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

     When on my bosom thy bright eyes,
       Florinda, dart their heavenly beams,
     I feel not the least love surprise,
       Yet endless tears flow down in streams;
     There's nought so beautiful in thee,
       But you may find the same in me.

     The lilies of thy skin compare;
       In me you see them full as white:
     The roses of your cheeks, I dare
       Affirm, can't glow to more delight.
     Then, since I show as fine a face,
       Can you refuse a soft embrace?

     Ah! lovely nymph, thou'rt in thy prime!
       And so am I, while thou art here;
     But soon will come the fatal time,
       When all we see shall disappear.
     'Tis mine to make a just reflection,
       And yours to follow my direction.

     Then catch admirers while you may;
       Treat not your lovers with disdain;
     For time with beauty flies away,
       And there is no return again.
     To you the sad account I bring,
       Life's autumn has no second spring.

     [Footnote 1: A fountain.]

     Never sleeping, still awake,
     Pleasing most when most I speak;
     The delight of old and young,
     Though I speak without a tongue.
     Nought but one thing can confound me,
     Many voices joining round me;
     Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
     Like the labourers of Babel.
     Now I am a dog, or cow,
     I can bark, or I can low;
     I can bleat, or I can sing,
     Like the warblers of the spring.
     Let the lovesick bard complain,
     And I mourn the cruel pain;
     Let the happy swain rejoice,
     And I join my helping voice:
     Both are welcome, grief or joy,
     I with either sport and toy.
     Though a lady, I am stout,
     Drums and trumpets bring me out:
     Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
     Join in all the din of battle.
     Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
     When I'm vext, can't keep me under;
     Yet so tender is my ear,
     That the lowest voice I fear;
     Much I dread the courtier's fate,
     When his merit's out of date,
     For I hate a silent breath,
     And a whisper is my death.

     By something form'd, I nothing am,
     Yet everything that you can name;
     In no place have I ever been,
     Yet everywhere I may be seen;
     In all things false, yet always true,
     I'm still the same—but ever new.
     Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear,
     Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,
     Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear.
     All shapes and features I can boast,
     No flesh, no bones, no blood—no ghost:
     All colours, without paint, put on,
     And change like the cameleon.
     Swiftly I come, and enter there,
     Where not a chink lets in the air;
     Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,
     Nor can I ever be alone:
     All things on earth I imitate
     Faster than nature can create;
     Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
     Anon in beggar's rags appear;
     A giant now, and straight an elf,
     I'm every one, but ne'er myself;
     Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice,
     I move my lips, but want a voice;
     I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die,
     Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I?

     Most things by me do rise and fall,
     And, as I please, they're great and small;
     Invading foes without resistance,
     With ease I make to keep their distance:
     Again, as I'm disposed, the foe
     Will come, though not a foot they go.
     Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks
     And gamesome goats, and fleecy flocks,
     And lowing herds, and piping swains,
     Come dancing to me o'er the plains.
     The greatest whale that swims the sea
     Does instantly my power obey.
     In vain from me the sailor flies,
     The quickest ship I can surprise,
     And turn it as I have a mind,
     And move it against tide and wind.
     Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
     I'll squeeze him to a little span;
     Or bring a tender child, and pliant,
     You'll see me stretch him to a giant:
     Nor shall they in the least complain,
     Because my magic gives no pain.

     Ever eating, never cloying,
     All-devouring, all-destroying,
     Never finding full repast,
     Till I eat the world at last.

     There is a gate, we know full well,
     That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Earth, and Hell,
     Where many for a passage venture,
     Yet very few are fond to enter:
     Although 'tis open night and day,
     They for that reason shun this way:
     Both dukes and lords abhor its wood,
     They can't come near it for their blood.
     What other way they take to go,
     Another time I'll let you know.
     Yet commoners with greatest ease
     Can find an entrance when they please.
     The poorest hither march in state
     (Or they can never pass the gate)
     Like Roman generals triumphant,
     And then they take a turn and jump on't,
     If gravest parsons here advance,
     They cannot pass before they dance;
     There's not a soul that does resort here,
     But strips himself to pay the porter.

     We are little airy creatures,
     All of different voice and features;
     One of us in glass is set,
     One of us you'll find in jet.
     T'other you may see in tin,
     And the fourth a box within.
     If the fifth you should pursue,
     It can never fly from you.

     From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,
     No lady alive can show such a skin.
     I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
     But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
     Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,
     Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
     Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,
     The foulest impressions I easily take.
     My parent and I produce one another,
     The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

     Begotten, and born, and dying with noise,
     The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,
     Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
     I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined.
     For silver and gold I don't trouble my head,
     But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
     Except when I trade with a ship or a town,
     Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
     One property more I would have you remark,
     No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
     The moment I get one, my soul's all a-fire,
     And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

     We are little brethren twain,
     Arbiters of loss and gain,
     Many to our counters run,
     Some are made, and some undone:
     But men find it to their cost,
     Few are made, but numbers lost.
     Though we play them tricks for ever,
     Yet they always hope our favour.

     Of all inhabitants on earth,
     To man alone I owe my birth,
     And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,
     Are all my parents more than he:
     I, a virtue, strange and rare,
     Make the fairest look more fair,
     And myself, which yet is rarer,
     Growing old, grow still the fairer.
     Like sots, alone I'm dull enough,
     When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff;
     But, in the midst of mirth and wine,
     I with double lustre shine.
     Emblem of the Fair am I,
     Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;
     In my eye my greatest grace,
     Emblem of the Cyclops' race;
     Metals I like them subdue,
     Slave like them to Vulcan too;
     Emblem of a monarch old,
     Wise, and glorious to behold;
     Wasted he appears, and pale,
     Watching for the public weal:
     Emblem of the bashful dame,
     That in secret feeds her flame,
     Often aiding to impart
     All the secrets of her heart;
     Various is my bulk and hue,
     Big like Bess, and small like Sue:
     Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,
     At other times a very slut;
     Often fair, and soft, and tender,
     Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender:
     Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers,
     Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours:
     But whatever be my dress,
     Greater be my size or less,
     Swelling be my shape or small,
     Like thyself I shine in all.
     Clouded if my face is seen,
     My complexion wan and green,
     Languid like a love-sick maid,
     Steel affords me present aid.
     Soon or late, my date is done,
     As my thread of life is spun;
     Yet to cut the fatal thread
     Oft revives my drooping head;
     Yet I perish in my prime,
     Seldom by the death of time;
     Die like lovers as they gaze,
     Die for those I live to please;
     Pine unpitied to my urn,
     Nor warm the fair for whom I burn:
     Unpitied, unlamented too,
     Die like all that look on you.

     I reach all things near me, and far off to boot,
     Without stretching a finger, or stirring a foot;
     I take them all in too, to add to your wonder,
     Though many and various, and large and asunder,
     Without jostling or crowding they pass side by side,
     Through a wonderful wicket, not half an inch wide;
     Then I lodge them at ease in a very large store,
     Of no breadth or length, with a thousand things more.
     All this I can do without witchcraft or charm,
     Though sometimes they say, I bewitch and do harm;
     Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade:
     And nothing can shield from my spell but a shade.
     A thief that has robb'd you, or done you disgrace,
     In magical mirror, I'll show you his face:
     Nay, if you'll believe what the poets have said,
     They'll tell you I kill, and can call back the dead.
     Like conjurers safe in my circle I dwell;
     I love to look black too, it heightens my spell;
     Though my magic is mighty in every hue,
     Who see all my power must see it in you.

     WITH half an eye your riddle I spy,
     I observe your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket,
     And whatever passes is strain'd through glasses.
     You say it is quiet: I flatly deny it.
     It wanders about, without stirring out;
     No passion so weak but gives it a tweak;
     Love, joy, and devotion, set it always in motion.
     And as for trie tragic effects of its magic,
     Which you say it can kill, or revive at its will,
     The dead are all sound, and they live above ground:
     After all you have writ, it cannot be wit;
     Which plainly does follow, since it flies from Apollo.
     Its cowardice such it cries at a touch;
     'Tis a perfect milksop, grows drunk with a drop,
     Another great fault, it cannot bear salt:
     And a hair can disarm it of every charm.

