DRAMATIS PERSONAE

     The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort.
     George, his eldest son.
     Nim, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting.
     Dan, Mr. Jackson, a parson.
     Gaulstown, the Baron's seat.
     Sheridan, a pedant and pedagogue.
     Delany, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor
     of Ireland.
     Dragon, the name of the boat on the canal.
     Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady.

     Thalia, tell, in sober lays,
     How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pass their days;
     And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow,
     Yet Neget quis carmina Gallo?     Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I
     Not Sheridan, but friend Delany.
     Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers
     We sally forth at different hours;
     At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest,
     Goes round the house to wake the rest;
     At nine, grave Nim and George facetious,
     Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2]
     At ten my lady comes and hectors
     And kisses George, and ends our lectures;
     And when she has him by the neck fast,
     Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast.
     We squander there an hour or more,
     And then all hands, boys, to the oar;
     All, heteroclite Dan except,
     Who never time nor order kept,
     But by peculiar whimseys drawn,
     Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn:
     O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows,
     Or mars a text, or mends his hose;
     Or—but proceed we in our journal—
     At two, or after, we return all:
     From the four elements assembling,
     Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling,
     From airy garrets some descend,
     Some from the lake's remotest end;
     My lord and Dean the fire forsake,
     Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake;
     The loiterers quake, no corner hides them
     And Lady Betty soundly chides them.
     Now water brought, and dinner done;
     With "Church and King" the ladies gone.
     Not reckoning half an hour we pass
     In talking o'er a moderate glass.
     Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief
     Steals off to doze away his beef;
     And this must pass for reading Hammond—
     While George and Dean go to backgammon.
     George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four,
     And then, again, boys, to the oar.
     But when the sun goes to the deep,
     (Not to disturb him in his sleep,
     Or make a rumbling o'er his head,
     His candle out, and he a-bed,)
     We watch his motions to a minute,
     And leave the flood when he goes in it.
     Now stinted in the shortening day,
     We go to prayers and then to play,
     Till supper comes; and after that
     We sit an hour to drink and chat.
     'Tis late—the old and younger pairs,
     By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs.
     The weary Dean goes to his chamber;
     And Nim and Dan to garret clamber,
     So when the circle we have run,
     The curtain falls and all is done.
       I might have mention'd several facts,
     Like episodes between the acts;
     And tell who loses and who wins,
     Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins;
     How Dan caught nothing in his net,
     And how the boat was overset.
     For brevity I have retrench'd
     How in the lake the Dean was drench'd:
     It would be an exploit to brag on,
     How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon;
     How steady in the storm he sat,
     And saved his oar, but lost his hat:
     How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him)
     Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em;
     How skilfully Dan mends his nets;
     How fortune fails him when he sets;
     Or how the Dean delights to vex
     The ladies, and lampoon their sex:
     I might have told how oft Dean Perceval
     Displays his pedantry unmerciful,
     How haughtily he cocks his nose,
     To tell what every schoolboy knows:
     And with his finger and his thumb,
     Explaining, strikes opposers dumb:
     But now there needs no more be said on't,
     Nor how his wife, that female pedant,
     Shews all her secrets of housekeeping:
     For candles how she trucks her dripping;
     Was forced to send three miles for yeast,
     To brew her ale, and raise her paste;
     Tells everything that you can think of,
     How she cured Charley of the chincough;
     What gave her brats and pigs the measles,
     And how her doves were killed by weasels;
     How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright
     She had with dreams the other night.
       But now, since I have gone so far on,
     A word or two of Lord Chief Baron;
     And tell how little weight he sets
     On all Whig papers and gazettes;
     But for the politics of Pue,[4]
     Thinks every syllable is true:
     And since he owns the King of Sweden [5]
     Is dead at last, without evading,
     Now all his hopes are in the czar;
     "Why, Muscovy is not so far;
     Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits,
     And in a month he's at your gates;
     Perhaps from what the packet brings,
     By Christmas we shall see strange things."
     Why should I tell of ponds and drains,
     What carps we met with for our pains;
     Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable
     To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble?
     But you, who are a scholar, know
     How transient all things are below,
     How prone to change is human life!
     Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife—
     This grand event has broke our measures;
     Their reign began with cruel seizures;
     The Dean must with his quilt supply
     The bed in which those tyrants lie;
     Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan,
     (My lady says, she can't afford one,)
     George is half scared out of his wits,
     For Clem gets all the dainty bits.
     Henceforth expect a different survey,
     This house will soon turn topsyturvy;
     They talk of farther alterations,
     Which causes many speculations.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for
     his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: The butler.—F.]

     [Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p.
     347.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a
     "petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to
     "Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of
     Gaulstown.—W. E. B.]

     WOULD you that Delville I describe?
     Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe:
     For who would be satirical
     Upon a thing so very small?
       You scarce upon the borders enter,
     Before you're at the very centre.
     A single crow can make it night,
     When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
     Yet, in this narrow compass, we
     Observe a vast variety;
     Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
     Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs,
     And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
     And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields:
     All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
     Without the mowing or the reaping:
     A razor, though to say't I'm loth,
     Would shave you and your meadows both.
       Though small's the farm, yet here's a house
     Full large to entertain a mouse;
     But where a rat is dreaded more
     Than savage Caledonian boar;
     For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
     There is no room to bring a cat.
       A little rivulet seems to steal
     Down through a thing you call a vale,
     Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
     Like rain along a blade of leek:
     And this you call your sweet meander,
     Which might be suck'd up by a gander,
     Could he but force his nether bill
     To scoop the channel of the rill.
     For sure you'd make a mighty clutter,
     Were it as big as city gutter.
     Next come I to your kitchen garden,
     Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;
     And round this garden is a walk
     No longer than a tailor's chalk;
     Thus I compare what space is in it,
     A snail creeps round it in a minute.
     One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
     Up through a tuft you call your trees:
     And, once a year, a single rose
     Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
     In vain then you expect its bloom!
     It cannot blow for want of room.
       In short, in all your boasted seat,
     There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT.

     [Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's
     friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is
     unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.—W. E. B.]

     A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf,
     Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself.
     This enraged god Apollo, who Mercury sent,
     And bid him go ask what his votary meant?
     "Some foe to my empire has been his adviser:
     'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser!
     Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine,
     I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design;
     For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign;
     And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train."

     Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo
     Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum,
     Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa
     Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur
     Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis.
     Nam, longâ venti rabie, atque aspergine crebrâ
     Aequorei laticis, specus imâ rupe cavatur:
     Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cacumina nutant;
     Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas.
     Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem
     Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum
     In capita anguipedum coelo jaculâsse gigantum.
       Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu
     Exesa è scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit,
     Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo
     Cautibus enormè junctis laquearia tecti
     Formantur; moles olim ruitura supernè.
     Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes,
     Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae.
       Sed, cum saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto,
     Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis;
     Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextrâ
     Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes,
     Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procellâ:
     Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia latè,
     Gens assueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes,
     Terretur tamen, et longè fugit, arva relinquens.
       Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae,
     Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur,
     Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt.
       Piscator terrâ non audet vellere funem;
     Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aëra sudum
     Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat.

     Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds
     Its airy head amid the azure clouds,
     Hangs a huge fragment; destitute of props,
     Prone on the wave the rocky ruin drops;
     With hoarse rebuff the swelling seas rebound,
     From shore to shore the rocks return the sound:
     The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves,
     And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves:
     For, long the whirling winds and beating tides
     Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides.
     Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge
     Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge.
     Not louder noise could shake the guilty world,
     When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd;
     Retorting Pelion from his dread abode,
     To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load.
       Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide
     Presents an orifice on either side.
     A dismal orifice, from sea to sea
     Extended, pervious to the God of Day:
     Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form
     An arch, the ruin of a future storm:
     High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make,
     And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake.
       But when bleak Winter with his sullen train
     Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain;
     When o'er the craggy steep without control,
     Big with the blast, the raging billows roll;
     Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand,
     Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand,
     Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours,
     Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers,
     Equal the tumult of this wild uproar:
     Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows shore to shore.
     The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks
     Of angry seas, and run along the rocks,
     Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams,
     Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes.
       The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top,
     The wither'd herb improvident they crop,
     Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep,
     Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep.
       The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes,
     Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies,
     Nor hoping to behold the skies serene,
     Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.

