[Footnote 1: I here give the original version of this poem, which Forster
     found in Swift's handwriting at Narford; and which has never been
     published. It is well known that, at Addison's suggestion, Swift made
     extensive changes in this, "one of the happiest of his poems," concerning
     which Forster says, in his "Life of Swift," at p. 165: "The poem, as
     printed, contains one hundred and seventy-eight lines; the poem, as I
     found it at Narford, has two hundred and thirty; and the changes in the
     latter bringing it into the condition of the former, by which only it has
     been thus far known, comprise the omission of ninety-six lines, the
     addition of forty-four, and the alteration of twenty-two. The question
     can now be discussed whether or not the changes were improvements, and,
     in my opinion, the decision must be adverse to Addison."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: The "village hard by Rixham" of the original has as little
     connection with "Chilthorne" as the "village down in Kent" of the altered
     version, and Swift had probably no better reason than his rhyme for
     either.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 3: See the next poem for note on this line. Chevy Chase seems
     more suitable to the characters than the Joan of Arc of the altered
     version.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, M.
     Colbert Planché's "Costume," p. 395.—W. E. B.]

     In ancient times, as story tells,
     The saints would often leave their cells,
     And stroll about, but hide their quality,
     To try good people's hospitality.
       It happen'd on a winter night,
     As authors of the legend write,
     Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
     Taking their tour in masquerade,
     Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
     To a small village down in Kent;
     Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
     They begg'd from door to door in vain,
     Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win;
     But not a soul would let them in.
       Our wand'ring saints, in woful state,
     Treated at this ungodly rate,
     Having thro' all the village past,
     To a small cottage came at last
     Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
     Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;
     Who kindly did these saints invite
     In his poor hut to pass the night;
     And then the hospitable sire
     Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;
     While he from out the chimney took
     A flitch of bacon off the hook,
     And freely from the fattest side
     Cut out large slices to be fry'd;
     Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink,
     Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
     And saw it fairly twice go round;
     Yet (what was wonderful) they found
     'Twas still replenished to the top,
     As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
     The good old couple were amaz'd,
     And often on each other gaz'd;
     For both were frighten'd to the heart,
     And just began to cry, "What art!"
     Then softly turn'd aside, to view
     Whether the lights were burning blue.
     The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
     Told them their calling and their errand:
     "Good folk, you need not be afraid,
     We are but saints," the hermits said;
     "No hurt shall come to you or yours:
     But for that pack of churlish boors,
     Not fit to live on Christian ground,
     They and their houses shall be drown'd;
     While you shall see your cottage rise,
     And grow a church before your eyes."
       They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
     The roof began to mount aloft;
     Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter;
     The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
       The chimney widen'd, and grew higher
     Became a steeple with a spire.
       The kettle to the top was hoist,
     And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
     But with the upside down, to show
     Its inclination for below:
     In vain; for a superior force
     Applied at bottom stops its course:
     Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
     'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
       A wooden jack, which had almost
     Lost by disuse the art to roast,
     A sudden alteration feels,
     Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
     And, what exalts the wonder more,
     The number made the motion slower.
     The flyer, though it had leaden feet,
     Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't;
     But, slacken'd by some secret power,
     Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
     The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
     Had never left each other's side;
     The chimney to a steeple grown,
     The jack would not be left alone;
     But, up against the steeple rear'd,
     Became a clock, and still adher'd;
     And still its love to household cares,
     By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
     Warning the cookmaid not to burn
     That roast meat, which it cannot turn.
     The groaning-chair began to crawl,
     Like an huge snail, half up the wall;
     There stuck aloft in public view,
     And with small change, a pulpit grew.
       The porringers, that in a row
     Hung high, and made a glitt'ring show,
     To a less noble substance chang'd,
     Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
       The ballads, pasted on the wall,
     Of Joan[2] of France, and English Mall,[3]
     Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
     The little Children in the Wood,
     Now seem'd to look abundance better,
     Improved in picture, size, and letter:
     And, high in order plac'd, describe
     The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.[4]
       A bedstead of the antique mode,
     Compact of timber many a load,
     Such as our ancestors did use,
     Was metamorphos'd into pews;
     Which still their ancient nature keep
     By lodging folk disposed to sleep.
       The cottage, by such feats as these,
     Grown to a church by just degrees,
     The hermits then desired their host
     To ask for what he fancy'd most.
     Philemon, having paused a while,
     Return'd them thanks in homely style;
     Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
     Methinks, I still would call it mine.
     I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
     Make me the parson if you please."
       He spoke, and presently he feels
     His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
     He sees, yet hardly can believe,
     About each arm a pudding sleeve;
     His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
     And both assumed a sable hue;
     But, being old, continued just
     As threadbare, and as full of dust.
     His talk was now of tithes and dues:
     Could smoke his pipe, and read the news;
     Knew how to preach old sermons next,
     Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
     At christ'nings well could act his part,
     And had the service all by heart;
     Wish'd women might have children fast,
     And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
     Against dissenters would repine,
     And stood up firm for "right divine;"
     Found his head fill'd with many a system;
     But classic authors,—he ne'er mist 'em.
       Thus having furbish'd up a parson,
     Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
     Instead of homespun coifs, were seen
     Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;
     Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
     Became black satin, flounced with lace.
     "Plain Goody" would no longer down,
     'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown.
     Philemon was in great surprise,
     And hardly could believe his eyes.
     Amaz'd to see her look so prim,
     And she admir'd as much at him.
       Thus happy in their change of life,
     Were several years this man and wife:
     When on a day, which prov'd their last,
     Discoursing o'er old stories past,
     They went by chance, amidst their talk,
     [5]To the churchyard to take a walk;
     When Baucis hastily cry'd out,
     "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"—
     "Sprout;" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us?
     I hope you don't believe me jealous!
     But yet, methinks, I feel it true,
     And really yours is budding too—Nay,—now
     I cannot stir my foot;
     It feels as if 'twere taking root."
       Description would but tire my Muse,
     In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
     Old Goodman Dobson of the Green
     Remembers he the trees has seen;
     He'll talk of them from noon till night,
     And goes with folk to show the sight;
     On Sundays, after evening prayer,
     He gathers all the parish there;
     Points out the place of either yew,
     Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:
     Till once a parson of our town,
     To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
     At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd
     How much the other tree was griev'd,
     Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted,
     So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.

