The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2

     [Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley.]

     [Footnote 2: Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog. See next
     page.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Mercury.—Virg., "Aeneid," iv.]

     Pray steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's,
     Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.

     This day, whate'er the Fates decree,
     Shall still be kept with joy by me:
     This day then let us not be told,
     That you are sick, and I grown old;
     Nor think on our approaching ills,
     And talk of spectacles and pills;
     To-morrow will be time enough
     To hear such mortifying stuff.
     Yet, since from reason may be brought
     A better and more pleasing thought,
     Which can, in spite of all decays,
     Support a few remaining days;
     From not the gravest of divines
     Accept for once some serious lines.
       Although we now can form no more
     Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
     Yet you, while time is running fast,
     Can look with joy on what is past.
       Were future happiness and pain
     A mere contrivance of the brain;
     As atheists argue, to entice
     And fit their proselytes for vice;
     (The only comfort they propose,
     To have companions in their woes;)
     Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hard
     That virtue, styled its own reward,
     And by all sages understood
     To be the chief of human good,
     Should acting die; nor leave behind
     Some lasting pleasure in the mind,
     Which, by remembrance, will assuage
     Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
     And strongly shoot a radiant dart
     To shine through life's declining part.
       Say, Stella, feel you no content,
     Reflecting on a life well spent?
     Your skilful hand employ'd to save
     Despairing wretches from the grave;
     And then supporting with your store
     Those whom you dragg'd from death before?
     So Providence on mortals waits,
     Preserving what it first creates.
     Your generous boldness to defend
     An innocent and absent friend;
     That courage which can make you just
     To merit humbled in the dust;
     The detestation you express
     For vice in all its glittering dress;
     That patience under torturing pain,
     Where stubborn stoics would complain:
     Must these like empty shadows pass,
     Or forms reflected from a glass?
     Or mere chimeras in the mind,
     That fly, and leave no marks behind?
     Does not the body thrive and grow
     By food of twenty years ago?
     And, had it not been still supplied,
     It must a thousand times have died.
     Then who with reason can maintain
     That no effects of food remain?
     And is not virtue in mankind
     The nutriment that feeds the mind;
     Upheld by each good action past,
     And still continued by the last?
     Then, who with reason can pretend
     That all effects of virtue end?
       Believe me, Stella, when you show
     That true contempt for things below,
     Nor prize your life for other ends,
     Than merely to oblige your friends;
     Your former actions claim their part,
     And join to fortify your heart.
     For Virtue, in her daily race,
     Like Janus, bears a double face;
     Looks back with joy where she has gone
     And therefore goes with courage on:
     She at your sickly couch will wait,
     And guide you to a better state.
       O then, whatever Heaven intends,
     Take pity on your pitying friends!
     Nor let your ills affect your mind,
     To fancy they can be unkind.
     Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
     Who gladly would your suffering share;
     Or give my scrap of life to you,
     And think it far beneath your due;
     You, to whose care so oft I owe
     That I'm alive to tell you so.

     TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEAN. 1730

     Lord Orrery gives us the following curious anecdote respecting this
     poem:

     "I have just now cast my eye over a poem called 'Death and Daphne, which
     makes me recollect an odd incident, relating to that nymph. Swift, soon
     after our acquaintance, introduced me to her as to one of his female
     favourites. I had scarce been half an hour in her company, before she
     asked me if I had seen the Dean's poem upon 'Death and Daphne.' As I
     told her I had not, she immediately unlocked a cabinet, and, bringing out
     the manuscript, read it to me with a seeming satisfaction, of which, at
     that time, I doubted the sincerity. While she was reading, the Dean was
     perpetually correcting her for bad pronunciation, and for placing a wrong
     emphasis upon particular words. As soon as she had gone through the
     composition, she assured me, smilingly, that the portrait of Daphne was
     drawn for herself. I begged to be excused from believing it; and
     protested that I could not see one feature that had the least
     resemblance; but the Dean immediately burst into a fit of laughter. 'You
     fancy,' says he, 'that you are very polite, but you are much mistaken.
     That lady had rather be a Daphne drawn by me, than a Sacharissa by any
     other pencil.' She confirmed what he had said with great earnestness, so
     that I had no other method of retrieving my error, than by whispering in
     her ear, as I was conducting her down stairs to dinner, that indeed I
     found
       'Her hand as dry and cold as lead!'"
     —Remarks on the Life of Swift, Lond., 1752, p. 126.

