[Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in
Italy.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, ante,
p. 48.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and
Horace.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace,
done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with
the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by
the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote:
"O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain,
And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain."
Dict. Nat. Biog.—W. E. B.]
EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER
INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733
"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined,
How vice and folly have debased mankind;
Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause;
Thus her great votary vindicates her laws:
While bold and free the glowing colours strike;
Blame not the picture, if the picture's like."
ON PSYCHE[1]
At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,
Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire:
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;
Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle?
Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,
Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place.
She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main.
To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit;
For her taste is almost as refined as her wit.
To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market,
It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it.
Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears,
She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears.
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of
the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and
Stella.—W. E. B.]
THE DEAN AND DUKE
1734
James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends;
James is beduked; of course their friendship ends:
But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke.
Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2]
His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The duke and dean seem near upon a level.
O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry,
From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free.
A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown:
Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown.
Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king:
O! would his majesty but add a string!
[Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and
built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in
his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the
building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers'
edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second
Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house
he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance
hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his Canonical pillars.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure
of his speculative investments.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.—N.]
WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734
Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis;
Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum,
Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est,
Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures.
THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED
DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone.
ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own.
DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown.
ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.
DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell.
ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well.
DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start,
Than at the rumbling of a cart.
ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f—t.
DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack!
No more I hear a woman's clack.
ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill,
Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill;
But louder than a bell, or thunder:
That does, I own, increase my wonder.
THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING
On rainy days alone I dine
Upon a chick and pint of wine.
On rainy days I dine alone,
And pick my chicken to the bone;
But this my servants much enrages,
No scraps remain to save board-wages.
In weather fine I nothing spend,
But often spunge upon a friend;
Yet, where he's not so rich as I,
I pay my club, and so good b'ye.
EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER
"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM"
Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus,
Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet.
Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam:
Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput.
Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta;
Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem.
VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN
APPLES
Come buy my fine wares,
Plums, apples, and pears.
A hundred a penny,
In conscience too many:
Come, will you have any?
My children are seven,
I wish them in Heaven;
My husband a sot,
With his pipe and his pot,
Not a farthing will gain them,
And I must maintain them.
ASPARAGUS
Ripe 'sparagrass
Fit for lad or lass,
To make their water pass:
O, 'tis pretty picking
With a tender chicken!
ONIONS
Come, follow me by the smell,
Here are delicate onions to sell;
I promise to use you well.
They make the blood warmer,
You'll feed like a farmer;
For this is every cook's opinion,
No savoury dish without an onion;
But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd,
Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd:
Or else you may spare
Your mistress a share,
The secret will never be known:
She cannot discover
The breath of her lover,
But think it as sweet as her own.
OYSTERS
Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter and moister:
Your stomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lass or a lad;
And madam your wife
They'll please to the life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she slut, or be she scold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.
HERRINGS
Be not sparing,
Leave off swearing.
Buy my herring
Fresh from Malahide,[1]
Better never was tried.
Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard,
Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard.
Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread,
Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.
[Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for
oysters.—F.]
ORANGES
Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal,
And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale;
Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup,
They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup.
ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL
INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1]
Happiest of the spaniel race,
Painter, with thy colours grace:
Draw his forehead large and high,
Draw his blue and humid eye;
Draw his neck so smooth and round,
Little neck with ribbons bound!
And the muscly swelling breast,
Where the Loves and Graces rest;
And the spreading even back,
Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;
And the tail that gently twines,
Like the tendrils of the vines;
And the silky twisted hair,
Shadowing thick the velvet ear;
Velvet ears, which, hanging low,
O'er the veiny temples flow.
With a proper light and shade,
Let the winding hoop be laid;
And within that arching bower,
(Secret circle, mystic power,)
In a downy slumber place
Happiest of the spaniel race;
While the soft respiring dame,
Glowing with the softest flame,
On the ravish'd favourite pours
Balmy dews, ambrosial showers.
With thy utmost skill express
Nature in her richest dress,
Limpid rivers smoothly flowing,
Orchards by those rivers blowing;
Curling woodbine, myrtle shade,
And the gay enamell'd mead;
Where the linnets sit and sing,
Little sportlings of the spring;
Where the breathing field and grove
Soothe the heart and kindle love.