     [Footnote 1: This is the version of the poem as altered by Swift in
     accordance with Addison's suggestions.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: La Pucelle d'Orléans. See "Hudibras," "Lady's Answer," verse
     285, and note in Grey's edition, ii, 439.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Mary Ambree, on whose exploits in Flanders the popular
     ballad was written. The line in the text is from "Hudibras," Part I,
     c. 2, 367, where she is compared with Trulla:
       "A bold virago, stout and tall,
       As Joan of France, or English Mall."
     The ballad is preserved in Percy's "Reliques of English Poetry," vol. ii,
     239.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: The tribes of Israel were sometimes distinguished in country
     churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.—Dublin Edition.]

     [Footnote 5: In the churchyard to fetch a walk.—Dublin Edition.]

THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE
     1708

     When Mother Cludd[1] had rose from play,
     And call'd to take the cards away,
     Van saw, but seem'd not to regard,
     How Miss pick'd every painted card,
     And, busy both with hand and eye,
     Soon rear'd a house two stories high.
     Van's genius, without thought or lecture
     Is hugely turn'd to architecture:
     He view'd the edifice, and smiled,
     Vow'd it was pretty for a child:
     It was so perfect in its kind,
     He kept the model in his mind.
       But, when he found the boys at play
     And saw them dabbling in their clay,
     He stood behind a stall to lurk,
     And mark the progress of their work;
     With true delight observed them all
     Raking up mud to build a wall.
     The plan he much admired, and took
     The model in his table-book:
     Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
     And so resolved a house to build:
     A real house, with rooms and stairs,
     Five times at least as big as theirs;
     Taller than Miss's by two yards;
     Not a sham thing of play or cards:
     And so he did; for, in a while,
     He built up such a monstrous pile,
     That no two chairmen could be found
     Able to lift it from the ground.
     Still at Whitehall it stands in view,
     Just in the place where first it grew;
     There all the little schoolboys run,
     Envying to see themselves outdone.
       From such deep rudiments as these,
     Van is become, by due degrees,
     For building famed, and justly reckon'd,
     At court,[2] Vitruvius the Second:[3]
     No wonder, since wise authors show,
     That best foundations must be low:
     And now the duke has wisely ta'en him
     To be his architect at Blenheim.
       But raillery at once apart,
     If this rule holds in every art;
     Or if his grace were no more skill'd in
     The art of battering walls than building,
     We might expect to see next year
     A mouse-trap man chief engineer.

