,
       Here in the deep to wash their hands,
     Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find
       The sea indeed had golden sands.

     A shilling in the bath you fling,
       The silver takes a nobler hue,
     By magic virtue in the spring,
       And seems a guinea to your view.

     But, as a guinea will not pass
       At market for a farthing more,
     Shown through a multiplying glass,
       Than what it always did before:

     So cast it in the Southern seas,
       Or view it through a jobber's bill;
     Put on what spectacles you please,
       Your guinea's but a guinea still.

     One night a fool into a brook
       Thus from a hillock looking down,
     The golden stars for guineas took,
       And silver Cynthia for a crown.

     The point he could no longer doubt;
       He ran, he leapt into the flood;
     There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out,
       All cover'd o'er with slime and mud.

     "Upon the water cast thy bread,
       And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3]
     But gold, upon this ocean spread,
       Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it:

     There is a gulf, where thousands fell,
       Here all the bold adventurers came,
     A narrow sound, though deep as Hell—
       'Change Alley is the dreadful name.

     Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows,
       Yet he that on the surface lies,
     Without a pilot seldom knows
       The time it falls, or when 'twill rise.

     Subscribers here by thousands float,
       And jostle one another down;
     Each paddling in his leaky boat,
       And here they fish for gold, and drown.

     "Now buried in the depth below,
       Now mounted up to Heaven again,
     They reel and stagger to and fro,
       At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4]

     Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs,
       A savage race, by shipwrecks fed,
     Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs,
       And strip the bodies of the dead.

     But these, you say, are factious lies,
       From some malicious Tory's brain;
     For, where directors get a prize,
       The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain.

     Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied,
       Some cully often wins a bet,
     By venturing on the cheating side,
       Though not into the secret let.

     While some build castles in the air,
       Directors build them in the seas;
     Subscribers plainly see them there,
       For fools will see as wise men please.

     Thus oft by mariners are shown
       (Unless the men of Kent are liars)
     Earl Godwin's castles overflown,
       And palace roofs, and steeple spires.

     Mark where the sly directors creep,
       Nor to the shore approach too nigh!
     The monsters nestle in the deep,
       To seize you in your passing by.

     Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise,
       Who, taught by instinct how to shun
     The crocodile, that lurking lies,
       Run as they drink, and drink and run.

     Antæus could, by magic charms,
       Recover strength whene'er he fell;
     Alcides held him in his arms,
       And sent him up in air to Hell.

     Directors, thrown into the sea,
       Recover strength and vigour there;
     But may be tamed another way,
       Suspended for a while in air.

     Directors! for 'tis you I warn,
       By long experience we have found
     What planet ruled when you were born;
       We see you never can be drown'd.

     Beware, nor overbulky grow,
       Nor come within your cully's reach;
     For, if the sea should sink so low
       To leave you dry upon the beach,

     You'll owe your ruin to your bulk:
       Your foes already waiting stand,
     To tear you like a founder'd hulk,
       While you lie helpless on the sand.

     Thus, when a whale has lost the tide,
       The coasters crowd to seize the spoil:
     The monster into parts divide,
       And strip the bones, and melt the oil.

     Oh! may some western tempest sweep
       These locusts whom our fruits have fed,
     That plague, directors, to the deep,
       Driven from the South Sea to the Red!

     May he, whom Nature's laws obey,
       Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud,
     "Quiet the raging of the sea,
       And still the madness of the crowd!"

     But never shall our isle have rest,
       Till those devouring swine run down,
     (The devils leaving the possest)
       And headlong in the waters drown.

     The nation then too late will find,
       Computing all their cost and trouble,
     Directors' promises but wind,
       South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble.

     [Footnote 1: Phaëthon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas. Ovid, "Metam.," lib.
     xi.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Ecclesiastes, xi, I.]

     [Footnote 4: Psalm cvii, 26, 27.]

     [Footnote 5: Garraway's auction room and coffee-house, closed in
     1866.—W. E. B.]

     ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis,
     Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago:
     Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et altè
     Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps
     Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una.
     Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram;
     Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet.

     The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not
     allowing you to act, unless you would pay him £300 per annum; upon
     which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers.
       The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company
     of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes,
     etc. to act in.