Here for me, and for the Muse,
Colours of resemblance choose,
Make of lineaments divine,
Daply female spaniels shine,
Pretty fondlings of the fair,
Gentle damsels' gentle care;
But to one alone impart
All the flattery of thy art.
Crowd each feature, crowd each grace,
Which complete the desperate face;
Let the spotted wanton dame
Feel a new resistless flame!
Let the happiest of his race
Win the fair to his embrace.
But in shade the rest conceal,
Nor to sight their joys reveal,
Lest the pencil and the Muse
Loose desires and thoughts infuse.
[Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret,
daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop
Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one
Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of
Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.—W. E. B.]
EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS
SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726
I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN
We fly from luxury and wealth,
To hardships, in pursuit of health;
From generous wines, and costly fare,
And dozing in an easy-chair;
Pursue the goddess Health in vain,
To find her in a country scene,
And every where her footsteps trace,
And see her marks in every face;
And still her favourites we meet,
Crowding the roads with naked feet.
But, oh! so faintly we pursue,
We ne'er can have her full in view.
II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND
The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd,
Dims and obscures our sight;
So, when our passions Love has stirr'd,
It darkens Reason's light.
III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD,
WARWICKSHIRE
Fool, to put up four crosses at your door,
Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four.
IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER
The church and clergy here, no doubt,
Are very near a-kin;
Both weather-beaten are without,
And empty both within.
V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER
My landlord is civil,
But dear as the d—l:
Your pockets grow empty
With nothing to tempt ye;
The wine is so sour,
'Twill give you a scour,
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with stale.
The veal is such carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,
For I live on a smelt.
VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER
The walls of this town
Are full of renown,
And strangers delight to walk round 'em:
But as for the dwellers,
Both buyers and sellers,
For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.
VII. ANOTHER WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE
Thanks to my stars, I once can see
A window here from scribbling free!
Here no conceited coxcombs pass,
To scratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party fool is calling names,
Or dealing crowns to George and James.
VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS
The sage, who said he should be proud
Of windows in his breast,[1]
Because he ne'er a thought allow'd
That might not be confest;
His window scrawl'd by every rake,
His breast again would cover,
And fairly bid the devil take
The diamond and the lover.
[Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii,
497.—W. E. B.]
IX. ANOTHER
By Satan taught, all conjurors know
Your mistress in a glass to show,
And you can do as much:
In this the devil and you agree;
None e'er made verses worse than he,
And thine, I swear, are such.
X. ANOTHER
That love is the devil, I'll prove when required;
Those rhymers abundantly show it:
They swear that they all by love are inspired,
And the devil's a damnable poet.
XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1]
O Neptune! Neptune! must I still
Be here detain'd against my will?
Is this your justice, when I'm come
Above two hundred miles from home;
O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains,
Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains,
Only your godship to implore,
To let me kiss your other shore?
A boon so small! but I may weep,
While you're like Baal, fast asleep.
[Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's
enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's
Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works,"
vol. xi.—W. E. B.]
TO JANUS, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1726
Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time!
Be my Phoebus while I rhyme;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new year's gift;
She has got but half a face;
Janus, since thou hast a brace,
To my lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.
God of Time, if you be wise,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward sight?
Well, if you could lose it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vast
Sees the glorious ages past?
Happy nation, were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind!
Drown your morals, madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back.
Give me time when coming on;
Who regards him when he's gone?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New-years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new-year's lace
Burnishes an old-year's face.
Give me velvet and quadrille,
I'll have youth and beauty still.
[Footnote 1: "Matutine pater, seu Jane libentius audis
Unde homines operum primos vitaeque labores
Instituunt."—HOR., Sat., ii, vi, 20.]
[Footnote 2: Ireland.—H.]
A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD
WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE
Jason, the valiant prince of Greece,
From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece;
We comb the wool, refine the stuff,
For modern Jasons, that's enough.
Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1]
Old Jason would have less to brag on.
[Footnote 1: England.—H.]
TO A FRIEND WHO HAD BEEN MUCH ABUSED IN MANY INVETERATE LIBELS
The greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night
And fortune help the murderer in his flight;
The vilest ruffian may commit a rape,
Yet safe from injured innocence escape;
And calumny, by working under ground,
Can, unrevenged, the greatest merit wound.
What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose
To live obscure, and have no fame to lose?
By Censure[1] frighted out of Honour's road,
Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd?
Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate,
And buy distinction at the dearest rate.