     [Footnote 1: See ante, p. 51, "The Reverse."—W, E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Vitruvius Pollio, author of the treatise "De
     Architectura."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Sir John Vanbrugh held the office of Comptroller-General of
     his majesty's works.—Scott.]

     Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guest,
     Though we all took it for a jest:
     Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd,
     Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd.
     Strange, an astrologer should die
     Without one wonder in the sky;
     Not one of all his crony stars
     To pay their duty at his hearse!
     No meteor, no eclipse appear'd!
     No comet with a flaming beard!
     The sun hath rose and gone to bed,
     Just as if Partridge were not dead;
     Nor hid himself behind the moon
     To make a dreadful night at noon.
     He at fit periods walks through Aries,
     Howe'er our earthly motion varies;
     And twice a-year he'll cut th' Equator,
     As if there had been no such matter.
       Some wits have wonder'd what analogy
     There is 'twixt cobbling[2] and astrology;
     How Partridge made his optics rise
     From a shoe-sole to reach the skies.
       A list the cobbler's temples ties,
     To keep the hair out of his eyes;
     From whence 'tis plain the diadem
     That princes wear derives from them;
     And therefore crowns are now-a-days
     Adorn'd with golden stars and rays;
     Which plainly shows the near alliance
     'Twixt cobbling and the planet's science.
       Besides, that slow-paced sign Böötes,
     As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis;
     But Partridge ended all disputes;
     He knew his trade, and call'd it boots.[3]
       The horned moon,[4] which heretofore
     Upon their shoes the Romans wore,
     Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
     And whence we claim our shoeing-horns,
     Shows how the art of cobbling bears
     A near resemblance to the spheres.
     A scrap of parchment hung by geometry,
     (A great refiner in barometry,)
     Can, like the stars, foretell the weather;
     And what is parchment else but leather?
     Which an astrologer might use
     Either for almanacks or shoes.
       Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts,
     At once did practise both these arts:
     And as the boding owl (or rather
     The bat, because her wings are leather)
     Steals from her private cell by night,
     And flies about the candle-light;
     So learned Partridge could as well
     Creep in the dark from leathern cell,
     And in his fancy fly as far
     To peep upon a twinkling star.
       Besides, he could confound the spheres,
     And set the planets by the ears;
     To show his skill, he Mars could join
     To Venus in aspect malign;
     Then call in Mercury for aid,
     And cure the wounds that Venus made.
       Great scholars have in Lucian read,
     When Philip King of Greece was dead
     His soul and spirit did divide,
     And each part took a different side;
     One rose a star; the other fell
     Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.[5]
       Thus Partridge still shines in each art,
     The cobbling and star-gazing part,
     And is install'd as good a star
     As any of the Caesars are.
       Triumphant star! some pity show
     On cobblers militant below,
     Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights,
     Torment by pissing out their lights,
     Or through a chink convey their smoke,
     Enclosed artificers to choke.
       Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,
     May'st follow still thy calling there.
     To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
     By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd;
     For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,
     And scrape her pitchy sides for wax:
     Then Ariadne kindly lends
     Her braided hair to make thee ends;
     The points of Sagittarius' dart
     Turns to an awl by heavenly art;
     And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
     Will forge for thee a paring-knife.
     For want of room by Virgo's side,
     She'll strain a point, and sit[6] astride,
     To take thee kindly in between;
     And then the Signs will be Thirteen.

     [Footnote 1: For details of the humorous persecution of this impostor by
     Swift, see "Prose Works," vol. i, pp. 298 et seq.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Partridge was a cobbler.—Swift.]

     [Footnote 3: See his Almanack.—Swift.]

     [Footnote 4: Allusion to the crescent-shaped ornament of gold or silver
     which distinguished the wearer as a senator.
       "Appositam nigrae lunam subtexit alutae."—Juvenal, Sat. vii, 192; and
     Martial, i, 49, "Lunata nusquam pellis."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Luciani Opera, xi, 17.]

     [Footnote 6:
         "ipse tibi iam brachia contrahit ardens
       Scorpios, et coeli iusta plus parte reliquit."
     VIRG., Georg., i, 34.]

     Here, five feet deep, lies on his back
     A cobbler, starmonger, and quack;
     Who to the stars, in pure good will,
     Does to his best look upward still.
     Weep, all you customers that use
     His pills, his almanacks, or shoes;
     And you that did your fortunes seek,
     Step to his grave but once a-week;
     This earth, which bears his body's print,
     You'll find has so much virtue in't,
     That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell
     Whate'er concerns you full as well,
     In physic, stolen goods, or love,
     As he himself could, when above.

     Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach
     Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
     Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
     And softly stole to discompose her own;
     The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door
     Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
     Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs,
     Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.
     The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
     The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.[2]
     The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
     Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep:
     Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet;
     And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street.
     The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
     Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:[3]
     The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
     And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.

     [Footnote 1: No. 9. See the excellent edition in six vols., with notes,
     1786.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: To find old nails.—Faulkner.]

     [Footnote 3: To meet the charges levied upon them by the keeper of the
     prison.—W. E. B.]

     Careful observers may foretell the hour,
     (By sure prognostics,) when to dread a shower.
     While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
     Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
     Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
     Strike your offended sense with double stink.
     If you be wise, then, go not far to dine:
     You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.
     A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
     Old a-ches[2] throb, your hollow tooth will rage;
     Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen;
     He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
     Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
     A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
     That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
     And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
     Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
     While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;
     Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
     Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
     You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
     To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.
     Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife,
     But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
     And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
     'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.[3]
     Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
     When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
     Sole[4] coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,
     Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!
     Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
     Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
     To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
     Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
     The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach,
     Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
     The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
     While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
     Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
     Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
     Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,[5]
     Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
     Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits,
     While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
     And ever and anon with frightful din
     The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
     So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
     Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
     (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
     Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,)
     Laocoon[6] struck the outside with his spear,
     And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.
       Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
     And bear their trophies with them as they go:
     Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell
     What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell.
     They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,
     From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course,
     And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge,
     Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.[7]
     Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood,
     Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
     Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.

     [Footnote 1: Swift was very proud of the "Shower," and so refers to it in
     the Journal to Stella. See "Prose Works," vol. ii, p. 33: "They say 'tis
     the best thing I ever writ, and I think so too. I suppose the Bishop of
     Clogher will show it you. Pray tell me how you like it." Again, p. 41:
     "there never was such a Shower since Danäe's," etc.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: "Aches" is two syllables, but modern printers, who had lost
     the right pronunciation, have aches as one syllable; and then to
     complete the metre have foisted in "aches will throb." Thus, what the
     poet and the linguist wish to preserve, is altered and finally lost. See
     Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," vol. i, title "Errata," p. 81,
     edit. 1858. A good example occurs in "Hudibras," Part III, canto 2, line
     407, where persons are mentioned who
       "Can by their Pangs and Aches find
       All turns and changes of the wind."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: "'Twas doubtful which was sea and which was sky." GARTH'S
     Dispensary.]

     [Footnote 4: Originally thus, but altered when Pope published the
     "Miscellanies":
       "His only coat, where dust confused with rain,
       Roughens the nap, and leaves a mingled stain."—Scott.]

     [Footnote 5: Alluding to the change of ministry at that time.]

     [Footnote 6: Virg., "Aeneid," lib. ii.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 7: Fleet Ditch, in which Pope laid the famous diving scene in
     "The Dunciad"; celebrated also by Gay in his "Trivia." There is a view of
     Fleet Ditch as an illustration to "The Dunciad" in Warburton's edition
     of Pope, 8vo, 1751.—W. E. B.]

     Whoever pleases to inquire
     Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
     The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,[1]
     The philosophic cause will show.
     Once on a time a western blast,
     At least twelve inches overcast,
     Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
     Which came with a prodigious fall;
     And, tumbling topsy-turvy round,
     Lit with its bottom on the ground:
     For, by the laws of gravitation,
     It fell into its proper station.
       This is the little strutting pile
     You see just by the churchyard stile;
     The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
     And thus the steeple got a shock;
     From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
     The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.[2]
       The vicar once a-week creeps in,
     Sits with his knees up to his chin;
     Here cons his notes, and takes a whet,
     Till the small ragged flock is met.
       A traveller, who by did pass,
     Observed the roof behind the grass;
     On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout,
     And saw the parson creeping out:
     Was much surprised to see a crow
     Venture to build his nest so low.
       A schoolboy ran unto't, and thought
     The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
     A third, who lost his way by night,
     Was forced for safety to alight,
     And, stepping o'er the fabric roof,
     His horse had like to spoil his hoof.
       Warburton[3] took it in his noddle,
     This building was design'd a model;
     Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
     To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in.
       Then Mrs. Johnson[4] gave her verdict,
     And every one was pleased that heard it;
     All that you make this stir about
     Is but a still which wants a spout.
     The reverend Dr. Raymond[5] guess'd
     More probably than all the rest;
     He said, but that it wanted room,
     It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
       The doctor's family came by,
     And little miss began to cry,
     Give me that house in my own hand!
     Then madam bade the chariot stand,
     Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild,
     Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
     That thing, I mean, among the kale;
     And here's to buy a pot of ale.
       The clerk said to her in a heat,
     What! sell my master's country seat,
     Where he comes every week from town!
     He would not sell it for a crown.
     Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother;
     In half an hour thou'lt make another.
       Says Nancy,[6] I can make for miss
     A finer house ten times than this;
     The dean will give me willow sticks,
     And Joe my apron-full of bricks.

     [Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man,
     for venerable white locks.—Scott. He had a claim on the Irish
     Government, which Swift assisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works,"
     vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire
     for a collector's place.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.—Dublin
     Edition.]

     [Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.]

     [Footnote 4: Stella.]

     [Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.]

     [Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.]

     Scene, the Royal Exchange
     CORYDON

     Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er,
     No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more,
     While other girls confess the genial spring,
     And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing,
     Secure from cold, their lovely necks display,
     And throw each useless chafing-dish away;
     Why sits my Phillis discontented here,
     Nor feels the turn of the revolving year?
     Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay,
     Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play?

     PHILLIS

     Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around,
     Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found:
     Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid,
     Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd;
     Then how you swore, how many vows you made!
     Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love,
     Waft the soft accents to the gods above.
     Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!)
     I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame.

     CORYDON

     When I forget the favour you bestow'd,
     Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road:
     Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green,
     And mass be sung where operas are seen.
     The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau,
     Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego;
     Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come,
     At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum.

     PHILLIS

     But what to me does all that love avail,
     If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale,
     Each night with wine and wenches you regale?
     My livelong hours in anxious cares are past,
     And raging hunger lays my beauty waste.
     On templars spruce in vain I glances throw,
     And with shrill voice invite them as they go.
     Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine,
     And unregarded wave upon the twine.
     The week flies round, and when my profit's known,
     I hardly clear enough to change a crown.

     CORYDON

     Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest,
     Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best;
     As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace,
     And ruddy peaches them; as first in place
     Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware,
     And ice on that: so Phillis does appear
     In playhouse and in Park, above the rest
     Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest.

     PHILLIS

     And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair,
     Amid her toys, affects a saucy air,
     And views me hourly with a scornful eye.

     CORYDON

     She might as well with bright Cleora vie.

     PHILLIS

     With this large petticoat I strive in vain
     To hide my folly past, and coming pain;
     'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more,
     Observe the symptoms I had once before:
     A second babe at Wapping must be placed,
     When I scarce bear the charges of the last.

     CORYDON

     What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums,
     Five shillings, and a coral for his gums;
     To-morrow I intend him something more.

     PHILLIS

     I sent a frock and pair of shoes before.

     CORYDON

     However, you shall home with me to-night,
     Forget your cares, and revel in delight,
     I have in store a pint or two of wine,
     Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine.

       And now on either side, and all around,
     The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound;
     Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on,
     And ties her hood, preparing to be gone.

     L. B.  W. H.  J. S.  S. T.

     [Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals,"
     and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed
     by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."—Scott.]

     CHARIOT

     My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er,
     To dispatch in an hour some visits a score;
     Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day
     At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play;
     And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion
     Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;—
     Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love
     As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above;
     Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care,
     I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair;
     And since we're so near, like birds of a feather,
     Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together.

     CHAIR

     By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry,
     With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry.
     By your language, I judge, you think me a wench;
     He that makes love to me, must make it in French.
     Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute,
     Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit?
     Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six,
     No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix:
     Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great,
     With your new-fashion'd glasses, and nasty old seat.
     Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock'd hat,
     And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat.
     You may think that you make a figure most shining,
     But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining.
     Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the lustre of Kerry,
     To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry?
     If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due
     In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to.

     CHARIOT

     Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert;
     Is it your French breeding has made you so pert?
     Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox:
     Who is it that values your —— or your fox?
     Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed
     His bloody red hand to her bloody red head.
     You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail
     Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail;
     And although it may pass for gold on a ninny,
     Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea.
     Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it,
     Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket.
     I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant;
     Your velvet was wore before in a mant,
     On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,—
     The fire she carries hath changed its colour.
     Those creatures that draw me you never would mind,
     If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine;
     They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare,
     Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare.
     We know how your lady was on you befriended;
     You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended:
     But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt;
     She is two or three years above being out.
     Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour
     On one he can't hope of e'er making bigger.

     [Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom
     Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll
     of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me,
     whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery."
     See, post, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."—W. E. B.]

     Among the numbers who employ
     Their tongues and pens to give you joy,
     Dear Harley! generous youth, admit
     What friendship dictates more than wit.
     Forgive me, when I fondly thought
     (By frequent observations taught)
     A spirit so inform'd as yours
     Could never prosper in amours.
     The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts,
     With all acquired and natural parts,
     Whose harp could savage beasts enchant,
     Was an unfortunate gallant.
     Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd,
     The nymph had soon been brought to yield;
     Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued,
     The nymph would ne'er have been a prude.
     Ten thousand footsteps, full in view,
     Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew;
     For such is all the sex's flight,
     They fly from learning, wit, and light;
     They fly, and none can overtake
     But some gay coxcomb, or a rake.
       How then, dear Harley, could I guess
     That you should meet, in love, success?
     For, if those ancient tales be true,
     Phoebus was beautiful as you;
     Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace,
     For wit and learning spoil'd his face.
     And since the same resemblance held
     In gifts wherein you both excell'd,
     I fancied every nymph would run
     From you, as from Latona's son.
     Then where, said I, shall Harley find
     A virgin of superior mind,
     With wit and virtue to discover,
     And pay the merit of her lover?
     This character shall Ca'endish claim,
     Born to retrieve her sex's fame.
     The chief among the glittering crowd,
     Of titles, birth, and fortune proud,
     (As fools are insolent and vain)
     Madly aspired to wear her chain;
     But Pallas, guardian of the maid,
     Descending to her charge's aid,
     Held out Medusa's snaky locks,
     Which stupified them all to stocks.
     The nymph with indignation view'd
     The dull, the noisy, and the lewd;
     For Pallas, with celestial light,
     Had purified her mortal sight;
     Show'd her the virtues all combined,
     Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind.
       Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts,
     Display their various nets for hearts:
     Their looks are all by method set,
     When to be prude, and when coquette;
     Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse,
     Their only pride is to refuse.
     But, when a goddess would bestow
     Her love on some bright youth below,
     Round all the earth she casts her eyes;
     And then, descending from the skies,
     Makes choice of him she fancies best,
     And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd.
     Thus the bright empress of the morn[3]
     Chose for her spouse a mortal born:
     The goddess made advances first;
     Else what aspiring hero durst?
     Though, like a virgin of fifteen,
     She blushes when by mortals seen;
     Still blushes, and with speed retires,
     When Sol pursues her with his fires.
       Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen
     Struck with Endymion's graceful mien
     Down from her silver chariot came,
     And to the shepherd own'd her flame.
       Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright,
     And chaster than the Queen of Night
     Descended from her sphere to find
     A mortal of superior kind.

     [Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married
     Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of
     Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the
     Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and
     Swift.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel
     tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Aurora, who married Tithonus, and took him up to Heaven;
     hence in Ovid, "Tithonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.—W. E. B.]