X

     Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways,
       And ev'n my very thoughts transfers
       And changes all to beauty and the praise
         Of that proud tyrant sex of hers.
         The rebel Muse, alas! takes part,
         But with my own rebellious heart,
     And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire
           To fan th'unhappy fire.
         Cruel unknown! what is it you intend?
     Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend!
       Rather forgive what my first transport said:
     May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed,
       Lie upon you and on your children's head!
     For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see
       The fatal time when that could be!)
       Have even increased their pride and cruelty.
       Woman seems now above all vanity grown,
       Still boasting of her great unknown
     Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile,
         Or the vast charges of a smile;
       Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late
       You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate,
     And which they've now the consciences to weigh
         In the same balance with our tears,
       And with such scanty wages pay
       The bondage and the slavery of years.
     Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us;
           And had they common generosity,
             They would not use us thus.
         Well—though you've raised her to this high degree,
         Ourselves are raised as well as she;
       And, spite of all that they or you can do,
     'Tis pride and happiness enough to me,
     Still to be of the same exalted sex with you.

     XI

         Alas, how fleeting and how vain
     Is even the nobler man, our learning and our wit!
             I sigh whene'er I think of it:
           As at the closing an unhappy scene
           Of some great king and conqueror's death,
         When the sad melancholy Muse
     Stays but to catch his utmost breath.
     I grieve, this nobler work, most happily begun,
     So quickly and so wonderfully carried on,
     May fall at last to interest, folly, and abuse.
           There is a noontide in our lives,
           Which still the sooner it arrives,
     Although we boast our winter sun looks bright,
     And foolishly are glad to see it at its height,
     Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night.
         No conquest ever yet begun,
     And by one mighty hero carried to its height,
     E'er flourished under a successor or a son;
     It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it pass'd,
     And vanish'd to an empty title in the last.
       For, when the animating mind is fled,
         (Which nature never can retain,
           Nor e'er call back again,)
     The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead.

     XII

         And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare
         With what unhappy men shall dare
       To be successors to these great unknown,
         On learning's high-establish'd throne.
         Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride,
     Numberless nations, stretching far and wide,
     Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth
         From Ignorance's universal North,
     And with blind rage break all this peaceful government:
     Yet shall the traces of your wit remain,
       Like a just map, to tell the vast extent
       Of conquest in your short and happy reign:
         And to all future mankind shew
         How strange a paradox is true,
       That men who lived and died without a name
     Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame.

     [Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses,
     said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this
     denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to
     Dryden."—Johnson in his "Life of Swift."—W. E. B.
     In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton,
     the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and
     Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was
     prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.—Swift.]

     [Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became
     fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana.
     See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which
     made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and
     mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii,
     9.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.—W. E. B.]

     Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power,
       The Muse was called in a poetic hour,
     And insolently thrice the slighted maid
     Dared to suspend her unregarded aid;
     Then with that grief we form in spirits divine,
     Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine.
       Once highly honoured! false is the pretence
     You make to truth, retreat, and innocence!
     Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down
     The most ungenerous vices of the town;
     Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before
     I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more,
     Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn,
     So much in mode, so very city-born;
     'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send,
     Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend;
     But find some new address, some fresh deceit,
     Nor practise such an antiquated cheat;
     These are the beaten methods of the stews,
     Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use,
     Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach,
     By prostituting her they first debauch.
       Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame
     This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame;
     First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire,
     Which soon his merit forced her to inspire;
     Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid,
     The greatest compliment she ever made,
     And wisely judge, no power beneath divine
     Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine;
     For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd
     A mighty gulf, unpassable betwixt.
       Nor tax the goddess of a mean design
     To praise your parts by publishing of mine;
     That be my thought when some large bulky writ
     Shows in the front the ambition of my wit;
     There to surmount what bears me up, and sing
     Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing.
     This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower,
     Were my desires but heighten'd to my power.
       Godlike the force of my young Congreve's bays,
     Softening the Muse's thunder into praise;
     Sent to assist an old unvanquish'd pride
     That looks with scorn on half mankind beside;
     A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate,
     Gets between them and my resentment's weight,
     Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men,
     T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen.
       Thus I look down with mercy on the age,
     By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage:
     For never did poetic mind before
     Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore;
     The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind
     Serves by retail to furnish half mankind.
     With indignation I behold your wit
     Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit,
     By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain
     From broken scraps and filings of your brain.
     Through native dross your share is hardly known,
     And by short views mistook for all their own;
     So small the gains those from your wit do reap,
     Who blend it into folly's larger heap,
     Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pass,
     When some rough hand breaks the assembling glass.
       Yet want your critics no just cause to rail,
     Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal.
     These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain
     With those they rob, by what their trade does gain.
     Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds
     O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds,
     Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam,
     As ancient nature's modern masters dream;
     This bids some curious praters here below
     Call Titan sick, because their sight is so;
     And well, methinks, does this allusion fit
     To scribblers, and the god of light and wit;
     Those who by wild delusions entertain
     A lust of rhyming for a poet's vein,
     Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night,
     But can no more obscure my Congreve's light,
     Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray
     Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day.
       What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit?
     Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit?
     How would you blush the shameful birth to hear
     Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear;
     For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since,
     Round all the circles of impertinence,
     Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie
     Before it grew a city butterfly;
     I'm sure I found them other kind of things
     Than those with backs of silk and golden wings;
     A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise
     As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies:
     For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread,
     And court in prologues, all are country bred;
     Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins
     Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns;
     Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux
     Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows:
     These are the lords of the poetic schools,
     Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules;
     Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds
     O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods;
     Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes,
     Which worshipp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes;
     And can you think the wise forbear to laugh
     At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf?
        Haply you judge these lines severely writ
     Against the proud usurpers of the pit;
     Stay while I tell my story, short, and true;
     To draw conclusions shall be left to you;
     Nor need I ramble far to force a rule,
     But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school.
        Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent
     With other cattle to the city went;
     Where having cast his coat, and well pursued
     The methods most in fashion to be lewd,
     Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down,
     Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town;
     A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit,
     Confounded in that Babel of the pit;
     Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild,
     Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child;
     Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts,
     Before the play, or else between the acts;
     Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds
     Should spring such short and transitory kinds,
     Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote,
     Last just as long as every cuckoo's note:
     What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate!
     'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate,
     My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed
     Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed:
     When man's ill genius to my presence sent
     This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant;
     Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace,
     Squander'd his noisy talents to my face;
     Named every player on his fingers' ends,
     Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends;
     Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease
     Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2]
     Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd,
     Who heard you meant to write heroics next;
     For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite,
     And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night.
       Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams,
     Rendering shades things, and substances of names;
     Such high companions may delusion keep,
     Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep.
     As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown,
     Render'd the topping beauty of the town,
     Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot,
     To boast of favours that he never got;
     Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate,
     Brings his good parts and breeding in debate;
     And not the meanest coxcomb you can find,
     But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind;
     Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown
     To every lewd pretender of the town.
     Troth, I could pity you; but this is it,
     You find, to be the fashionable wit;
     These are the slaves whom reputation chains,
     Whose maintenance requires no help from brains.
     For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit,
     Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit;
     Whose name must not within my lines be shown,
     Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4]
     Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place,
     And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face;
     I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass,
     Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass;
     Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears,
     Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs.
       Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent
     In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant;
     In how ill season her resentments rule,
     What's that to her if mankind be a fool?
     Happy beyond a private Muse's fate,
     In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5]
     Where though her elder sisters crowding throng,
     She still is welcome with her innocent song;
     Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know,
     What poor regards would merit all below!
     How proudly would he haste the joy to meet,
     And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet!
       Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave
     Gives murmuring passage to a lasting wave:
     'Tis the world's watery hour-glass streaming fast,
     Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past;
     Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt,
     And the young Muse's early favour felt;
     Druid, a name she does with pride repeat,
     Confessing Albion once her darling seat;
     Far in this primitive cell might we pursue
     Our predecessors' footsteps still in view;
     Here would we sing—But, ah! you think I dream,
     And the bad world may well believe the same;
     Yes: you are all malicious slanders by,
     While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I.
       Since thus I wander from my first intent,
     Nor am that grave adviser which I meant,
     Take this short lesson from the god of bays,
     And let my friend apply it as he please:
     Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod,
           But give the vigorous fancy room.
       For when, like stupid alchymists, you try
           To fix this nimble god,
             This volatile mercury,
       The subtile spirit all flies up in fume;
       Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find
     More than fade insipid mixture left behind.[6]
       While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come,
     And on my verse pronounce their saucy doom;
     The Muse like some bright country virgin shows
     Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux;
     They, in their lewd and fashionable prate,
     Rally her dress, her language, and her gait;
     Spend their base coin before the bashful maid,
     Current like copper, and as often paid:
     She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep
     Near better animals, her father's sheep,
     Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng,
     To think what cattle she is got among;
     But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd,
     In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid.
       'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell,
     The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell;
     Faint inspiration sickens as she flies,
     Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies.
       In this descending sheet you'll haply find
     Some short refreshment for your weary mind,
     Nought it contains is common or unclean,
     And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7]