     Death went upon a solemn day
     At Pluto's hall his court to pay;
     The phantom having humbly kiss'd
     His grisly monarch's sooty fist,
     Presented him the weekly bills
     Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills.
     Pluto, observing since the peace
     The burial article decrease,
     And vex'd to see affairs miscarry,
     Declared in council Death must marry;
     Vow'd he no longer could support
     Old bachelors about his court;
     The interest of his realm had need
     That Death should get a numerous breed;
     Young deathlings, who, by practice made
     Proficient in their father's trade,
     With colonies might stock around
     His large dominions under ground.
       A consult of coquettes below
     Was call'd, to rig him out a beau;
     From her own head Megaera[1] takes
     A periwig of twisted snakes:
     Which in the nicest fashion curl'd,
     (Like toupees[2] of this upper world)
     With flower of sulphur powder'd well,
     That graceful on his shoulders fell;
     An adder of the sable kind
     In line direct hung down behind:
     The owl, the raven, and the bat,
     Clubb'd for a feather to his hat:
     His coat, a usurer's velvet pall,
     Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpse and all.
     But, loath his person to expose
     Bare, like a carcass pick'd by crows,
     A lawyer, o'er his hands and face
     Stuck artfully a parchment case.
     No new flux'd rake show'd fairer skin;
     Nor Phyllis after lying in.
     With snuff was fill'd his ebon box,
     Of shin-bones rotted by the pox.
     Nine spirits of blaspheming fops,
     With aconite anoint his chops;
     And give him words of dreadful sounds,
     G—d d—n his blood! and b—d and w—ds!'
       Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train
     To take a house in Warwick-lane:[3]
     The faculty, his humble friends,
     A complimental message sends:
     Their president in scarlet gown
     Harangued, and welcomed him to town.
       But Death had business to dispatch;
     His mind was running on his match.
     And hearing much of Daphne's fame,
     His majesty of terrors came,
     Fine as a colonel of the guards,
     To visit where she sat at cards;
     She, as he came into the room,
     Thought him Adonis in his bloom.
     And now her heart with pleasure jumps,
     She scarce remembers what is trumps;
     For such a shape of skin and bone
     Was never seen except her own.
     Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout,
     Her pocket-glass drew slily out;
     And grew enamour'd with her phiz,
     As just the counterpart of his.
     She darted many a private glance,
     And freely made the first advance;
     Was of her beauty grown so vain,
     She doubted not to win the swain;
     Nothing she thought could sooner gain him,
     Than with her wit to entertain him.
     She ask'd about her friends below;
     This meagre fop, that batter'd beau;
     Whether some late departed toasts
     Had got gallants among the ghosts?
     If Chloe were a sharper still
     As great as ever at quadrille?
     (The ladies there must needs be rooks,
     For cards, we know, are Pluto's books.)
     If Florimel had found her love,
     For whom she hang'd herself above?
     How oft a-week was kept a ball
     By Proserpine at Pluto's hall?
     She fancied those Elysian shades
     The sweetest place for masquerades;
     How pleasant on the banks of Styx,
     To troll it in a coach and six!
       What pride a female heart inflames?
     How endless are ambition's aims:
     Cease, haughty nymph; the Fates decree
     Death must not be a spouse for thee;
     For, when by chance the meagre shade
     Upon thy hand his finger laid,
     Thy hand as dry and cold as lead,
     His matrimonial spirit fled;
     He felt about his heart a damp,
     That quite extinguished Cupid's lamp:
     Away the frighted spectre scuds,
     And leaves my lady in the suds.

     [Footnote 1: Megaera, one of three Furies, beautifully described by
     Virgil, "Aeneid," xii, 846.—. W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Periwigs with long tails.]

     [Footnote 3: Where the College of Physicians was situated at that time.
     See Cunningham's "Handbook of London."—W. E. B.]