     Our set of strollers, wandering up and down,
     Hearing the house was empty, came to town;
     And, with a license from our good lord mayor,
     Went to one Griffith, formerly a player:
     Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe,
     To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe,
     To let our company supply their places,
     And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces.
     Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me;
     I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he.
     When we perform, look sharp among our crew,
     There's not a creature here you ever knew.
     The former folks were servants to the king;
     We, humble strollers, always on the wing.
     Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole,
     Rather than starve, a better man would stroll.
       Stay! let me see—Three hundred pounds a-year,
     For leave to act in town!—'Tis plaguy dear.
     Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark,
     For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk.
     Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix,
     The public should bestow the actors six;
     A score of guineas given underhand,
     For a good word or so, we understand.
     To help an honest lad that's out of place,
     May cost a crown or so; a common case:
     And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought
     To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat.
     But, in the chronicles of former ages,
     Who ever heard of servants paying wages?
       I pity Elrington with all my heart;
     Would he were here this night to act my part!
     I told him what it was to be a stroller;
     How free we acted, and had no comptroller:
     In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor,
     First get a license, then produce our ware;
     We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum:
     Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come;
     And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on,
     Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone.
     I told him in the smoothest way I could,
     All this, and more, yet it would do no good.
     But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks,
     He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2]
     To whom our country has been always dear,
     Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here,
     Owns all your favours, here intends to stay,
     And, as a stroller, act in every play:
     And the whole crew this resolution takes,
     To live and die all strollers, for your sakes;
     Not frighted with an ignominious name,
     For your displeasure is their only shame.
       A pox on Elrington's majestic tone!
     Now to a word of business in our own.
       Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last:
     Then without fail we pack up for Belfast.
     Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss,
     The next we act shall be as good as this.

     [Footnote 1: Thomas Elrington, born in 1688, an English actor of great
     reputation at Drury Lane from 1709 till 1712, when he was engaged by
     Joseph Ashbury, manager of the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin. After the
     death of Ashbury, whose daughter he had married, he succeeded to the
     management of the theatre, and enjoyed high social and artistic
     consideration. He died in July, 1732.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Two celebrated actors: Betterton in tragedy, and Wilks in
     comedy. See "The Tatler," Nos. 71, 157, 167, 182, and notes, edit. 1786;
     Colley Cibber's "Apology "; and "Dictionary of National
     Biography."—W. E. B.]

     HOLD! hold, my good friends; for one moment, pray stop ye,
     I return ye my thanks, in the name of poor Hoppy.
     He's not the first person who never did write,
     And yet has been fed by a benefit-night.
     The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye,
     In our famed elder house, of the Hundreds of Drury.
     But then you must know, those players still act on
     Some very good reasons, for such benefaction.
       A deceased poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail;
     From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail.
     Your emerited actors, and actresses too,
     For what they have done (though no more they can do)
     And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G——,
     And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea;
     A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute, and a spright,
     Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-night.
       Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we have found
     That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pound,
     Paid to him clear money once every year:
     And however some think it a little too dear,
     Yet, for reasons of state, this sum we'll allow,
     Though we pay the good man with the sweat of our brow.
       First, because by the King to us he was sent,
     To guide the whole session of this parliament.
     To preside in our councils, both public and private,
     And so learn, by the by, what both houses do drive at.
     When bold B—— roars, and meek M—— raves,
     When Ash prates by wholesale, or Be——h by halves,
     When Whigs become Whims, or join with the Tories;
     And to himself constant when a member no more is,
     But changes his sides, and votes and unvotes;
     As S——t is dull, and with S——d, who dotes;
     Then up must get Hoppy, and with voice very low,
     And with eloquent bow, the house he must show,
     That that worthy member who spoke last must give
     The freedom to him, humbly most, to conceive,
     That his sentiment on this affair isn't right;
     That he mightily wonders which way he came by't:
     That, for his part, God knows, he does such things disown;
     And so, having convinced him, he most humbly sits down.
       For these, and more reasons, which perhaps you may hear,
     Pounds hundred this night, and one hundred this year,
     And so on we are forced, though we sweat out our blood,
     To make these walls pay for poor Hoppy's good;
     To supply with rare diet his pot and his spit;
     And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit.
     To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat,
     And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat:
     All which he deserves; for although all the day
     He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay;
     And if he rise early to watch for the state,
     To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late.
     Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say
     Hop has got all the money for our acting this play,
     Which makes us poor actors look je ne sçai quoy.

     [Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the
     avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the
     company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to
     have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But
     it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous
     guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's
     accuracy of numbers.—Scott. Perhaps so, but the note to this
     piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the Captain, one evening, at the
     end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at
     Gallstown"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous
     guests." This is very different from "composed."—W. E. B.]