     [Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an
     estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor
     Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and post, p. 43.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where
     the wits of that time used to assemble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and
     notes, edit. 1786.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite
     multitude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name
     mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together
     with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.—S.]

     [Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently
     gives the name of Apollo.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it
     is lost.—Swift.]

     [Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of
     "Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."—W. E. B.]

     Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike
     At distant hours the mind with forms so like!
     Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain
     Meets, and salutes her sister link again;
     Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight,
     Comes back with joy to its own seat at night;
     Or whether dead Imagination's ghost
     Oft hovers where alive it haunted most;
     Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run,
     Turns up old objects to the soul her sun;
     Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride
     O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride:
       Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream,
     Where her own Temple was her darling theme;
     There first the visionary sound was heard,
     When to poetic view the Muse appear'd.
     Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray
     Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day;
     Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears,
     Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears;
     Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show
     Approaching joy at strife with parting woe.
       As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud,
     Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud,
     Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace,
     Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face;
     When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown,
     A sign God's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown:
     Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine
     Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine.
       What mortal change does in thy face appear,
     Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here!
     With how undecent clouds are overcast
     Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past!
     Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring,
     Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing:
       As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds,
     Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds,
     And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear
     Late I beheld on every face appear;
     Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great,
     Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate;
     Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long
     Not dared to injure with our lowly song;
     Sprung from a better world, and chosen then
     The best companion for the best of men:
     As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage,
     Lives pious witness of a better age;
     So men may see what once was womankind,
     In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind.
       You that would grief describe, come here and trace
     Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face:
     Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart
     Farther than its own palace in her heart:
     Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel,
     At least confine the tyrant to his cell.
     And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen
     Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen?
     Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook,
     And grief flung sables on each menial look;
     The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul,
     That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole;
     So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay,
     Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day;
     So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread
     That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.—
     Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ
     The fancy furnish'd by returning joy;
     And to mistaken man these truths rehearse,
     Who dare revile the integrity of verse:
     Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!—
     But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not;
     Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect
     Thy just submission for this bold neglect.
       Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use
     At the divine appearance of the Muse,
     Which to divulge might shake profane belief,
     And tell the irreligion of my grief;
     Grief that excused the tribute of my knees,
     And shaped my passion in such words as these!
       Malignant goddess! bane to my repose,
     Thou universal cause of all my woes;
     Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late
     A poor amusement for my scorn and hate;
     The malice thou inspirest I never fail
     On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail;
     Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort,
     Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort:
     Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth,
     Deals out to man the planet of his birth:
     But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine,
     And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine:
     Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown,
     That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own,
     But a wild form dependent on the brain,
     Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein;
     Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight,
     Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light;
     Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies,
     Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes:
     In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name,
     A walking vapour, like thy sister fame.
     But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate,
     A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create;
     Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay,
     So highly courted by the brisk and gay?
     Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look
     On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook;
     Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief,
     Assign'd for life to unremitting grief;
     For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days,
     If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays.
     Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight,
     And treads so soft, so easy, and so light,
     That we the wretched, creeping far behind,
     Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find;
     Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born
     With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3]
     Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks,
     Salutes the weary traveller as he walks;
     But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace
     Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face.
     Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows
     Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows:
     See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear,
     These are the tyrant's trophies of a year;
     Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled,
     Despair and he lodge ever in its stead;
     March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow,
     Still scattering desolation where they go.
     To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind,
     Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined;
     To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide,
     That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride;
     From thee whatever virtue takes its rise,
     Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice;
     Such were thy rules to be poetically great:
     "Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit;
     Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid;
     Learn to disdain their mercenary aid;
     Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall,
     Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4]
     And since unhappy distance thus denies
     T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise;
     Since thy few ill-presented graces seem
     To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem—"
        Madness like this no fancy ever seized,
     Still to be cheated, never to be pleased;
     Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds
     Is all the poor content delusion finds.—
     There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour
     I here renounce thy visionary power;
     And since thy essence on my breath depends
     Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends.