     Daphne knows, with equal ease,
     How to vex, and how to please;
     But the folly of her sex
     Makes her sole delight to vex.
     Never woman more devised
     Surer ways to be despised;
     Paradoxes weakly wielding,
     Always conquer'd, never yielding.
     To dispute, her chief delight,
     Without one opinion right:
     Thick her arguments she lays on,
     And with cavils combats reason;
     Answers in decisive way,
     Never hears what you can say;
     Still her odd perverseness shows
     Chiefly where she nothing knows;
     And, where she is most familiar,
     Always peevisher and sillier;
     All her spirits in a flame
     When she knows she's most to blame.
       Send me hence ten thousand miles,
     From a face that always smiles:
     None could ever act that part,
     But a fury in her heart.
     Ye who hate such inconsistence,
     To be easy, keep your distance:
     Or in folly still befriend her,
     But have no concern to mend her;
     Lose not time to contradict her,
     Nor endeavour to convict her.
     Never take it in your thought,
     That she'll own, or cure a fault.
     Into contradiction warm her,
     Then, perhaps, you may reform her:
     Only take this rule along,
     Always to advise her wrong;
     And reprove her when she's right;
     She may then grow wise for spight.
       No—that scheme will ne'er succeed,
     She has better learnt her creed;
     She's too cunning and too skilful,
     When to yield, and when be wilful.
     Nature holds her forth two mirrors,
     One for truth, and one for errors:
     That looks hideous, fierce, and frightful;
     This is flattering and delightful:
     That she throws away as foul;
     Sits by this to dress her soul.
       Thus you have the case in view,
     Daphne, 'twixt the Dean and you:
     Heaven forbid he should despise thee,
     But he'll never more advise thee.

     WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724

     The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin
     edition: "About nine or ten years ago, (i.e. about 1724,) some
     ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves
     with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance;
     copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and
     in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same
     amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit,
     entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom
     the author hath a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the
     copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two
     or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are
     informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of
     compositions."

     FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
     But who thy father, no man knows:
     Nor can the skilful herald trace
     The founder of thy ancient race;
     Whether thy temper, full of fire,
     Discovers Vulcan for thy sire,
     The god who made Scamander boil,
     And round his margin singed the soil:
     (From whence, philosophers agree,
     An equal power descends to thee;)
     Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
     The high descent from whence you came,
     And, as a proof, show numerous scars
     By fierce encounters made in wars,
     Those honourable wounds you bore
     From head to foot, and all before,
     And still the bloody field frequent,
     Familiar in each leader's tent;
     Or whether, as the learn'd contend,
     You from the neighbouring Gaul descend;
     Or from Parthenope[1] the proud,
     Where numberless thy votaries crowd;
     Whether thy great forefathers came
     From realms that bear Vespuccio's name,[2]
     For so conjectures would obtrude;
     And from thy painted skin conclude;
     Whether, as Epicurus[3] shows,
     The world from justling seeds arose,
     Which, mingling with prolific strife
     In chaos, kindled into life:
     So your production was the same,
     And from contending atoms came.
       Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd
     Thy head with sparkling rubies round:
     Beneath thy decent steps the road
     Is all with precious jewels strew'd,
     The bird of Pallas,[4] knows his post,
     Thee to attend, where'er thou goest.
       Byzantians boast, that on the clod
     Where once their Sultan's horse hath trod,
     Grows neither grass, nor shrub, nor tree:
     The same thy subjects boast of thee.
       The greatest lord, when you appear,
     Will deign your livery to wear,
     In all the various colours seen
     Of red and yellow, blue and green.
       With half a word when you require,
     The man of business must retire.
       The haughty minister of state,
     With trembling must thy leisure wait;
     And, while his fate is in thy hands,
     The business of the nation stands.
       Thou darest the greatest prince attack,
     Canst hourly set him on the rack;
     And, as an instance of thy power,
     Enclose him in a wooden tower,
     With pungent pains on every side:
     So Regulus[5] in torments died.
       From thee our youth all virtues learn,
     Dangers with prudence to discern;
     And well thy scholars are endued
     With temperance and with fortitude,
     With patience, which all ills supports,
     And secrecy, the art of courts.
       The glittering beau could hardly tell,
     Without your aid, to read or spell;
     But, having long conversed with you,
     Knows how to scroll a billet-doux.
       With what delight, methinks, I trace
     Your blood in every noble race!
     In whom thy features, shape, and mien,
     Are to the life distinctly seen!
     The Britons, once a savage kind,
     By you were brighten'd and refined,
     Descendants to the barbarous Huns,
     With limbs robust, and voice that stuns:
     But you have moulded them afresh,
     Removed the tough superfluous flesh,
     Taught them to modulate their tongues,
     And speak without the help of lungs.
       Proteus on you bestow'd the boon
     To change your visage like the moon;
     You sometimes half a face produce,
     Keep t'other half for private use.
       How famed thy conduct in the fight
     With Hermes, son of Pleias bright!
     Outnumber'd, half encompass'd round,
     You strove for every inch of ground;
     Then, by a soldierly retreat,
     Retired to your imperial seat.
     The victor, when your steps he traced,
     Found all the realms before him waste:
     You, o'er the high triumphal arch
     Pontific, made your glorious march:
     The wondrous arch behind you fell,
     And left a chasm profound as hell:
     You, in your capitol secured,
     A siege as long as Troy endured.