     Great cry, and little wool—is now become
     The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom;
     No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp;
     Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp.
     Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry;
     Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die!
     Forsake your silks for stuff's; nor think it strange
     To shift your clothes, since you delight in change.
     One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell—
     The men will like you every bit as well.
       See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff,
     And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough;
     My wife admires me more, and swears she never,
     In any dress, beheld me look so clever.
     And if a man be better in such ware,
     What great advantage must it give the fair!
     Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds;
     Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds;
     Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find
     Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined—
     And what are they but maggots in the mind?
     For which I think it reason to conclude,
     That clothes may change our temper like our food.
     Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes
     Too much about the party-colour'd dyes;
     Although the lustre is from you begun,
     We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun.
       How sweet and innocent's the country maid,
     With small expense in native wool array'd;
     Who copies from the fields her homely green,
     While by her shepherd with delight she's seen!
     Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool
     How much more lovely, and how beautiful,
     Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove!
     While wool would help to warm us into love!
     Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece,
     We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece!

     [Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the
     Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish
     Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.—W. E. B.]

     Who dares affirm this is no pious age,
     When charity begins to tread the stage?
     When actors, who at best are hardly savers,
     Will give a night of benefit to weavers?
     Stay—let me see, how finely will it sound!
     Imprimis, From his grace[1] a hundred pound.
     Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors;
     And then comes in the item of the actors.
     Item, The actors freely give a day—
     The poet had no more who made the play.
       But whence this wondrous charity in players?
     They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers:
     Under the rose, since here are none but friends,
     (To own the truth) we have some private ends.
     Since waiting-women, like exacting jades,
     Hold up the prices of their old brocades;
     We'll dress in manufactures made at home;
     Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2]
     We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt's haughty queen
     And Antony shall court her in ratteen.
     In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad,
     And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid,
     In drugget drest, of thirteen pence a-yard,
     See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard;
     And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage,
     With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage.
     In short, our kings and princesses within
     Are all resolved this project to begin;
     And you, our subjects, when you here resort,
     Must imitate the fashion of the court.
       O! could I see this audience clad in stuff,
     Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough:
     But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away,
     And scarce a crown is left to see the play.
     Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs
     Between the weavers and us playhouse kings;
     But wit and weaving had the same beginning;
     Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning:
     And, next, observe how this alliance fits,
     For weavers now are just as poor as wits:
     Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage,
     For sorry stuff can get a crown a page;
     But weavers will be kinder to the players,
     And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs.
     And to your knowledge, there is often less in
     The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing.

     [Footnote 1: Archbishop King.]

     [Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.,"
     lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish
     Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.—W. E. B.]

     Femineo generi tribuantur.

     The Muses, whom the richest silks array,
     Refuse to fling their shining gowns away;
     The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades,
     And gives each colour to the pictured maids;
     Far above mortal dress the sisters shine,
     Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine.
     And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff
     And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff?
       The player in mimic piety may storm,
     Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm:
     The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,
     May curse the belles and chintzes of the age:
     Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share,
     And spin her thread of life in service of the fair.
       The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast,
     Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last;
     Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows,
     Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes:
     Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence,
     And be the emblem of your innocence.
       Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver,
     Penn'd the low prologue to return a favour:
     Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue,
     Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue.
     Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays,
     For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these?
     Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade
     Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid.
     Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town,
     Thus act subservient to a poplin gown?
     Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough
     The under petticoat be made of stuff.
     Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May,
     When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay!
     And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they?
       In what weak colours would the plaid appear,
     Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair!
     The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with stuff;
     Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough?
     Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed,
     Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread,
     Where rustling curtains call the curious eye,
     And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky!
     Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full:
     And all this for the benefit of wool!
       "But where," say they, "shall we bestow these weavers,
     That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?"
     The silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate,
     Demand their care, to make their webs complete:
     These may they tend, their promises receive;
     We cannot pay too much for what they give!

     'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient,
     You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't;
     'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't,
     You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't;
     'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't,
     And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't;
     'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't,
     And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't;
     'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun,
     Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun;
     'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it,
     And you're forced every year in some part to renew it;
     'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little,
     'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle,
     'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold,
     It is part of the new, and part of the old;
     It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse—
     wish then, dear George, it were better or worse.

     [Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George
     Rochfort, Esq.—F.]