     [Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter
     Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to
     Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at
     Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died
     in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and
     amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his
     wife.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3:  "—when swift Camilla scours the plain,
         Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main."
     POPE, Essay on Criticism, 372-3.]

     [Footnote 4:    "Hic murus aheneus esto,
       Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa."
     HOR., Epist. 1, I, 60.]

     Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part,
     And think thou seest my owner's heart,
     Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
     As hard, as senseless, and as light;
     Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes,
     But hid with caution from the wise.
     Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;"
     Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:"
     Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;"
     There, in her own, "For an el breth:"
     Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!"
     There, "A safe way to use perfume:"
     Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux;
     On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"—
     "Madam, I die without your grace"—
     "Item, for half a yard of lace."
     Who that had wit would place it here,
     For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer?
     To think that your brains' issue is
     Exposed to th'excrement of his,
     In pow'r of spittle and a clout,
     Whene'er he please, to blot it out;
     And then, to heighten the disgrace,
     Clap his own nonsense in the place.
     Whoe'er expects to hold his part
     In such a book, and such a heart,
     If he be wealthy, and a fool,
     Is in all points the fittest tool;
     Of whom it may be justly said,
     He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.

     This, the most humorous example of vers de société in the English
     language, well illustrates the position of a parson in a family of
     distinction at that period.—W. E. B.

     To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1]
       The humble petition of Frances Harris,
     Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries;
     Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber,
       because I was cold;
     And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence,
       (besides farthings) in money and gold;
     So because I had been buying things for my lady last night,
     I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right.
     Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,
     Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock,
     I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock.
     So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was
       unript,
     And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt;
     Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed;
     And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead.
     So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light;
     But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have
       sunk outright.
     "Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"—"Indeed," says I, "never worse:
     But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?"
     "Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!"
     "Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a  plain case."
     So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm:
     However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.
     So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think,
     But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.
     So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round,
     And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was
       found.
     So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing:
     Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing.
     "Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have
       had?"
     "Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad:
     For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail."
     "Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail."
     Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years
       come spring,
     And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing."
     "Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord
       Shrewsbury's,
     Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of gooseberries."
     So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief:
     (Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:)
     However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about:
     "Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out:
     'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10]
     But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.
     'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole
       in my wages:
     Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.
     Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands,
     That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."
     "The devil take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!"
     So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught.
     So, you know, what could I say to her any more?
     I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.
     Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man:
     "No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon."
     So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart,
     Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part.
     So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,
     "Parson" said I, "can you cast a nativity, when a body's plunder'd?"
     (Now you must know, he hates to be called Parson, like the devil!)
     "Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;
     If your money be gone, as a learned Divine says,[12] d'ye see,
     You are no text for my handling; so take that from me:
     I was never taken for a Conjurer before, I'd have you to know."
     "Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;
     You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife;
     I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life."
     With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,
     "Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.
     Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do?
     I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!"
     Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry;
     I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will
      I."
     Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to?
     For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you.
       The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies'
       protection,
     And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection;
     And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter,
     With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:
     And then your poor petitioner, both night and day,
     Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his trade,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever
       pray.

     [Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.]

     [Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.]

     [Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.]

     [Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.]

     [Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.]

     [Footnote 6: Galway.]

     [Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed
     the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.]

     [Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.]

     [Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st
     Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p.
     79—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 10: A usual saying of hers.—Swift.]

     [Footnote 11: Swift.]

     [Footnote 12: Dr. Bolton, one of the chaplains.—Faulkner.]

     [Footnote 13: A cant word of Lord and Lady Berkeley to Mrs. Harris.]

     [Footnote 14: Swift elsewhere terms his own calling a trade. See his
     letter to Pope, 29th Sept., 1725, cited in Introduction to Gulliver,
     "Prose Works," vol. viii, p. xxv.—W. E. B.]

     My Lord,[1] to find out who must deal,
       Delivers cards about,
     But the first knave does seldom fail
       To find the doctor out.

     But then his honour cried, Gadzooks!
       And seem'd to knit his brow:
     For on a knave he never looks
       But he thinks upon Jack How.[2]

     My lady, though she is no player,
       Some bungling partner takes,
     And, wedged in corner of a chair,
       Takes snuff, and holds the stakes.