[Footnote 1: See ante, p. 160, the poem entitled "On
Censure."—W. E. B..]
CATULLUS DE LESBIA[1]
Lesbia for ever on me rails,
To talk of me she never fails.
Now, hang me, but for all her art,
I find that I have gain'd her heart.
My proof is this: I plainly see,
The case is just the same with me;
I curse her every hour sincerely,
Yet, hang me but I love her dearly.
[Footnote 1: "Lesbia mi dicit semper mala nec tacet unquam
De me: Lesbia me dispeream nisi amat.
Quo signo? quia sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam
Assidue; verum dispeream nisi amo."
Catulli Carmina, xcii.—W. E. B.]
ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY
I marched three miles through scorching sand,
With zeal in heart, and notes in hand;
I rode four more to Great St. Mary,
Using four legs, when two were weary:
To three fair virgins I did tie men,
In the close bands of pleasing Hymen;
I dipp'd two babes in holy water,
And purified their mother after.
Within an hour and eke a half,
I preach'd three congregations deaf;
Where, thundering out, with lungs long-winded,
I chopp'd so fast, that few there minded.
My emblem, the laborious sun,
Saw all these mighty labours done
Before one race of his was run.
All this perform'd by Robert Hewit:
What mortal else could e'er go through it!
TO BETTY, THE GRISETTE
Queen of wit and beauty, Betty,
Never may the Muse forget ye,
How thy face charms every shepherd,
Spotted over like a leopard!
And thy freckled neck, display'd,
Envy breeds in every maid;
Like a fly-blown cake of tallow,
Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow;
Or a tawny speckled pippin,
Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping.
And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd,
Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd.
Sets of phrases, cut and dry,
Evermore thy tongue supply;
And thy memory is loaded
With old scraps from plays exploded;
Stock'd with repartees and jokes,
Suited to all Christian folks:
Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes,
Blunder'd out a thousand times;
Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing,
Which can ne'er be worse for wearing.
Picking wit among collegians,
In the playhouse upper regions;
Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery,
Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery.
But thy merit is thy failing,
And thy raillery is railing.
Thus with talents well endued
To be scurrilous and rude;
When you pertly raise your snout,
Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout;
This among Hibernian asses
For sheer wit and humour passes.
Thus indulgent Chloe, bit,
Swears you have a world of wit.
EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1]
Who can believe with common sense,
A bacon slice gives God offence;
Or, how a herring has a charm
Almighty vengeance to disarm?
Wrapp'd up in majesty divine,
Does he regard on what we dine?
[Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day,
called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved
him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which
are translated above:
"Peut-on croire avec bon sens
Qu'un lardon le mil en colère,
Ou, que manger un hareng,
C'est un secret pour lui plaire?
En sa gloire envelopé,
Songe-t-il bien de nos soupés?"—H.]
EPIGRAM[1]
As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to the street, and fled for his life:
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventured to give him some sober advice—
But Tom is a person of honour so nice,
Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning.
Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life;
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife.
[Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by
Stella.—Forster.]
EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1]
When Margery chastises Ned,
She calls it combing of his head;
A kinder wife was never born:
She combs his head, and finds him horn.
[Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's
volume.—Forster.]
JOAN CUDGELS NED
Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully;
Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully.
Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan,
She dares not say her life's her own.
Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned,
And every day she combs his head.
VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS
Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise
With lofty branches to the skies,
Have large proportion'd roots that grow
With equal longitude below:
Two bards that now in fashion reign,
Most aptly this device explain:
If this to clouds and stars will venture,
That creeps as far to reach the centre;
Or, more to show the thing I mean,
Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen
A skill'd mechanic, that has stood
High on a length of prostrate wood,
Who hired a subterraneous friend
To take his iron by the end;
But which excell'd was never found,
The man above or under ground.
The moral is so plain to hit,
That, had I been the god of wit,
Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather,
Should Young and Philips drudge together.
EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2]
Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly.
Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy;
For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.
Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear:
But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year;
A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.
Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd;
Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost;
The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.
Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried:
To live without both full three days he tried;
But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.
Dick left a pattern few will copy after:
Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water;
For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.
Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late;
The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate;
And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate.
Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day,
Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday,
And here rest——sic transit gloria mundi!
[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married
to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived
her but two days.—F.
The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in
his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy
Stopford's Chair." See ante, p.85.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest
daughter.—F.]
VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT
My latest tribute here I send,
With this let your collection end.
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction.
DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY
Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass,
That you, who know music no more than an ass,
That you who so lately were writing of drapiers,
Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers?
To act such an opera once in a year,
So offensive to every true Protestant ear,
With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing,
Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in,
No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace,
Durst there show his right, or most reverend face:
How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets,
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets!
[The rest is wanting.]
AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION
The furniture that best doth please
St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these:
The knife and fork with which I eat;
And next the pot that boils the meat;
The next to be preferr'd, I think,
Is the glass in which I drink;
The shelves on which my books I keep
And the bed on which I sleep;
An antique elbow-chair between,
Big enough to hold the Dean;
And the stove that gives delight
In the cold bleak wintry night:
To these we add a thing below,
More for use reserved than show:
These are what the Dean do please;
All superfluous are but these.
EPITAPH
INSCRIBED ON A MARBLE TABLET, IN BERKELEY CHURCH, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
H. S. E.
[*text centered]
CAROLUS Comes de BERKELEY, Vicecomes DURSLEY,
Baro BERKELEY, de Berkeley Cast., MOWBRAY, SEGRAVE,
Et BRUCE, è nobilissimo Ordine Balnei Eques,
Vir ad genus quod spectat et proavos usquequaque nobilis
Et longo si quis alius procerum stemmate editus;
Muniis etiam tarn illustri stirpi dignis insignitus.
Siquidem a GULIELMO III° ad ordines foederati Belgii
Ablegatus et Plenipotentiarius Extraordinarius
Rebus, non Britanniae tantùm, sed totius fere Europae
(Tunc temporis praesertim arduis) per annos V. incubuit,
Quam felici diligentia, fide quam intemerata,
Ex illo discas, Lector, quod, superstite patre,
In magnatum ordinem adscisci meruerit.
Fuit à sanctioribus consiliis et Regi GULIEL. et ANNAE Reginae
E proregibus Hiberniae secundus,
Comitatum civitatumque Glocest. et Brist. Dominus Locumtenens,
Surriae et Glocest. Gustos Rot., Urbis Glocest. magnus
Senescallus, Arcis sancti de Briavell Castellanus, Guardianus
Forestae de Dean.
Denique ad Turcarum primum, deinde ad Romam Imperatorem
Cum Legatus Extraordinarius designatus esset,
Quo minus has etiam ornaret provincias
Obstitit adversa corporis valetudo.
Sed restat adhuc, prae quo sordescunt caetera,
Honos verus, stabilis, et vel morti cedere nescius
Quòd veritatem evangelicam seriò amplexus;
Erga Deum pius, erga pauperes munificus,
Adversùs omnes aequus et benevolus,
In Christo jam placidè obdormit
Cum eodem olim regnaturus unà.
Natus VIII° April. MDCXLIX. denatus
XXIV° Septem. MDCCX. aetat. suae LXII.
EPITAPH
ON FREDERICK, DUKE OF SCHOMBERG[1]
[*text centered]
Hic infra situm est corpus
FREDERICI DUCIS DE SCHOMBERG.
ad BUDINDAM occisi, A.D. 1690.
DECANUS et CAPITULUM maximopere etiam
atque etiam petierunt,
UT HAEREDES DUCIS monumentum
In memoriam PARENTIS erigendum curarent:
Sed postquam per epistolas, per amicos,
diu ac saepè orando nil profecêre;
Hunc demum lapidem ipsi statuerunt,
Saltem[2] ut scias, hospes,
Ubinam terrarum SCONBERGENSIS cineres
delitescunt
"Plus potuit fama virtutis apud alienos,
Quam sanguinis proximitas apud suos."
A.D. 1731.
[Footnote 1: The Duke was unhappily killed in crossing the River Boyne,
July, 1690, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the dean and
chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own
expense.—N.]
[Footnote 2: The words with which Dr. Swift first concluded the epitaph
were, "Saltem ut sciat viator indignabundus, quali in cellulâ tanti
ductoris cineres delitescunt."—N.]
VERSES WRITTEN DURING LORD CARTERET'S ADMINISTRATION OF IRELAND
As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals
against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from
his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to
himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier
Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the
Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High
Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The
task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of
Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was
equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux
esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of
a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation.
These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here
thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.—Scott.
AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET