Desponding Phyllis was endu'd
     With ev'ry talent of a prude:
     She trembled when a man drew near;
     Salute her, and she turn'd her ear:
     If o'er against her you were placed,
     She durst not look above your waist:
     She'd rather take you to her bed,
     Than let you see her dress her head;
     In church you hear her, thro' the crowd,
     Repeat the absolution loud:
     In church, secure behind her fan,
     She durst behold that monster man:
     There practis'd how to place her head,
     And bite her lips to make them red;
     Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling,
     Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling.
     And heave her bosom unaware,
     For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare.
       At length a lucky lover came,
     And found admittance to the dame,
     Suppose all parties now agreed,
     The writings drawn, the lawyer feed,
     The vicar and the ring bespoke:
     Guess, how could such a match be broke?
     See then what mortals place their bliss in!
     Next morn betimes the bride was missing:
     The mother scream'd, the father chid;
     Where can this idle wench be hid?
     No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came,
     And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame;
     Because her father used to say,
     The girl had such a bashful way!
       Now John the butler must be sent
     To learn the road that Phyllis went:
     The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop;
     For John must neither light nor stop,
     But find her, wheresoe'er she fled,
     And bring her back alive or dead.
       See here again the devil to do!
     For truly John was missing too:
     The horse and pillion both were gone!
     Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John.
       Old Madam, who went up to find
     What papers Phyl had left behind,
     A letter on the toilet sees,
     "To my much honour'd father—these—"
     ('Tis always done, romances tell us,
     When daughters run away with fellows,)
     Fill'd with the choicest common-places,
     By others used in the like cases.
     "That long ago a fortune-teller
     Exactly said what now befell her;
     And in a glass had made her see
     A serving-man of low degree.
     It was her fate, must be forgiven;
     For marriages were made in Heaven:
     His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain,
     She'd do't if 'twere to do again:
     Thank'd God, 'twas neither shame nor sin;
     For John was come of honest kin.
     Love never thinks of rich and poor;
     She'd beg with John from door to door.
     Forgive her, if it be a crime;
     She'll never do't another time.
     She ne'er before in all her life
     Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife."
     One argument she summ'd up all in,
     "The thing was done and past recalling;
     And therefore hoped she should recover
     His favour when his passion's over.
     She valued not what others thought her,
     And was—his most obedient daughter."
     Fair maidens all, attend the Muse,
     Who now the wand'ring pair pursues:
     Away they rode in homely sort,
     Their journey long, their money short;
     The loving couple well bemir'd;
     The horse and both the riders tir'd:
     Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse;
     Phyl cried! and John began to curse:
     Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb,
     When first she ventured out with him;
     John wish'd that he had broke a leg,
     When first for her he quitted Peg.
       But what adventures more befell 'em,
     The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em;
     How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd,
     Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd:
     How oft she broke her marriage vows,
     In kindness to maintain her spouse,
     Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade;
     For now the surgeon must be paid,
     To whom those perquisites are gone,
     In Christian justice due to John.
       When food and raiment now grew scarce,
     Fate put a period to the farce,
     And with exact poetic justice;
     For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess;
     They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar,
     Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore.

     [Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.—Swift.]

     Virtue conceal'd within our breast
     Is inactivity at best:
     But never shall the Muse endure
     To let your virtues lie obscure;
     Or suffer Envy to conceal
     Your labours for the public weal.
     Within your breast all wisdom lies,
     Either to govern or advise;
     Your steady soul preserves her frame,
     In good and evil times, the same.
     Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud,
     Stand in your sacred presence awed;
     Your hand alone from gold abstains,
     Which drags the slavish world in chains.
       Him for a happy man I own,
     Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2]
     And happy he who wisely knows
     To use the gifts that Heaven bestows;
     Or, if it please the powers divine,
     Can suffer want and not repine.
     The man who infamy to shun
     Into the arms of death would run;
     That man is ready to defend,
     With life, his country or his friend.

     [Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less
     friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, passim; and
     an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2:
       "Non possidentem multa vocaveris
       recte beatum: rectius occupat
         nomen beati, qui deorum
           muneribus sapienter uti
       duramque callet pauperiem pati,
       pejusque leto flagitium timet."]

     To you whose virtues, I must own
     With shame, I have too lately known;
     To you, by art and nature taught
     To be the man I long have sought,
     Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind,
     Placed you in life too far behind:
     Or, what I should repine at more,
     Placed me in life too far before:
     To you the Muse this verse bestows,
     Which might as well have been in prose;
     No thought, no fancy, no sublime,
     But simple topics told in rhyme.
       Three gifts for conversation fit
     Are humour, raillery, and wit:
     The last, as boundless as the wind,
     Is well conceived, though not defined;
     For, sure by wit is only meant
     Applying what we first invent.
     What humour is, not all the tribe
     Of logic-mongers can describe;
     Here only nature acts her part,
     Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art:
     For wit and humour differ quite;
     That gives surprise, and this delight,
     Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild,
     Only by affectation spoil'd;
     'Tis never by invention got,
     Men have it when they know it not.
       Our conversation to refine,
     True humour must with wit combine:
     From both we learn to rally well,
     Wherein French writers most excel;
     [2]Voiture, in various lights, displays
     That irony which turns to praise:
     His genius first found out the rule
     For an obliging ridicule:
     He flatters with peculiar air
     The brave, the witty, and the fair:
     And fools would fancy he intends
     A satire where he most commends.
       But as a poor pretending beau,
     Because he fain would make a show,
     Nor can afford to buy gold lace,
     Takes up with copper in the place:
     So the pert dunces of mankind,
     Whene'er they would be thought refined,
     Because the diff'rence lies abstruse
     'Twixt raillery and gross abuse,
     To show their parts will scold and rail,
     Like porters o'er a pot of ale.
       Such is that clan of boisterous bears,
     Always together by the ears;
     Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe
     That meet for nothing but to gibe;
     Who first run one another down,
     And then fall foul on all the town;
     Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub,
     And call'd by excellence The Club.
     I mean your butler, Dawson, Car,
     All special friends, and always jar.
       The mettled and the vicious steed
     Do not more differ in their breed,
     Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh,
     As rudeness is to repartee.
       If what you said I wish unspoke,
     'Twill not suffice it was a joke:
     Reproach not, though in jest, a friend
     For those defects he cannot mend;
     His lineage, calling, shape, or sense,
     If named with scorn, gives just offence.
       What use in life to make men fret,
     Part in worse humour than they met?
     Thus all society is lost,
     Men laugh at one another's cost:
     And half the company is teazed
     That came together to be pleased:
     For all buffoons have most in view
     To please themselves by vexing you.
       When jests are carried on too far,
     And the loud laugh begins the war,
     You keep your countenance for shame,
     Yet still you think your friend to blame;
     For though men cry they love a jest,
     'Tis but when others stand the test;
     And (would you have their meaning known)
     They love a jest when 'tis their own.
       You wonder now to see me write
     So gravely where the subject's light;
     Some part of what I here design
     Regards a friend[3]  of yours and mine;
     Who full of humour, fire, and wit,
     Not always judges what is fit,
     But loves to take prodigious rounds,
     And sometimes walks beyond his bounds,
     You must, although the point be nice,
     Venture to give him some advice;
     Few hints from you will set him right,
     And teach him how to be polite.
     Bid him like you, observe with care,
     Whom to be hard on, whom to spare;
     Nor indiscreetly to suppose
     All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose.
     To study the obliging jest,
     By reading those who teach it best;
     For prose I recommend Voiture's,
     For verse (I speak my judgment) yours.
     He'll find the secret out from thence,
     To rhyme all day without offence;
     And I no more shall then accuse
     The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse.
       If he be guilty, you must mend him;
       If he be innocent, defend him.

     [Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends,
     born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged
     Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St.
     Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too
     hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died
     1648.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.]

     [Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively
     party, post, p. 137.—W. E. B.]

     Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer,
     By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar;
     Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound
     Redeem him from his prison underground.
     His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst
     Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest.
     Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know
     His faithful steward in the shades below.
     He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak;
     He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk:
     And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
     He might be thought an object fit for alms.
     So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf,
     He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself.
       Where'er he went, he never saw his betters;
     Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors;
     And under hand and seal, the Irish nation
     Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.
       He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought,
     In half a minute is not worth a groat.
     His coffers from the coffin could not save,
     Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave.
     A golden monument would not be right,
     Because we wish the earth upon him light.
       Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend,
     Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend;
     He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot;
     The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot.
       Old as he was, no vulgar known disease
     On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize;
     "[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight
     Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light;
     And, as he saw his darling money fail,
     Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale."
     He who so long was current, 'twould be strange
     If he should now be cry'd down since his change.
       The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
     Alas, the sexton is thy banker now!
     A dismal banker must that banker be,
     Who gives no bills but of mortality!

     [Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who
     died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be
     in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was
     brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the
     company.—C. Walker.]

     [Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.—F.]

     Beneath this verdant hillock lies
     Demar, the wealthy and the wise,
     His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest,
     Have put his carcass in a chest;
     The very chest in which, they say,
     His other self, his money, lay.
     And, if his heirs continue kind
     To that dear self he left behind,
     I dare believe, that four in five
     Will think his better self alive.

     [Footnote 1:
       "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd
       His money bags together sew'd
       And that he might securely rest,"
     Variation—From the Chetwode MS.—W. E. B.]

     You always are making a god of your spouse;
     But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows;
     Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due,
     And you adore him, because he adores you.
     Your argument's weak, and so you will find;
     For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

     Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated?
     Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated.
     In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine,
     You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine.
     In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat,
     You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat.
     O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest,
     Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request!
     Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble,
     Instead of the deans, make the deanery double.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St.
     Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his
     hospitality. See Journal to Stella, passim, "Prose Works," vol.
     ii—W. E. B.]

     A bard, on whom Phoebus his spirit bestow'd,
     Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he owed,
     Found out a new method at once of confessing,
     And making the most of so mighty a blessing:
     To the God he'd be grateful; but mortals he'd chouse,
     By making his patron preside in his house;
     And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence,
     That the God would in honour bear most of th'expense;
     So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phoebus to treat
     With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat.
     Hence they that come hither expecting to dine,
     Are always fobb'd off with sheer wit and sheer wine.

     [Footnote 1: Written by Dr. Delany, in conjunction with Stella, as
     appears from the verses which follow.—Scott.]

     Right Trusty, and so forth—we let you know
     We are very ill used by you mortals below.
     For, first, I have often by chemists been told,
     (Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold;
     Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it,
     That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it.
     Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine,
     I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine;
     To me the good fellows apply for relief,
     Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef:
     Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards
     Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards.
     That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think,
     And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink.
     But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd,
     I alone can inspire the poetical crowd:
     This is gratefully own'd by each boy in the College,
     Whom, if I inspire, it is not to my knowledge.
     This every pretender in rhyme will admit,
     Without troubling his head about judgment or wit.
     These gentlemen use me with kindness and freedom,
     And as for their works, when I please I may read 'em.
     They lie open on purpose on counters and stalls,
     And the titles I view, when I shine on the walls.
       But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany,
     Whom I for your sake have used better than any,
     And, of my mere motion, and special good grace,
     Intended in time to succeed in your place,
     On Tuesday the tenth, seditiously came,
     With a certain false trait'ress, one Stella by name,
     To the Deanery-house, and on the North glass,
     Where for fear of the cold I never can pass,
     Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utensil,
     Of value five shillings, in English a pencil,
     Did maliciously, falsely, and trait'rously write,
     While Stella, aforesaid, stood by with a[3] light.
     My sister[2] hath lately deposed upon oath,
     That she stopt in her course to look at them both;
     That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding;
     And still as he writ, stood smiling and reading:
     That her eyes were as bright as myself at noon-day,
     But her graceful black locks were all mingled with grey:
     And by the description, I certainly know,
     'Tis the nymph that I courted some ten years ago;
     Whom when I with the best of my talents endued,
     On her promise of yielding, she acted the prude:
     That some verses were writ with felonious intent,
     Direct to the North, where I never once went:
     That the letters appear'd reversed through the pane,
     But in Stella's bright eyes were placed right again;
     Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line,[4]
     And presently guessed the fancy was mine.
     She can swear to the Parson whom oft she has seen
     At night between Cavan Street and College Green.
       Now you see why his verses so seldom are shown,
     The reason is plain, they are none of his own;
     And observe while you live that no man is shy
     To discover the goods he came honestly by.
     If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it,
     And when he has got it, find ways to conceal it.
     Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark,
     There's scarce one in ten but what has my mark;
     And let them be seen by the world if he dare,
     I'll make it appear they are all stolen ware.
     But as for the poem he writ on your sash,
     I think I have now got him under my lash;
     My sister transcribed it last night to his sorrow,
     And the public shall see't, if I live till to-morrow.
     Thro' the zodiac around, it shall quickly be spread
     In all parts of the globe where your language is read.
       He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refusal,
     When he ask'd for my aid in the forms that are usual:
     But the secret is this; I did lately intend
     To write a few verses on you as my friend:
     I studied a fortnight, before I could find,
     As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind,
     And resolved the next winter (for that is my time,
     When the days are at shortest) to get it in rhyme;
     Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnassus;
     When that subtle companion, in hopes to surpass us,
     Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick
     (For I think in my conscience he deals with old Nick,)
     And from my own stock provided with topics,
     He gets to a window beyond both the tropics,
     There out of my sight, just against the north zone,
     Writes down my conceits, and then calls them his own;
     And you, like a cully, the bubble can swallow:
     Now who but Delany that writes like Apollo?
     High treason by statute! yet here you object,
     He only stole hints, but the verse is correct;
     Though the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely express'd;
     So a thief steals my horse, and has him well dress'd.
     Now whereas the said criminal seems past repentance,
     We Phoebus think fit to proceed to his sentence.
     Since Delany hath dared, like Prometheus his sire,
     To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire;
     We order a vulture in shape of the Spleen,
     To prey on his liver, but not to be seen.
     And we order our subjects of every degree
     To believe all his verses were written by me:
     And under the pain of our highest displeasure,
     To call nothing his but the rhyme and the measure.
     And, lastly, for Stella, just out of her prime,
     I'm too much revenged already by Time,
     In return of her scorn, I sent her diseases,
     But will now be her friend whenever she pleases.
     And the gifts I bestow'd her will find her a lover
     Though she lives till she's grey as a badger all over.

     [Footnote 1: Collated with the original MS. in Swift's writing, and also
     with the copy transcribed by Stella.—Forster.]

     [Footnote 2: Stella's copy has "the."—Forster.]

     [Footnote 3: Diana.]

     [Footnote 4: As originally written, this passage ran:
       "Wherein she distinctly could read ev'ry line
       And found by the wit the Fancy was mine
       For none of his poems were ever yet shown
       Which he in his conscience could claim for his own."
     Forster.]

     Parnassus, February the twenty-seventh.
     The poets assembled here on the eleventh,
     Convened by Apollo, who gave them to know
     He'd have a vicegerent in his empire below;
     But declared that no bard should this honour inherit,
     Till the rest had agreed he surpass'd them in merit:
     Now this, you'll allow, was a difficult case,
     For each bard believed he'd a right to the place;
     So, finding the assembly grow warm in debate,
     He put them in mind of his Phaethon's fate:
     'Twas urged to no purpose; disputes higher rose,
     Scarce Phoebus himself could their quarrels compose;
     Till at length he determined that every bard
     Should (each in his turn) be patiently heard.
       First, one who believed he excell'd in translation,[1]
     Founds his claim on the doctrine of man's transmigration:
     "Since the soul of great Milton was given to me,
     I hope the convention will quickly agree."—
     "Agree;" quoth Apollo: "from whence is this fool?
     Is he just come from reading Pythagoras at school?
     Begone, sir, you've got your subscriptions in time,
     And given in return neither reason nor rhyme."
     To the next says the God, "Though now I won't chuse you,
     I'll tell you the reason for which I refuse you:
     Love's Goddess has oft to her parents complain'd,
     Of my favouring a bard who her empire disdain'd;
     That at my instigation, a poem you writ,
     Which to beauty and youth preferr'd judgment and wit;
     That, to make you a Laureate, I gave the first voice,
     Inspiring the Britons t'approve of my choice.
     Jove sent her to me, her power to try;
     The Goddess of Beauty what God can deny?
     She forbids your preferment; I grant her desire.
     Appease the fair Goddess: you then may rise higher."
       The next[2] that appear'd had good hopes of succeeding,
     For he merited much for his wit and his breeding.
     'Twas wise in the Britons no favour to show him,
     He else might expect they should pay what they owe him.
     And therefore they prudently chose to discard
     The Patriot, whose merits they would not reward:
     The God, with a smile, bade his favourite advance,
     "You were sent by Astraea her envoy to France:
     You bend your ambition to rise in the state;
     I refuse you, because you could stoop to be great."
       Then a bard who had been a successful translator,[3]
     "The convention allows me a versificator."
     Says Apollo, "You mention the least of your merit;
     By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit.
     I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth,
     The greatest objection against you's your youth;
     Then be not concern'd you are now laid aside;
     If you live you shall certainly one day preside."
       Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets,
     "'Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets."[4]
       You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before;
     But give me the bard that can teach them to soar.
     Whenever he claims, 'tis his right, I'll confess,
     Who lately attempted my style with success;
     Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit,
     And therefore 'tis just I distinguish his merit:
     Who makes it appear, by all he has writ,
     His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit;
     Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease,
     But excels even Virgil in elegant praise:
     Who admires the ancients, and knows 'tis their due
     Yet writes in a manner entirely new;
     Though none with more ease their depths can explore,
     Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store;
     Though I'm fond of his virtues, his pride I can see,
     In scorning to borrow from any but me:
     It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia,[5] his lays
     Enlighten the world by reflecting my rays.
     This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift:
     The convention was summon'd in favour of SWIFT.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Trapp or Trap, ridiculed by Swift in "The Tatler," No.
     66, as parson Dapper. He was sent to Ireland as chaplain to Sir
     Constantine Phipps, Lord Chancellor, in 1710-11. But in July, 1712, Swift
     writes to Stella, "I have made Trap chaplain to Lord Bolingbroke, and
     he is mighty happy and thankful for it." He translated the "Aeneid" into
     blank verse.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Prior, concerning whose "Journey to France," Swift wrote a
     "formal relation, all pure invention," which had a great sale, and was a
     "pure bite." See Journal to Stella, Sept., 1711.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Pope, and his translations of the "Iliad" and
     "Odyssey."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Gay; alluding to his "Trivia."—N.]

     [Footnote 5: Diana.]

     Ireland is now our royal care,
     We lately fix'd our viceroy there.
     How near was she to be undone,
     Till pious love inspired her son!
     What cannot our vicegerent do,
     As poet and as patriot too?
     Let his success our subjects sway,
     Our inspirations to obey,
     And follow where he leads the way:
     Then study to correct your taste;
     Nor beaten paths be longer traced.
       No simile shall be begun,
     With rising or with setting sun;
     And let the secret head of Nile
     Be ever banish'd from your isle.
       When wretched lovers live on air,
     I beg you'll the chameleon spare;
     And when you'd make a hero grander,
     Forget he's like a salamander.[1]
       No son of mine shall dare to say,
     Aurora usher'd in the day,
     Or ever name the milky-way.
     You all agree, I make no doubt,
     Elijah's mantle is worn out.
       The bird of Jove shall toil no more
     To teach the humble wren to soar.
     Your tragic heroes shall not rant,
     Nor shepherds use poetic cant.
     Simplicity alone can grace
     The manners of the rural race.
     Theocritus and Philips be
     Your guides to true simplicity.
       When Damon's soul shall take its flight,
     Though poets have the second-sight,
     They shall not see a trail of light.
     Nor shall the vapours upwards rise,
     Nor a new star adorn the skies:
     For who can hope to place one there,
     As glorious as Belinda's hair?
     Yet, if his name you'd eternize,
     And must exalt him to the skies;
     Without a star this may be done:
     So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.
       If Anna's happy reign you praise,
     Pray, not a word of halcyon days:
     Nor let my votaries show their skill
     In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;[2]
     For know I cannot bear to hear
     The mimicry of "deep, yet clear."
       Whene'er my viceroy is address'd,
     Against the phoenix I protest.
     When poets soar in youthful strains,
     No Phaethon to hold the reins.
       When you describe a lovely girl,
     No lips of coral, teeth of pearl.
       Cupid shall ne'er mistake another,
     However beauteous, for his mother;
     Nor shall his darts at random fly
     From magazine in Celia's eye.
     With woman compounds I am cloy'd,
     Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.[3]
     For foreign aid what need they roam,
     Whom fate has amply blest at home?
       Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand,
     Has form'd a model for your land,
     Whom Jove endued with every grace;
     The glory of the Granard race;
     Now destined by the powers divine
     The blessing of another line.
     Then, would you paint a matchless dame,
     Whom you'd consign to endless fame?
     Invoke not Cytherea's aid,
     Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid;
     Nor need you on the Graces call;
     Take qualities from Donegal.[4]

     [Footnote 1: See the "Description of a Salamander," ante, p.
     46.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Denham's Poem.]

     [Footnote 3: Ante, p. 50.]

     [Footnote 4: Lady Catherine Forbes, daughter of the first Earl of
     Granard, and second wife of Arthur, third Earl of Donegal.—Scott.]

     Given by O'Rourke, a powerful chieftain of Ulster in the reign of Queen
     Elizabeth, previously to his making a visit to her court. A song was
     composed upon the tradition of the feast, the fame of which having
     reached Swift, he was supplied with a literal version, from which he
     executed the following very spirited translation.—W. E. B.
     TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 1720

     O'ROURKE'S noble fare
       Will ne'er be forgot,
     By those who were there,
       Or those who were not.

     His revels to keep,
       We sup and we dine
     On seven score sheep,
       Fat bullocks, and swine.

     Usquebaugh to our feast
       In pails was brought up,
     A hundred at least,
       And a madder[1] our cup.

     O there is the sport!
       We rise with the light
     In disorderly sort,
       From snoring all night.

     O how was I trick'd!
       My pipe it was broke,
     My pocket was pick'd,
       I lost my new cloak.

     I'm rifled, quoth Nell,
       Of mantle and kercher,[2]
     Why then fare them well,
       The de'el take the searcher.

     Come, harper, strike up;
       But, first, by your favour,
     Boy, give us a cup:
       Ah! this hath some savour.

     O'Rourke's jolly boys
       Ne'er dreamt of the matter,
     Till, roused by the noise,
       And musical clatter,

     They bounce from their nest,
       No longer will tarry,
     They rise ready drest,
       Without one Ave-Mary.

     They dance in a round,
       Cutting capers and ramping;
     A mercy the ground
       Did not burst with their stamping.

     The floor is all wet
       With leaps and with jumps,
     While the water and sweat
       Splish-splash in their pumps.

     Bless you late and early,
       Laughlin O'Enagin![3]
     But, my hand,[4] you dance rarely.
       Margery Grinagin.[5]

     Bring straw for our bed,
       Shake it down to the feet,
     Then over us spread
       The winnowing sheet.

     To show I don't flinch,
       Fill the bowl up again:
     Then give us a pinch
       Of your sneezing, a Yean.[6]

     Good lord! what a sight,
       After all their good cheer,
     For people to fight
       In the midst of their beer!

     They rise from their feast,
       And hot are their brains,
     A cubit at least
       The length of their skeans.[7]

     What stabs and what cuts,
       What clattering of sticks;
     What strokes on the guts,
       What bastings and kicks!

     With cudgels of oak,
       Well harden'd in flame,
     A hundred heads broke,
       A hundred struck lame.

     You churl, I'll maintain
       My father built Lusk,
     The castle of Slane,
       And Carrick Drumrusk:

     The Earl of Kildare,
       And Moynalta his brother,
     As great as they are,
       I was nurst by their mother.[8]

     Ask that of old madam:
       She'll tell you who's who,
     As far up as Adam,
       She knows it is true.

     Come down with that beam,
       If cudgels are scarce,
     A blow on the weam,
       Or a kick on the a——se.

     [Footnote 1: A wooden vessel.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: A covering of linen, worn on the heads of the
     women.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: The name of an Irishman.—F.]

     [Footnote 4: An Irish oath.—F.]

     [Footnote 5: The name of an Irishwoman.—F.]

     [Footnote 6: Surname of an Irishwoman.—F.]

     [Footnote 7: Daggers, or short swords,—F.]

     [Footnote 8: It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers;
     their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or
     foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the rich.—F.]

     When first Diana leaves her bed,
       Vapours and steams her looks disgrace,
     A frowzy dirty-colour'd red
       Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:

     But by degrees, when mounted high,
       Her artificial face appears
     Down from her window in the sky,
       Her spots are gone, her visage clears.

     'Twixt earthly females and the moon,
       All parallels exactly run;
     If Celia should appear too soon,
       Alas, the nymph would be undone!

     To see her from her pillow rise,
       All reeking in a cloudy steam,
     Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,
       Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!

     The soot or powder which was wont
       To make her hair look black as jet,
     Falls from her tresses on her front,
       A mingled mass of dirt and sweat.

     Three colours, black, and red, and white
       So graceful in their proper place,
     Remove them to a different light,
       They form a frightful hideous face:

     For instance, when the lily slips
       Into the precincts of the rose,
     And takes possession of the lips,
       Leaving the purple to the nose:

     So Celia went entire to bed,
       All her complexion safe and sound;
     But, when she rose, the black and red,
       Though still in sight, had changed their ground.

     The black, which would not be confined,
       A more inferior station seeks,
     Leaving the fiery red behind,
       And mingles in her muddy cheeks.

     The paint by perspiration cracks,
       And falls in rivulets of sweat,
     On either side you see the tracks
       While at her chin the conflu'nts meet.

     A skilful housewife thus her thumb,
       With spittle while she spins anoints;
     And thus the brown meanders come
       In trickling streams betwixt her joints.

     But Celia can with ease reduce,
       By help of pencil, paint, and brush,
     Each colour to its place and use,
       And teach her cheeks again to blush.

     She knows her early self no more,
       But fill'd with admiration stands;
     As other painters oft adore
       The workmanship of their own hands.

     Thus, after four important hours,
       Celia's the wonder of her sex;
     Say, which among the heavenly powers
       Could cause such wonderful effects?

     Venus, indulgent to her kind,
       Gave women all their hearts could wish,
     When first she taught them where to find
       White lead, and Lusitanian dish.

     Love with white lead cements his wings;
       White lead was sent us to repair
     Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things,
       A lady's face, and China-ware.

     She ventures now to lift the sash;
       The window is her proper sphere;
     Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash,
       Nor let the beaux approach too near.

     Take pattern by your sister star;
       Delude at once and bless our sight;
     When you are seen, be seen from far,
       And chiefly choose to shine by night.

     In the Pall Mall when passing by,
       Keep up the glasses of your chair,
     Then each transported fop will cry,
       "G——d d——n me, Jack, she's wondrous fair!"

     But art no longer can prevail,
       When the materials all are gone;
     The best mechanic hand must fail,
       Where nothing's left to work upon.

     Matter, as wise logicians say,
       Cannot without a form subsist;
     And form, say I, as well as they,
       Must fail if matter brings no grist.

     And this is fair Diana's case;
       For, all astrologers maintain,
     Each night a bit drops off her face,
       When mortals say she's in her wane:

     While Partridge wisely shows the cause
       Efficient of the moon's decay,
     That Cancer with his pois'nous claws
       Attacks her in the milky way:

     But Gadbury,[2] in art profound,
       From her pale cheeks pretends to show
     That swain Endymion is not sound,
       Or else that Mercury's her foe.

     But let the cause be what it will,
       In half a month she looks so thin,
     That Flamsteed[3] can, with all his skill,
       See but her forehead and her chin.

     Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet,
       Till midnight never shows her head;
     So rotting Celia strolls the street,
       When sober folks are all a-bed:

     For sure, if this be Luna's fate,
       Poor Celia, but of mortal race,
     In vain expects a longer date
       To the materials of her face.

     When Mercury her tresses mows,
       To think of oil and soot is vain:
     No painting can restore a nose,
       Nor will her teeth return again.

     Two balls of glass may serve for eyes,
       White lead can plaister up a cleft;
     But these, alas, are poor supplies
       If neither cheeks nor lips be left.

     Ye powers who over love preside!
       Since mortal beauties drop so soon,
     If ye would have us well supplied,
       Send us new nymphs with each new moon!