     [Footnote 1: Naples, anciently called Parthenope, from the name of the
     siren who threw herself into the sea for grief at the departure of
     Ulysses, and was cast up and buried there.—Ovid, "Met.," xiv,
     101.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Americus Vespuccius, the discoverer of America in 1497. See
     Hakluyts "Navigations, Voyages, etc.," vii, 161; viii, 449.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: See Lucretius, "De Rer. Nat.," lib. i.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Bubo, the owl.—Dublin Edition.]

     [Footnote 5: Taken prisoner by the Carthaginians in the first Punic war,
     and ultimately tortured to death. See the story in Cicero, "De Officiis,"
     i, 13; Hor., "Carm.," iii, 5.—W. E. B.]

     In youth exalted high in air,
     Or bathing in the waters fair,
     Nature to form me took delight,
     And clad my body all in white.
     My person tall, and slender waist,
     On either side with fringes graced;
     Till me that tyrant man espied,
     And dragg'd me from my mother's side:
     No wonder now I look so thin;
     The tyrant stript me to the skin:
     My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt:
     At head and foot my body lopt:
     And then, with heart more hard than stone,
     He pick'd my marrow from the bone.
     To vex me more, he took a freak
     To slit my tongue and make me speak:
     But, that which wonderful appears,
     I speak to eyes, and not to ears.
     He oft employs me in disguise,
     And makes me tell a thousand lies:
     To me he chiefly gives in trust
     To please his malice or his lust.
     From me no secret he can hide;
     I see his vanity and pride:
     And my delight is to expose
     His follies to his greatest foes.
     All languages I can command,
     Yet not a word I understand.
     Without my aid, the best divine
     In learning would not know a line:
     The lawyer must forget his pleading;
     The scholar could not show his reading.
       Nay; man my master is my slave;
     I give command to kill or save,
     Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year,
     And make a beggar's brat a peer.
       But, while I thus my life relate,
     I only hasten on my fate.
     My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd,
     I hardly now can force a word.
     I die unpitied and forgot,
     And on some dunghill left to rot.

     All-ruling tyrant of the earth,
     To vilest slaves I owe my birth,
     How is the greatest monarch blest,
     When in my gaudy livery drest!
     No haughty nymph has power to run
     From me; or my embraces shun.
     Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame,
     My constancy is still the same.
     The favourite messenger of Jove,
     And Lemnian god, consulting strove
     To make me glorious to the sight
     Of mortals, and the gods' delight.
     Soon would their altar's flame expire
     If I refused to lend them fire.

       By fate exalted high in place,
       Lo, here I stand with double face:
       Superior none on earth I find;
       But see below me all mankind
       Yet, as it oft attends the great,
       I almost sink with my own weight.

     At every motion undertook,
     The vulgar all consult my look.
     I sometimes give advice in writing,
     But never of my own inditing.
       I am a courtier in my way;
     For those who raised me, I betray;
     And some give out that I entice
     To lust, to luxury, and dice.
     Who punishments on me inflict,
     Because they find their pockets pickt.
       By riding post, I lose my health,
     And only to get others wealth.