     COME, be content, since out it must,
     For Stella has betray'd her trust;
     And, whispering, charged me not to say
     That Mr. Ford was born to-day;
     Or, if at last I needs must blab it,
     According to my usual habit,
     She bid me, with a serious face,
     Be sure conceal the time and place;
     And not my compliment to spoil,
     By calling this your native soil;
     Or vex the ladies, when they knew
     That you are turning forty-two:
     But, if these topics shall appear
     Strong arguments to keep you here,
     I think, though you judge hardly of it,
     Good manners must give place to profit.
       The nymphs, with whom you first began,
     Are each become a harridan;
     And Montague so far decay'd,
     Her lovers now must all be paid;
     And every belle that since arose,
     Has her contemporary beaux.
     Your former comrades, once so bright,
     With whom you toasted half the night,
     Of rheumatism and pox complain,
     And bid adieu to dear champaign.
     Your great protectors, once in power,
     Are now in exile or the Tower.
     Your foes triumphant o'er the laws,
     Who hate your person and your cause,
     If once they get you on the spot,
     You must be guilty of the plot;
     For, true or false, they'll ne'er inquire,
     But use you ten times worse than Prior.
       In London! what would you do there?
     Can you, my friend, with patience bear
     (Nay, would it not your passion raise
     Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase)
     To see a scoundrel strut and hector,
     A foot-boy to some rogue director,
     To look on vice triumphant round,
     And virtue trampled on the ground?
     Observe where bloody **** stands
     With torturing engines in his hands,
     Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail,
     Threatening the pillory and jail:
     If this you think a pleasing scene,
     To London straight return again;
     Where, you have told us from experience,
     Are swarms of bugs and presbyterians.
       I thought my very spleen would burst,
     When fortune hither drove me first;
     Was full as hard to please as you,
     Nor persons' names nor places knew:
     But now I act as other folk,
     Like prisoners when their gaol is broke.
       If you have London still at heart,
     We'll make a small one here by art;
     The difference is not much between
     St. James's Park and Stephen's Green;
     And Dawson Street will serve as well
     To lead you thither as Pall Mall.
     Nor want a passage through the palace,
     To choke your sight, and raise your malice.
     The Deanery-house may well be match'd,
     Under correction, with the Thatch'd.[2]
     Nor shall I, when you hither come,
     Demand a crown a-quart for stum.
     Then for a middle-aged charmer,
     Stella may vie with your Mounthermer;[3]
     She's now as handsome every bit,
     And has a thousand times her wit
     The Dean and Sheridan, I hope,
     Will half supply a Gay and Pope.
     Corbet,[4] though yet I know his worth not,
     No doubt, will prove a good Arbuthnot.
     I throw into the bargain Tim;
     In London can you equal him?
     What think you of my favourite clan,
     Robin[5] and Jack, and Jack and Dan;
     Fellows of modest worth and parts,
     With cheerful looks and honest hearts?
       Can you on Dublin look with scorn?
     Yet here were you and Ormond born.
       O! were but you and I so wise,
     To see with Robert Grattan's eyes!
     Robin adores that spot of earth,
     That literal spot which gave him birth;
     And swears, "Belcamp[6] is, to his taste,
     As fine as Hampton-court at least."
     When to your friends you would enhance
     The praise of Italy or France,
     For grandeur, elegance, and wit,
     We gladly hear you, and submit;
     But then, to come and keep a clutter,
     For this or that side of a gutter,
     To live in this or t'other isle,
     We cannot think it worth your while;
     For, take it kindly or amiss,
     The difference but amounts to this,
     We bury on our side the channel
     In linen; and on yours in flannel.[7]
     You for the news are ne'er to seek;
     While we, perhaps, may wait a week;
     You happy folks are sure to meet
     A hundred whores in every street;
     While we may trace all Dublin o'er
     Before we find out half a score.
       You see my arguments are strong,
     I wonder you held out so long;
     But, since you are convinced at last,
     We'll pardon you for what has past.
     So—let us now for whist prepare;
     Twelve pence a corner, if you dare.