     FROM India's burning clime I'm brought,
     With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
     Not Iris, when she paints the sky,
     Can show more different hues than I;
     Nor can she change her form so fast,
     I'm now a sail, and now a mast.
     I here am red, and there am green,
     A beggar there, and here a queen.
     I sometimes live in house of hair,
     And oft in hand of lady fair.
     I please the young, I grace the old,
     And am at once both hot and cold.
     Say what I am then, if you can,
     And find the rhyme, and you're the man.

     Your house of hair, and lady's hand,
     At first did put me to a stand.
     I have it now—'tis plain enough—
     Your hairy business is a muff.
     Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
     At once so like your masts and sails;
     Your thing of various shape and hue
     Must be some painted toy, I knew;
     And for the rhyme to you're the man,
     What fits it better than a fan?

     I'm wealthy and poor,
     I'm empty and full,
     I'm humble and proud,
     I'm witty and dull.
     I'm foul and yet fair:
     I'm old, and yet young;
     I lie with Moll Kerr,
     And toast Mrs. Long.

     In rigging he's rich, though in pocket he's poor,
     He cringes to courtiers, and cocks to the cits;
     Like twenty he dresses, but looks like threescore;
     He's a wit to the fools, and a fool to the wits.
     Of wisdom he's empty, but full of conceit;
     He paints and perfumes while he rots with the scab;
     'Tis a beau you may swear by his sense and his gait;
     He boasts of a beauty and lies with a drab.

     SIR,

       Pray discruciate what follows.

     The dullest beast, and gentleman's liquor,
     When young is often due to the vicar,[1]

     The dullest of beasts, and swine's delight,
     Make up a bird very swift of flight.[2]

     The dullest beast, when high in stature,
     And another of royal nature,
     For breeding is a useful creature.[3]

     The dullest beast, and a party distress'd,
     When too long, is bad at best.[4]

     The dullest beast, and the saddle it wears,
     Is good for partridge, not for hares.[5]

     The dullest beast, and kind voice of a cat,
     Will make a horse go, though he be not fat.[6]

     The dullest of beasts and of birds in the air,
     Is that by which all Irishmen swear.[7]

     The dullest beast, and famed college for Teagues,
     Is a person very unfit for intrigues.[8]

     The dullest beast, and a cobbler's tool,
     With a boy that is only fit for school,
     In summer is very pleasant and cool.[9]

     The dullest beast, and that which you kiss,
     May break a limb of master or miss.[10]

     Of serpent kind, and what at distance kills,
     Poor mistress Dingley oft hath felt its bills.[11]

     The dullest beast, and eggs unsound,
     Without it I rather would walk on the ground.[12]

     The dullest beast, and what covers a house,
     Without it a writer is not worth a louse.[13]

     The dullest beast, and scandalous vermin,
     Of roast or boil'd, to the hungry is charming.[14]

     The dullest beast, and what's cover'd with crust,
     There's nobody but a fool that would trust.[15]

     The dullest beast, and mending highways,
     Is to a horse an evil disease.[16]

     The dullest beast, and a hole in the ground,
     Will dress a dinner worth five pound.[17]

     The dullest beast, and what doctors pretend,
     The cook-maid often has by the end.[18]

     The dullest beast, and fish for lent,
     May give you a blow you'll for ever repent.[19]

     The dullest beast, and a shameful jeer,
     Without it a lady should never appear.[20]

     Wednesday Night.

     I writ all these before I went to bed. Pray explain them for me, because
     I cannot do it.

     [Footnote 1: A swine.]
     [Footnote 2: A swallow.]
     [Footnote 3: A stallion.]
     [Footnote 4: A sail.]
     [Footnote 5: A spaniel.]
     [Footnote 6: A spur.]
     [Footnote 7: A soul.]
     [Footnote 8: A sloven.]
     [Footnote 9: A sallad.]
     [Footnote 10: A slip.]
     [Footnote 11: A sparrow.]
     [Footnote 12: A saddle.]
     [Footnote 13: A style.]
     [Footnote 14: A slice.]
     [Footnote 15: A spy.]
     [Footnote 16: A spavin.]
     [Footnote 17: A spit.]
     [Footnote 18: A skewer.]
     [Footnote 19: Assault.]
     [Footnote 20: A smock.]

     A long-ear'd beast, and a field-house for cattle,
     Among the coals doth often rattle.[1]

     A long-ear'd beast, a bird that prates,
     The bridegrooms' first gift to their mates,
     Is by all pious Christians thought,
     In clergymen the greatest fault.[2]

     A long-ear'd beast, and woman of Endor,
     If your wife be a scold, that will mend her.[3]

     With a long-ear'd beast, and medicine's use,
     Cooks make their fowl look tight and spruce.[4]

     A long-ear'd beast, and holy fable,
     Strengthens the shoes of half the rabble.[5]

     A long-ear'd beast, and Rhenish wine,
     Lies in the lap of ladies fine.[6]

     A long-ear'd beast, and Flanders College,
     Is Dr. T——l, to my knowledge.[7]

     A long-ear'd beast, and building knight,
     Censorious people do in spite.[8]

     A long-ear'd beast, and bird of night,
     We sinners art too apt to slight.[9]

     A long-ear'd beast, and shameful vermin,
     A judge will eat, though clad in ermine.[10]

     A long-ear'd beast, and Irish cart,
     Can leave a mark, and give a smart.[11]

     A long-ear'd beast, in mud to lie,
     No bird in air so swift can fly.[12]

     A long-ear'd beast, and a sputt'ring old Whig,
     I wish he were in it, and dancing a jig.[13]

     A long-ear'd beast, and liquor to write,
     Is a damnable smell both morning and night.[14]

     A long-ear'd beast, and the child of a sheep,
     At Whist they will make a desperate sweep.[15]

     A beast long-ear'd, and till midnight you stay,
     Will cover a house much better than clay.[16]

     A long-ear'd beast, and the drink you love best,
     You call him a sloven in earnest for jest.[17]

     A long-ear'd beast, and the sixteenth letter,
     I'd not look at all unless I look'd better.[18]

     A long-ear'd beast give me, and eggs unsound,
     Or else I will not ride one inch of ground.[19]

     A long-ear'd beast, another name for jeer,
     To ladies' skins there nothing comes so near.[20]

     A long-ear'd beast, and kind noise of a cat,
     Is useful in journeys, take notice of that.[21]

     A long-ear'd beast, and what seasons your beef,
     On such an occasion the law gives relief.[22]

     A long-ear'd beast, a thing that force must drive in,
     Bears up his house, that's of his own contriving.[23]

     [Footnote 1: A shovel.]
     [Footnote 2: Aspiring.]
     [Footnote 3: A switch.]
     [Footnote 4: A skewer.]
     [Footnote 5: A sparable; a small nail in a shoe.]
     [Footnote 6: A shock.]
     [Footnote 7: A sloven.]
     [Footnote 8: Asperse. (Pearce was an architect, who built the
     Parliament-House, Dublin.)]
     [Footnote 9: A soul.]
     [Footnote 10: A slice.]
     [Footnote 11: A scar.]
     [Footnote 12: A swallow.]
     [Footnote 13: A sty.]
     [Footnote 14: A sink.]
     [Footnote 15: A slam.]
     [Footnote 16: A slate.]
     [Footnote 17: A swine.]
     [Footnote 18: Askew.]
     [Footnote 19: A saddle.]
     [Footnote 20: A smock.]
     [Footnote 21: A spur.]
     [Footnote 22: Assault.]
     [Footnote 23: A snail.]

     At Market-Hill, as well appears
       By chronicle of ancient date,
     There stood for many hundred years
       A spacious thorn before the gate.

     Hither came every village maid,
       And on the boughs her garland hung,
     And here, beneath the spreading shade,
       Secure from satyrs sat and sung.

     Sir Archibald,[2] that valorous knight.
       The lord of all the fruitful plain,
     Would come to listen with delight,
       For he was fond of rural strain.

     (Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
       Shall stand for ages on record,
     By Scottish bards of highest fame,
       Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.[3])

     But time with iron teeth, I ween,
       Has canker'd all its branches round;
     No fruit or blossom to be seen,
       Its head reclining toward the ground.

     This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,
       Which must, alas! no longer stand,
     Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
       Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.

     Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,
       Astonish'd gave a dreadful shriek;
     And mother Tellus trembled so,
       She scarce recover'd in a week.

     The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,
       In prudence and compassion sent
     (For none could tell whose turn was next)
       Sad omens of the dire event.

     The magpie, lighting on the stock,
       Stood chattering with incessant din:
     And with her beak gave many a knock,
       To rouse and warn the nymph within.

     The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
       The ruin of her ancient seat;
     And fled in haste, with all her brood,
       To seek a more secure retreat.

     Last trotted forth the gentle swine,
       To ease her itch against the stump,
     And dismally was heard to whine,
       All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump.

     The nymph who dwells in every tree,
       (If all be true that poets chant,)
     Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,
       Must die with her expiring plant.

     Thus, when the gentle Spina found
       The thorn committed to her care,
     Received its last and deadly wound,
       She fled, and vanish'd into air.

     But from the root a dismal groan
       First issuing struck the murderer's ears:
     And, in a shrill revengeful tone,
       This prophecy he trembling hears:

     "Thou chief contriver of my fall,
       Relentless Dean, to mischief born;
     My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,
       Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.

     "And thy confederate dame, who brags
       That she condemn'd me to the fire,
     Shall rend her petticoats to rags,
       And wound her legs with every brier.

     "Nor thou, Lord Arthur,[4] shall escape;
       To thee I often call'd in vain,
     Against that assassin in crape;
       Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain:

     "Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,
       Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;
     Since you could see me treated so,
       (An old retainer to your house:)

     "May that fell Dean, by whose command
       Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,
     Not leave a thistle on thy land;
       Then who will own thee for a Scot?

     "Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
       Through all my empire I foresee,
     To tear thy hedges join in leagues,
       Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

     "And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
       Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
     With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
     To hack my hallow'd timber down;

     "When thou, suspended high in air,
       Diest on a more ignoble tree,
     (For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,)
       Then, bloody caitiff! think on me."

     [Footnote 1: A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the
     Dean made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much
     admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours,
     gave directions for cutting it down in the absence of Sir Arthur, who
     was, of course, highly incensed. By way of making his peace, the Dean
     wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.]

     [Footnote 2: Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.]

     [Footnote 3: Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of
     Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their
     poetry.]

     [Footnote 4: Sir Arthur Acheson.]

     Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
     For I am landlord to the Drapier:
     He, that of every ear's the charmer,
     Now condescends to be my farmer,
     And grace my villa with his strains;
     Lives such a bard on British plains?
     No; not in all the British court;
     For none but witlings there resort,
     Whose names and works (though dead) are made
     Immortal by the Dunciad;
     And, sure as monument of brass,
     Their fame to future times shall pass;
     How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
     Of brazen knight they vainly sung;
     A subject for their genius fit;
     He dares defy both sense and wit.
     What dares he not? He can, we know it,
     A laureat make that is no poet;
     A judge, without the least pretence
     To common law, or common sense;
     A bishop that is no divine;
     And coxcombs in red ribbons shine:
     Nay, he can make, what's greater far,
     A middle state 'twixt peace and war;
     And say, there shall; for years together,
     Be peace and war, and both, and neither.
     Happy, O Market-Hill! at least,
     That court and courtiers have no taste:
     You never else had known the Dean,
     But, as of old, obscurely lain;
     All things gone on the same dull track,
     And Drapier's-Hill been still Drumlack;
     But now your name with Penshurst vies,
     And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies.