     Dame Floyd[3] looks out in grave suspense
       For pair royals and sequents;
     But, wisely cautious of her pence,
       The castle seldom frequents.

     Quoth Herries,[4] fairly putting cases,
       I'd won it, on my word,
     If I had but a pair of aces,
       And could pick up a third.

     But Weston has a new-cast gown
       On Sundays to be fine in,
     And, if she can but win a crown,
       'Twill just new dye the lining.

     "With these is Parson Swift,[5]
       Not knowing how to spend his time,
     Does make a wretched shift,
       To deafen them with puns and rhyme."

     [Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley.]

     [Footnote 2: Paymaster to the Forces, "Prose Works," ii, 23.]

     [Footnote 3: A beauty and a favourite with Swift. See his verses on her,
     post, p. 50. He often mentions her in the Journal to Stella, especially
     with respect to her having the smallpox, and her recovery. "Prose Works,"
     ii, 138, 141, 143. 259.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Mrs. Frances Harris, the heroine of the preceding poem.]

     [Footnote 5: Written by Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards wife of Sir John
     Germaine.]

     I

     Once on a time, as old stories rehearse,
       A friar would need show his talent in Latin;
     But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse,
       Because he could find no word to come pat in;
                Then all in the place
                He left a void space,
         And so went to bed in a desperate case:
     When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle!
     He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.
       CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't;
         Who would not write verses with such an assistant?

     II

     This put me the friar into an amazement;
       For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite;
     That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement;
       And it needs must be one that could both read and write;
              Yet he did not know,
              If it were friend or foe,
       Or whether it came from above or below;
     Howe'er, it was civil, in angel or elf,
     For he ne'er could have fill'd it so well of himself.
         CHO. Let censuring, &c.

     III

     Even so Master Doctor had puzzled his brains
       In making a ballad, but was at a stand;
     He had mixt little wit with a great deal of pains,
       When he found a new help from invisible hand.
             Then, good Doctor Swift
             Pay thanks for the gift,
       For you freely must own you were at a dead lift;
     And, though some malicious young spirit did do't,
     You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.
         CHO. Let censuring, &c.

     [Footnote 1: Lady Betty Berkeley, finding the preceding verses in the
     author's room unfinished, wrote under them the concluding stanza, which
     gave occasion to this ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit
     hand, as if a third person had done it.—Swift.

     The Cut-Purse is a ballad sung by Nightingale, the ballad-singer, in
     Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," Act III, Sc. I. The burthen of the
     ballad is:
          "Youth, youth, thou had'st better been starv'd by thy nurse
           Than live to be hang'd for cutting a purse."—W. E. B.]

     When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,[1]
       Statesmen and mob expected wonders,
     Nor thought to find so great a peer
       Ere a week past committing blunders.
     Till on a day cut out by fate,
       When folks came thick to make their court,
     Out slipt a mystery of state
       To give the town and country sport.
     Now enters Bush[2] with new state airs,
       His lordship's premier minister;
     And who in all profound affairs,
       Is held as needful as his clyster.[2]
     With head reclining on his shoulder,
       He deals and hears mysterious chat,
     While every ignorant beholder
       Asks of his neighbour, who is that?
     With this he put up to my lord,
       The courtiers kept their distance due,
     He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word;
       Then to a corner both withdrew.
     Imagine now my lord and Bush
       Whispering in junto most profound,
     Like good King Phys and good King Ush,[3]
       While all the rest stood gaping round.
     At length a spark, not too well bred,
       Of forward face and ear acute,
     Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head,
       To overhear the grand dispute;
     To learn what Northern kings design,
       Or from Whitehall some new express,
     Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin;
       For sure (thought he) it can't be less.
     My lord, said Bush, a friend and I,
       Disguised in two old threadbare coats,
     Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy
       How markets went for hay and oats.
     With that he draws two handfuls out,
       The one was oats, the other hay;
     Puts this to's excellency's snout,
       And begs he would the other weigh.
     My lord seems pleased, but still directs
       By all means to bring down the rates;
     Then, with a congee circumflex,
       Bush, smiling round on all, retreats.
     Our listener stood awhile confused,
       But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't,
     Enraged to see the world abused,
       By two such whispering kings of Brentford.[4]