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Swift had been used to celebrate the birth-day of his
     friend Charles Ford, which was on the first day of January. See also the
     poem, "Stella at Wood Park."—Dr. Delany mentions also, among the Dean's
     intimate friends, "Matthew Ford, Esq., a man of family and fortune, a
     fine gentleman, and the best lay scholar of his time and
     nation."—Nichols.]

     [Footnote 1: A celebrated tavern in St. James' Street, from 1711 till
     about 1865. Since then and now, The Thatched House Club.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Mary, youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough,
     "exquisitely beautiful, lively in temper, and no less amiable in mind
     than elegant in person," married in 1703, to Lord Mounthermer, son of the
     Earl, afterwards Duke, of Montagu. See Coxe's "Life of Marlborough," i,
     172.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Dr. Corbet, afterwards Dean of St. Patrick's, on the death
     of Dr. Maturine, who succeeded Dr. Swift.]

     [Footnote 5: Robert and John Grattan, and John and Daniel Jackson.—H.]

     [Footnote 6: In Fingal, about five miles from Dublin.—H.]

     [Footnote 7: The law for burying in woollen was extended to Ireland in
     1733.]

     Petronii Fragmenta, xxx.

     THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude,
     And with false flitting shades our minds delude
     Jove never sends us downward from the skies;
     Nor can they from infernal mansions rise;
     But are all mere productions of the brain,
     And fools consult interpreters in vain.[1]

     For when in bed we rest our weary limbs,
     The mind unburden'd sports in various whims;
     The busy head with mimic art runs o'er
     The scenes and actions of the day before.[2]

     The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led,
     To regal rage devotes some patriot's head.
     With equal terrors, not with equal guilt,
     The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt.

     The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries,
     And stabs the son before the mother's eyes.
     With like remorse his brother of the trade,
     The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.

     The statesman rakes the town to find a plot,
     And dreams of forfeitures by treason got.
     Nor less Tom-t—d-man, of true statesman mould,
     Collects the city filth in search of gold.

     Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees,
     And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees.
     His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job,
     Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob.

     The kind physician grants the husband's prayers,
     Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs.
     The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose,
     Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes.

     The grave divine, with knotty points perplext,
     As if he were awake, nods o'er his text:
     While the sly mountebank attends his trade,
     Harangues the rabble, and is better paid.

     The hireling senator of modern days
     Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise:
     And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace
     Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face.

     [Footnote 1:
     "Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris,
     Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt,
     Sed sibi quisque facit."]

     [Footnote 2:
               "Nam cum prostrata sopore
     Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit,
     Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."—W. E. B.]

     Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard,
     Your ears and doors should both be barr'd.
     Can anything be more unkind?
     Must I not see, 'cause you are blind?
     Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,—
     A friend that loves to see and hear you.
     Why am I robb'd of that delight,
     When you can be no loser by't
     Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?)
     That if you heard you'd be no gainer?
     For sure you are not yet to learn,
     That hearing is not your concern.
     Then be your doors no longer barr'd:
     Your business, sir, is to be heard.

     The wise pretend to make it clear,
     'Tis no great loss to lose an ear.
     Why are we then so fond of two,
     When by experience one would do?
       'Tis true, say they, cut off the head,
     And there's an end; the man is dead;
     Because, among all human race,
     None e'er was known to have a brace:
     But confidently they maintain,
     That where we find the members twain,
     The loss of one is no such trouble,
     Since t'other will in strength be double.
     The limb surviving, you may swear,
     Becomes his brother's lawful heir:
     Thus, for a trial, let me beg of
     Your reverence but to cut one leg off,
     And you shall find, by this device,
     The other will be stronger twice;
     For every day you shall be gaining
     New vigour to the leg remaining.
     So, when an eye has lost its brother,
     You see the better with the other,
     Cut off your hand, and you may do
     With t'other hand the work of two:
     Because the soul her power contracts,
     And on the brother limb reacts.
       But yet the point is not so clear in
     Another case, the sense of hearing:
     For, though the place of either ear
     Be distant, as one head can bear,
     Yet Galen most acutely shows you,
     (Consult his book de partium usu)
     That from each ear, as he observes,
     There creep two auditory nerves,
     Not to be seen without a glass,
     Which near the os petrosum pass;
     Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there,
     One goes to this, and one to t'other ear;
     Which made my grandam always stuff her ears
     Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers.
     You see my learning; but, to shorten it,
     When my left ear was deaf a fortnight,
     To t'other ear I felt it coming on:
     And thus I solve this hard phenomenon.

     'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies
     To weak, or old, or clouded eyes:
     Your arms, though both your eyes were lost,
     Would guard your nose against a post:
     Without your legs, two legs of wood
     Are stronger, and almost as good:
     And as for hands, there have been those
     Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1]
     But no contrivance yet appears
     To furnish artificial ears.

     [Footnote 1: There have been instances of a man's writing with his foot.
     And I have seen a man, in India, who painted pictures, holding the brush
     betwixt his toes. The work was not well done: the wonder was to see it
     done at all.—W. E. B.]

     NELL scolded in so loud a din,
     That Will durst hardly venture in:
     He mark'd the conjugal dispute;
     Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute;
     But, when he saw his friend appear,
     Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!"
     At sight of Will she bawl'd no more,
     But hurried out and clapt the door.
       Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell,
     (Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell.
     Why what a peal the jade has rung!
     D—n her, why don't you slit her tongue?
     For nothing else will make it cease.
     Dear Will, I suffer this for peace:
     I never quarrel with my wife;
     I bear it for a quiet life.
     Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it;
     Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it.
       Will went again to visit Dick;
     And entering in the very nick,
     He saw virago Nell belabour,
     With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour.
     Poor Will, who needs must interpose,
     Received a brace or two of blows.
     But now, to make my story short,
     Will drew out Dick to take a quart.
     Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims;
     Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs?
     If she were mine, and had such tricks,
     I'd teach her how to handle sticks:
     Z—ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1]
     Or truck the carrion for tobacco:
     I'd send her far enough away——
     Dear Will; but what would people say?
     Lord! I should get so ill a name,
     The neighbours round would cry out shame.
       Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit;
     But who believed him when he said it?
     Can he, who makes himself a slave,
     Consult his peace, or credit save?
     Dick found it by his ill success,
     His quiet small, his credit less.
     She served him at the usual rate;
     She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate:
     And what he thought the hardest case,
     The parish jeer'd him to his face;
     Those men who wore the breeches least,
     Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast.
     At home he was pursued with noise;
     Abroad was pester'd by the boys:
     Within, his wife would break his bones:
     Without, they pelted him with stones;
     The 'prentices procured a riding,[2]
     To act his patience and her chiding.
     False patience and mistaken pride!
     There are ten thousand Dicks beside;
     Slaves to their quiet and good name,
     Are used like Dick, and bear the blame.

     [Footnote 1: See post, p. 200, "A beautiful young nymph."]

     [Footnote 2: A performance got up by the rustics in some counties to
     ridicule and shame a man who has been guilty of beating his wife (or in
     this case, who has been beaten by her), by having a cart drawn through
     the village, having in it two persons dressed to resemble the woman and
     her master, and a supposed representation of the beating is inflicted,
     enacted before the offender's door. "Notes and Queries," 1st S., ix,
     370, 578.—W. E. B.]

ADVICE TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS
     1726

     Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
       Down from your garrets haste;
     Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,
       Not yet consign'd to paste;

     I know a trick to make you thrive;
       O, 'tis a quaint device:
     Your still-born poems shall revive,
       And scorn to wrap up spice.

     Get all your verses printed fair,
       Then let them well be dried;
     And Curll[1] must have a special care
       To leave the margin wide.

     Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope;
       And when he sets to write,
     No letter with an envelope
       Could give him more delight.

     When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
       Why then recall your loan;
     Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
       And swear they are your own.

     [Footnote 1: The infamous piratical bookseller. See Pope's Works,
     passim.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: The original copy of Pope's celebrated translation of Homer
     (preserved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the
     covers of letters, and sometimes between the lines of the letters
     themselves.]

     This poem was written when George II succeeded his father, and bore the
     following explanatory introduction:

     Richmond Lodge is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It
     was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond
     was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of
     Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer
     there. It is within a mile of Richmond.

     "Marble Hill is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, now
     Countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the
     Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Pope lives, and about two miles
     from Richmond Lodge. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert
     the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler, and keeper of the
     ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the
     above dialogue."—Dublin Edition, 1734.

     In spight of Pope, in spight of Gay,
     And all that he or they can say;
     Sing on I must, and sing I will,
     Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill.
       Last Friday night, as neighbours use,
     This couple met to talk of news:
     For, by old proverbs, it appears,
     That walls have tongues, and hedges ears.

     MARBLE HILL

     Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween,
     Your mistress now is grown a queen;
     You'll find it soon by woful proof,
     She'll come no more beneath your roof.

     RICHMOND LODGE

     The kingly prophet well evinces,
     That we should put no trust in princes:
     My royal master promised me
     To raise me to a high degree:
     But now he's grown a king, God wot,
     I fear I shall be soon forgot.
     You see, when folks have got their ends,
     How quickly they neglect their friends;
     Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you,
     Pray God, they now may find as true!

     MARBLE HILL

     My house was built but for a show,
     My lady's empty pockets know;
     And now she will not have a shilling,
     To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling;
     For all the courtly madams round
     Now pay four shillings in the pound;
     'Tis come to what I always thought:
     My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2]
     Had you and I been courtiers born,
     We should not thus have lain forlorn;
     For those we dext'rous courtiers call,
     Can rise upon their masters' fall:
     But we, unlucky and unwise,
     Must fall because our masters rise.

     RICHMOND LODGE

     My master, scarce a fortnight since,
     Was grown as wealthy as a prince;
     But now it will be no such thing,
     For he'll be poor as any king;
     And by his crown will nothing get,
     But like a king to run in debt.

     MARBLE HILL

     No more the Dean, that grave divine,
     Shall keep the key of my (no) wine;
     My ice-house rob, as heretofore,
     And steal my artichokes no more;
     Poor Patty Blount[3] no more be seen
     Bedraggled in my walks so green:
     Plump Johnny Gay will now elope;
     And here no more will dangle Pope.

     RICHMOND LODGE

     Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek,
     To spunge a breakfast once a-week;
     To cry the bread was stale, and mutter
     Complaints against the royal butter.
     But now I fear it will be said,
     No butter sticks upon his bread.[4]
     We soon shall find him full of spleen,
     For want of tattling to the queen;
     Stunning her royal ears with talking;
     His reverence and her highness walking:
     While Lady Charlotte,[5] like a stroller,
     Sits mounted on the garden-roller.
     A goodly sight to see her ride,
     With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side.
     In velvet cap his head lies warm,
     His hat, for show, beneath his arm.

     MARBLE HILL

     Some South-Sea broker from the city
     Will purchase me, the more's the pity;
     Lay all my fine plantations waste,
     To fit them to his vulgar taste:
     Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part,
     My master Pope will break his heart.

     RICHMOND LODGE

     In my own Thames may I be drownded,
     If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head:
     Except her majesty prevails
     To place me with the Prince of Wales;
     And then I shall be free from fears,
     For he'll be prince these fifty years.
     I then will turn a courtier too,
     And serve the times as others do.
     Plain loyalty, not built on hope,
     I leave to your contriver, Pope;
     None loves his king and country better,
     Yet none was ever less their debtor.

     MARBLE HILL

     Then let him come and take a nap
     In summer on my verdant lap;
     Prefer our villas, where the Thames is,
     To Kensington, or hot St. James's;
     Nor shall I dull in silence sit;
     For 'tis to me he owes his wit;
     My groves, my echoes, and my birds,
     Have taught him his poetic words.
     We gardens, and you wildernesses,
     Assist all poets in distresses.
     Him twice a-week I here expect,
     To rattle Moody[7] for neglect;
     An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge
     In tippling at the Dog and Partridge;
     And I can hardly get him down
     Three times a-week to brush my gown.

     RICHMOND LODGE

     I pity you, dear Marble Hill;
     But hope to see you flourish still.
     All happiness—and so adieu.

     MARBLE HILL

     Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you.

     [Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after
     supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden
     on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at
     the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th,
     wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room
     where he was born.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Swift was probably not aware how nearly he described the
     narrowed situation of Mrs. Howard's finances. Lord Orford, in a letter to
     Lord Strafford, 29th July, 1767, written shortly after her death,
     described her affairs as so far from being easy, that the utmost economy
     could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably; and
     states in his Reminiscences, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the
     King ten or twelve thousand pounds, she did not leave above twenty
     thousand pounds to her family.—See "Lord Orford's Works," vol. iv, p.
     304; v, p. 456.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Who was "often in Swift's thoughts," and "high in his
     esteem"; and to whom Pope dedicated his second "Moral
     Epistle."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: This also proved a prophecy more true than the Dean
     suspected.]

     [Footnote 5: Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady.—Dublin
     Edition.]

     [Footnote 6: Marquis de Mirmont, a Frenchman, who had come to England
     after the Edict of Nantes (by which Henri IV had secured freedom of
     religion to Protestants) had been revoked by Louis XIV in 1685. See
     Voltaire, "Siècle de Louis XIV."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 7: The gardener.]

       'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire
     In men, Possession and Desire!
     Think what they wish so great a blessing;
     So disappointed when possessing!
       A moralist profoundly sage
     (I know not in what book or page,
     Or whether o'er a pot of ale)
     Related thus the following tale.
       Possession, and Desire, his brother,
     But still at variance with each other,
     Were seen contending in a race;
     And kept at first an equal pace;
     'Tis said, their course continued long,
     For this was active, that was strong:
     Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt,
     Misled them many a league about;
     Seduced by some deceiving light,
     They take the wrong way for the right;
     Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep,
     They often climb, and often creep.
       Desire, the swifter of the two,
     Along the plain like lightning flew:
     Till, entering on a broad highway,
     Where power and titles scatter'd lay,
     He strove to pick up all he found,
     And by excursions lost his ground:
     No sooner got, than with disdain
     He threw them on the ground again;
     And hasted forward to pursue
     Fresh objects, fairer to his view,
     In hope to spring some nobler game;
     But all he took was just the same:
     Too scornful now to stop his pace,
     He spurn'd them in his rival's face.
       Possession kept the beaten road,
     And gather'd all his brother strew'd;
     But overcharged, and out of wind,
     Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind.
       Desire had now the goal in sight;
     It was a tower of monstrous height;
     Where on the summit Fortune stands,
     A crown and sceptre in her hands;
     Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell,
     Where many a bold adventurer fell.
     Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile,
     And saw the treacherous goddess smile;
     But as he climb'd to grasp the crown,
     She knock'd him with the sceptre down!
     He tumbled in the gulf profound;
     There doom'd to whirl an endless round.
       Possession's load was grown so great,
     He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight;
     And, as he now expiring lay,
     Flocks every ominous bird of prey;
     The raven, vulture, owl, and kite,
     At once upon his carcass light,
     And strip his hide, and pick his bones,
     Regardless of his dying groans.