     The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
       Our invitation was but slight;
     I said—"Why let him, if he will:"
       And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

     His manners would not let him wait,
       Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
       And so we see him at our gate
       Three days before he was expected,

     After a week, a month, a quarter,
       And day succeeding after day,
     Says not a word of his departure,
       Though not a soul would have him stay.

     I've said enough to make him blush,
       Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
     But he cares not for it a rush,
       Nor for my life will take the hint.

     But you, my dear, may let him know,
       In civil language, if he stays,
     How deep and foul the roads may grow,
       And that he may command the chaise.

     Or you may say—"My wife intends,
       Though I should be exceeding proud,
     This winter to invite some friends,
       And, sir, I know you hate a crowd."

     Or, "Mr. Dean—I should with joy
       Beg you would here continue still,
     But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1]
       Or Mr. Moore will take it ill."

     The house accounts are daily rising;
       So much his stay doth swell the bills:
     My dearest life, it is surprising,
       How much he eats, how much he swills.

     His brace of puppies how they stuff!
       And they must have three meals a-day,
     Yet never think they get enough;
       His horses too eat all our hay.

     O! if I could, how I would maul
       His tallow face and wainscot paws,
     His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
       And make him soon give up the cause!

     Must I be every moment chid
       With [2] Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean?     O! that I could but once be rid
       Of this insulting tyrant Dean!

     [Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]

     [Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See "My
     Lady's Lamentation," next page.—W. E. B.]

     Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
       Though none can tell which of us first shall die.

     We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
       May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.

     Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
       Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
     His folly served to make folks laugh,
       When wit and mirth were scarce.

     Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
       What signifies to cry?
     Dickies enough are still behind,
       To laugh at by and by.

     Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.

     JULY 28, 1728

     Sure never did man see
     A wretch like poor Nancy,
     So teazed day and night
     By a Dean and a Knight.
     To punish my sins,
     Sir Arthur begins,
     And gives me a wipe,
     With Skinny and Snipe:[2],
     His malice is plain,
     Hallooing the Dean.

     The Dean never stops,
     When he opens his chops;
     I'm quite overrun
     With rebus and pun.
       Before he came here,
     To spunge for good cheer,
     I sat with delight,
     From morning till night,
     With two bony thumbs
     Could rub my old gums,
     Or scratching my nose
     And jogging my toes;
     But at present, forsooth,
     I must not rub a tooth.
     When my elbows he sees
     Held up by my knees,
     My arms, like two props,
     Supporting my chops,
     And just as I handle 'em
     Moving all like a pendulum;
     He trips up my props,
     And down my chin drops
     From my head to my heels,
     Like a clock without wheels;
     I sink in the spleen,
     A useless machine.
       If he had his will,
     I should never sit still:
     He comes with his whims
     I must move my limbs;
     I cannot be sweet
     Without using my feet;
     To lengthen my breath,
     He tires me to death.
     By the worst of all squires,
     Thro' bogs and thro' briers,
     Where a cow would be startled,
     I'm in spite of my heart led;
     And, say what I will,
     Haul'd up every hill;
     Till, daggled and tatter'd,
     My spirits quite shatter'd,
     I return home at night,
     And fast, out of spite:
     For I'd rather be dead,
     Than it e'er should be said,
     I was better for him,
     In stomach or limb.
       But now to my diet;
     No eating in quiet,
     He's still finding fault,
     Too sour or too salt:
     The wing of a chick
     I hardly can pick:
     But trash without measure
     I swallow with pleasure.
       Next, for his diversion,
     He rails at my person.
     What court breeding this is!
     He takes me to pieces:
     From shoulder to flank
     I'm lean and am lank;
     My nose, long and thin,
     Grows down to my chin;
     My chin will not stay,
     But meets it halfway;
     My fingers, prolix,
     Are ten crooked sticks:
     He swears my el—bows
     Are two iron crows,
     Or sharp pointed rocks,
     And wear out my smocks:
     To 'scape them, Sir Arthur
     Is forced to lie farther,
     Or his sides they would gore
     Like the tusks of a boar.
       Now changing the scene
     But still to the Dean;
     He loves to be bitter at
     A lady illiterate;
     If he sees her but once,
     He'll swear shes a dunce;
     Can tell by her looks
     A hater of books;
     Thro' each line of her face
     Her folly can trace;
     Which spoils every feature
     Bestow'd her by nature;
     But sense gives a grace
     To the homeliest face:
     Wise books and reflection
     Will mend the complexion:
     (A civil divine!
     I suppose, meaning mine!)
     No lady who wants them,
     Can ever be handsome.
       I guess well enough
     What he means by this stuff:
     He haws and he hums,
     At last out it comes:
     What, madam? No walking,
     No reading, nor talking?
     You're now in your prime,
     Make use of your time.
     Consider, before
     You come to threescore,
     How the hussies will fleer
     Where'er you appear;
     "That silly old puss
     Would fain be like us:
     What a figure she made
     In her tarnish'd brocade!"
       And then he grows mild:
     Come, be a good child:
     If you are inclined
     To polish your mind,
     Be adored by the men
     Till threescore and ten,
     And kill with the spleen
     The jades of sixteen;
     I'll show you the way;
     Read six hours a-day.
     The wits will frequent ye,
     And think you but twenty.
     [To make you learn faster,
     I'll be your schoolmaster
     And leave you to choose
     The books you peruse.[3]]
       Thus was I drawn in;
     Forgive me my sin.
     At breakfast he'll ask
     An account of my task.
     Put a word out of joint,
     Or miss but a point,
     He rages and frets,
     His manners forgets;
     And as I am serious,
     Is very imperious.
     No book for delight
     Must come in my sight;
     But, instead of new plays,
     Dull Bacon's Essays,
     And pore every day on
     That nasty Pantheon.[4]
     If I be not a drudge,
     Let all the world judge.
     'Twere better be blind,
     Than thus be confined.
       But while in an ill tone,
     I murder poor Milton,
     The Dean you will swear,
     Is at study or prayer.
     He's all the day sauntering,
     With labourers bantering,
     Among his colleagues,
     A parcel of Teagues,
     Whom he brings in among us
     And bribes with mundungus.
      [He little believes
     How they laugh in their sleeves.]
     Hail, fellow, well met,
     All dirty and wet:
     Find out, if you can,
     Who's master, who's man;
     Who makes the best figure,
     The Dean or the digger;
     And which is the best
     At cracking a jest.
     [Now see how he sits
     Perplexing his wits
     In search of a motto
     To fix on his grotto.]
     How proudly he talks
     Of zigzags and walks,
     And all the day raves
     Of cradles and caves;
     And boasts of his feats,
     His grottos and seats;
     Shows all his gewgaws,
     And gapes for applause;
     A fine occupation
     For one in his station!
     A hole where a rabbit
     Would scorn to inhabit,
     Dug out in an hour;
     He calls it a bower.
       But, O! how we laugh,
     To see a wild calf
     Come, driven by heat,
     And foul the green seat;
     Or run helter-skelter,
     To his arbour for shelter,
     Where all goes to ruin
     The Dean has been doing:
     The girls of the village
     Come flocking for pillage,
     Pull down the fine briers
     And thorns to make fires;
     But yet are so kind
     To leave something behind:
     No more need be said on't,
     I smell when I tread on't.
       Dear friend, Doctor Jinny.
     If I could but win ye,
     Or Walmsley or Whaley,
     To come hither daily,
     Since fortune, my foe,
     Will needs have it so,
     That I'm, by her frowns,
     Condemn'd to black gowns;
     No squire to be found
     The neighbourhood round;
     (For, under the rose,
     I would rather choose those)
     If your wives will permit ye,
     Come here out of pity,
     To ease a poor lady,
     And beg her a play-day.
     So may you be seen
     No more in the spleen;
     May Walmsley give wine
     Like a hearty divine!
     May Whaley disgrace
     Dull Daniel's whey-face!
     And may your three spouses
     Let you lie at friends' houses!