     Because I am by nature blind,
     I wisely choose to walk behind;
     However, to avoid disgrace,
     I let no creature see my face.
     My words are few, but spoke with sense;
     And yet my speaking gives offence:
     Or, if to whisper I presume,
     The company will fly the room.
     By all the world I am opprest:
     And my oppression gives them rest.
       Through me, though sore against my will,
     Instructors every art instil.
     By thousands I am sold and bought,
     Who neither get nor lose a groat;
     For none, alas! by me can gain,
     But those who give me greatest pain.
     Shall man presume to be my master,
     Who's but my caterer and taster?
     Yet, though I always have my will,
     I'm but a mere depender still:
     An humble hanger-on at best;
     Of whom all people make a jest.
       In me detractors seek to find
     Two vices of a different kind;
     I'm too profuse, some censurers cry,
     And all I get, I let it fly;
     While others give me many a curse,
     Because too close I hold my purse.
     But this I know, in either case,
     They dare not charge me to my face.
     'Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save,
     Sometimes run out of all I have;
     But, when the year is at an end,
     Computing what I get and spend,
     My goings-out, and comings-in,
     I cannot find I lose or win;
     And therefore all that know me say,
     I justly keep the middle way.
     I'm always by my betters led;
     I last get up, and first a-bed;
     Though, if I rise before my time,
     The learn'd in sciences sublime
     Consult the stars, and thence foretell
     Good luck to those with whom I dwell.

     The joy of man, the pride of brutes,
     Domestic subject for disputes,
     Of plenty thou the emblem fair,
     Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care!
     I saw thee raised to high renown,
     Supporting half the British crown;
     And often have I seen thee grace
     The chaste Diana's infant face;
     And whensoe'er you please to shine,
     Less useful is her light than thine:
     Thy numerous fingers know their way,
     And oft in Celia's tresses play.
       To place thee in another view,
     I'll show the world strange things and true;
     What lords and dames of high degree
     May justly claim their birth from thee!
     The soul of man with spleen you vex;
     Of spleen you cure the female sex.
     Thee for a gift the courtier sends
     With pleasure to his special friends:
     He gives, and with a generous pride,
     Contrives all means the gift to hide:
     Nor oft can the receiver know,
     Whether he has the gift or no.
     On airy wings you take your flight,
     And fly unseen both day and night;
     Conceal your form with various tricks;
     And few know how or where you fix:
     Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast
     That they to others give thee most.
     Meantime, the wise a question start,
     If thou a real being art;
     Or but a creature of the brain,
     That gives imaginary pain?
     But the sly giver better knows thee;
     Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.

     Though I, alas! a prisoner be,
     My trade is prisoners to set free.
     No slave his lord's commands obeys
     With such insinuating ways.
     My genius piercing, sharp, and bright,
     Wherein the men of wit delight.
     The clergy keep me for their ease,
     And turn and wind me as they please.
     A new and wondrous art I show
     Of raising spirits from below;
     In scarlet some, and some in white;
     They rise, walk round, yet never fright.
     In at each mouth the spirits pass,
     Distinctly seen as through a glass:
     O'er head and body make a rout,
     And drive at last all secrets out;
     And still, the more I show my art,
     The more they open every heart.
       A greater chemist none than I
     Who, from materials hard and dry,
     Have taught men to extract with skill
     More precious juice than from a still.
       Although I'm often out of case,
     I'm not ashamed to show my face.
     Though at the tables of the great
     I near the sideboard take my seat;
     Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done,
     Is never pleased till I make one;
     He kindly bids me near him stand,
     And often takes me by the hand.
       I twice a-day a-hunting go;
     Nor ever fail to seize my foe;
     And when I have him by the poll,
     I drag him upwards from his hole;
     Though some are of so stubborn kind,
     I'm forced to leave a limb behind.
       I hourly wait some fatal end;
     For I can break, but scorn to bend.

     Come hither, and behold the fruits,
     Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits.
     Take wise advice, and look behind,
     Bring all past actions to thy mind.
     Here you may see, as in a glass,
     How soon all human pleasures pass;
     How will it mortify thy pride,
     To turn the true impartial side!
     How will your eyes contain their tears,
     When all the sad reverse appears!
       This cave within its womb confines
     The last result of all designs:
     Here lie deposited the spoils
     Of busy mortals' endless toils:
     Here, with an easy search, we find
     The foul corruptions of mankind.
     The wretched purchase here behold
     Of traitors, who their country sold.
       This gulf insatiate imbibes
     The lawyer's fees, the statesman's bribes.
     Here, in their proper shape and mien,
     Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
     Necessity, the tyrant's law,
     All human race must hither draw;
     All prompted by the same desire,
     The vigorous youth and aged sire.
     Behold the coward and the brave,
     The haughty prince, the humble slave,
     Physician, lawyer, and divine,
     All make oblations at this shrine.
     Some enter boldly, some by stealth,
     And leave behind their fruitless wealth.
     For, while the bashful sylvan maid,
     As half-ashamed and half-afraid,
     Approaching finds it hard to part
     With that which dwelt so near her heart;
     The courtly dame, unmoved by fear,
     Profusely pours her offering here.
       A treasure here of learning lurks,
     Huge heaps of never-dying works;
     Labours of many an ancient sage,
     And millions of the present age.
       In at this gulf all offerings pass
     And lie an undistinguish'd mass.
     Deucalion,[1] to restore mankind,
     Was bid to throw the stones behind;
     So those who here their gifts convey
     Are forced to look another way;
     For few, a chosen few, must know
     The mysteries that lie below.
       Sad charnel-house! a dismal dome,
     For which all mortals leave their home!
     The young, the beautiful, and brave,
     Here buried in one common grave!
     Where each supply of dead renews
     Unwholesome damps, offensive dews:
     And lo! the writing on the walls
     Points out where each new victim falls;
     The food of worms and beasts obscene,
     Who round the vault luxuriant reign.
       See where those mangled corpses lie,
     Condemn'd by female hands to die;
     A comely dame once clad in white,
     Lies there consign'd to endless night;
     By cruel hands her blood was spilt,
     And yet her wealth was all her guilt.
       And here six virgins in a tomb,
     All-beauteous offspring of one womb,
     Oft in the train of Venus seen,
     As fair and lovely as their queen;
     In royal garments each was drest,
     Each with a gold and purple vest;
     I saw them of their garments stript,
     Their throats were cut, their bellies ript,
     Twice were they buried, twice were born,
     Twice from their sepulchres were torn;
     But now dismember'd here are cast,
     And find a resting-place at last.
       Here oft the curious traveller finds
     The combat of opposing winds;
     And seeks to learn the secret cause,
     Which alien seems from nature's laws;
     Why at this cave's tremendous mouth,
     He feels at once both north and south;
     Whether the winds, in caverns pent,
     Through clefts oppugnant force a vent;
     Or whether, opening all his stores,
     Fierce Folus in tempest roars.
       Yet, from this mingled mass of things,
     In time a new creation springs.
     These crude materials once shall rise
     To fill the earth, and air, and skies;
     In various forms appear again,
     Of vegetables, brutes, and men.
     So Jove pronounced among the gods,
     Olympus trembling as he nods.

     [Footnote 1: Ovid, "Metam.," i, 383.]

     Ah! Strephon, how can you despise
     Her, who without thy pity dies!
     To Strephon I have still been true,
     And of as noble blood as you;
     Fair issue of the genial bed,
     A virgin in thy bosom bred:
     Embraced thee closer than a wife;
     When thee I leave, I leave my life.
     Why should my shepherd take amiss,
     That oft I wake thee with a kiss?
     Yet you of every kiss complain;
     Ah! is not love a pleasing pain?
     A pain which every happy night
     You cure with ease and with delight;
     With pleasure, as the poet sings,
     Too great for mortals less than kings.
       Chloe, when on thy breast I lie,
     Observes me with revengeful eye:
     If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails,
     She'll tear me with her desperate nails;
     And with relentless hands destroy
     The tender pledges of our joy.
     Nor have I bred a spurious race;
     They all were born from thy embrace.
       Consider, Strephon, what you do;
     For, should I die for love of you,
     I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost;
     And all my kin, (a numerous host,)
     Who down direct our lineage bring
     From victors o'er the Memphian king;
     Renown'd in sieges and campaigns,
     Who never fled the bloody plains:
     Who in tempestuous seas can sport,
     And scorn the pleasures of a court;
     From whom great Sylla[2] found his doom,
     Who scourged to death that scourge of Rome,
     Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;
     Thou like Alcides[3] shalt expire,
     When his envenom'd shirt he wore,
     And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
     Nor less that shirt, my rival's gift,
     Cut from the piece that made her shift,
     Shall in thy dearest blood be dyed,
     And make thee tear thy tainted hide.

     [Footnote 1: The solution is, phtheirhiasis morbus pedicularis. With
     this piece may be read Peter Pindar's epic, "The Lousiad."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla's body was so corrupted with these
     vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: pasan esthjta kai
     loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai
     tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei. "Vita Syllae," xxxvi.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Hercules, who died from wearing the shirt (given him by his
     wife as a charm against his infidelities) stained with the blood of
     Nessus, the centaur, whom Hercules had slain with a poisoned arrow. Ovid,
     "Epist. Heroid. Deianira Herculi," and "Metam.," lib. ix,
     101.—W. E. B.]

     Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
     Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
     And such is my prolific power,
     They bloom in less than half an hour;
     Yet standers-by may plainly see
     They get no nourishment from me.
     My head with giddiness goes round,
     And yet I firmly stand my ground:
     All over naked I am seen,
     And painted like an Indian queen.
     No couple-beggar in the land
     E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand.
     I join'd them fairly with a ring;
     Nor can our parson blame the thing.
     And though no marriage words are spoke,
     They part not till the ring is broke;
     Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,
     I'm but an idol raised on high;
     And once a weaver in our town,
     A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.
     I lay a prisoner twenty years,
     And then the jovial cavaliers
     To their old post restored all three—
     I mean the church, the king, and me.

     I with borrow'd silver shine
     What you see is none of mine.
     First I show you but a quarter,
     Like the bow that guards the Tartar:
     Then the half, and then the whole,
     Ever dancing round the pole.

     What will raise your admiration,
     I am not one of God's creation,
     But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,)
     Like Pallas, from my father's brain.
     And after all, I chiefly owe
     My beauty to the shades below.
     Most wondrous forms you see me wear,
     A man, a woman, lion, bear,
     A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,
     All figures Heaven or earth can yield;
     Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;
     Yet am not one of all you see.

     I'm up and down, and round about,
     Yet all the world can't find me out;
     Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,
     They never yet could find my measure.
     I'm found almost in every garden,
     Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
     There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
     Can move an inch except I will.

     I am jet black, as you may see,
       The son of pitch and gloomy night:
     Yet all that know me will agree,
       I'm dead except I live in light.

     Sometimes in panegyric high,
       Like lofty Pindar, I can soar;
     And raise a virgin to the sky,
       Or sink her to a pocky whore.

     My blood this day is very sweet,
       To-morrow of a bitter juice;
     Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,
       And so applied to different use.

     Most wondrous is my magic power:
       For with one colour I can paint;
     I'll make the devil a saint this hour,
       Next make a devil of a saint.

     Through distant regions I can fly,
       Provide me but with paper wings;
     And fairly show a reason why
       There should be quarrels among kings:

     And, after all, you'll think it odd,
       When learned doctors will dispute,
     That I should point the word of God,
       And show where they can best confute.

     Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
       'Tis I that must the lands convey,
     And strip their clients to their coats;
       Nay, give their very souls away.

     All of us in one you'll find,
     Brethren of a wondrous kind;
     Yet among us all no brother
     Knows one tittle of the other;
     We in frequent councils are,
     And our marks of things declare,
     Where, to us unknown, a clerk
     Sits, and takes them in the dark.
     He's the register of all
     In our ken, both great and small;
     By us forms his laws and rules,
     He's our master, we his tools;
     Yet we can with greatest ease
     Turn and wind him where we please.
       One of us alone can sleep,
     Yet no watch the rest will keep,
     But the moment that he closes,
     Every brother else reposes.
     If wine's brought or victuals drest,
     One enjoys them for the rest.
       Pierce us all with wounding steel,
     One for all of us will feel.
       Though ten thousand cannons roar,
     Add to them ten thousand more,
     Yet but one of us is found
     Who regards the dreadful sound.
       Do what is not fit to tell,
     There's but one of us can smell.