The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1

DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 [Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while the new Parliament-house was building.— Swift .] [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.] [Footnote 3: Pallas.] DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729 To form a just and finish'd piece, Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, Whose godships are in chief request, And fit your present subject best; And, should it be your hero's case, To have both male and female race, Your business must be to provide A score of goddesses beside. Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, For which they bring a modern pattern; Because they might have heard of one,[1] Who often long'd to eat his son; But this I think will not go down, For here the father kept his crown. Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, Who met his mother in a grove; To this we freely shall consent, Well knowing what the poets meant; And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, It may be literally true.[2] Next, as the laws of verse require, He must be greater than his sire; For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, Was able Saturn to depose; And sure no Christian poet breathing Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; Or, if to blasphemy it tends. That's but a trifle among friends. Your hero now another Mars is, Makes mighty armies turn their a—s: Behold his glittering falchion mow Whole squadrons at a single blow; While Victory, with wings outspread, Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; His milk-white steed upon its haunches, Or pawing into dead men's paunches; As Overton has drawn his sire, Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire. Then from his arm hoarse thunder rolls, As loud as fifty mustard bowls; For thunder still his arm supplies, And lightning always in his eyes. They both are cheap enough in conscience, And serve to echo rattling nonsense. The rumbling words march fierce along, Made trebly dreadful in your song. Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, To sing of wars, choose peaceful times. What though, for fifteen years and more, Janus has lock'd his temple-door; Though not a coffeehouse we read in Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, Though fond of warlike lies as most men; Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: For, must thy hero not be dreadful? Dismissing Mars, it next must follow Your conqueror is become Apollo: That he's Apollo is as plain as That Robin Walpole is Mæcenas; But that he struts, and that he squints, You'd know him by Apollo's prints. Old Phoebus is but half as bright, For yours can shine both day and night. The first, perhaps, may once an age Inspire you with poetic rage; Your Phoebus Royal, every day, Not only can inspire, but pay. Then make this new Apollo sit Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. "How from his altitude he stoops To raise up Virtue when she droops; On Learning how his bounty flows, And with what justice he bestows; Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam! Be witness if I tell a flam, What prodigies in arts we drain, From both your streams, in George's reign. As from the flowery bed of Nile"— But here's enough to show your style. Broad innuendoes, such as this, If well applied, can hardly miss: For, when you bring your song in print, He'll get it read, and take the hint; (It must be read before 'tis warbled, The paper gilt and cover marbled.) And will be so much more your debtor, Because he never knew a letter. And, as he hears his wit and sense (To which he never made pretence) Set out in hyperbolic strains, A guinea shall reward your pains; For patrons never pay so well, As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. Next call him Neptune: with his trident He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; And, if provoked, he soundly firks his Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes. He would have seized the Spanish plate, Had not the fleet gone out too late; And in their very ports besiege them, But that he would not disoblige them; And make the rascals pay him dearly For those affronts they give him yearly. 'Tis not denied, that, when we write, Our ink is black, our paper white: And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, We blacken what was white before: I think this practice only fit For dealers in satiric wit. But you some white-lead ink must get And write on paper black as jet; Your interest lies to learn the knack Of whitening what before was black. Thus your encomium, to be strong, Must be applied directly wrong. A tyrant for his mercy praise, And crown a royal dunce with bays: A squinting monkey load with charms, And paint a coward fierce in arms. Is he to avarice inclined? Extol him for his generous mind: And, when we starve for want of corn, Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3] For all experience this evinces The only art of pleasing princes: For princes' love you should descant On virtues which they know they want. One compliment I had forgot, But songsters must omit it not; I freely grant the thought is old: Why, then, your hero must be told, In him such virtues lie inherent, To qualify him God's vicegerent; That with no title to inherit, He must have been a king by merit. Yet, be the fancy old or new, Tis partly false, and partly true: And, take it right, it means no more Than George and William claim'd before. Should some obscure inferior fellow, Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4] When all your list of Gods is out, Presume to show his mortal snout, And as a Deity intrude, Because he had the world subdued; O, let him not debase your thoughts, Or name him but to tell his faults.— Of Gods I only quote the best, But you may hook in all the rest. Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed To praise your empress and her breed; First of the first, to vouch your lies, Bring all the females of the skies; The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, Must venture down to entertain us: With bended knees when they adore her, What dowdies they appear before her! Nor shall we think you talk at random, For Venus might be her great-grandam: Six thousand years has lived the Goddess, Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; Besides, your songsters oft have shown That she has Graces of her own: Three Graces by Lucina brought her, Just three, and every Grace a daughter; Here many a king his heart and crown Shall at their snowy feet lay down: In royal robes, they come by dozens To court their English German cousins: Beside a pair of princely babies, That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. Now see her seated in her throne With genuine lustre, all her own: Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, Her splendour is but borrow'd light; And only with her brother linkt Can shine, without him is extinct. But Carolina shines the clearer With neither spouse nor brother near her: And darts her beams o'er both our isles, Though George is gone a thousand miles. Thus Berecynthia takes her place, Attended by her heavenly race; And sees a son in every God, Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod. Now sing his little highness Freddy Who struts like any king already: With so much beauty, show me any maid That could resist this charming Ganymede! Where majesty with sweetness vies, And, like his father, early wise. Then cut him out a world of work, To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, And golden times, and halcyon days; And swear his line shall rule the nation For ever—till the conflagration. But, now it comes into my mind, We left a little duke behind; A Cupid in his face and size, And only wants, to want his eyes. Make some provision for the younker, Find him a kingdom out to conquer; Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, Make Gulliver his commodore; Into whose pocket valiant Willy put, Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. A skilful critic justly blames Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names The sense can ne'er be too jejune, But smooth your words to fit the tune. Hanover may do well enough, But George and Brunswick are too rough; Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. In vain are all attempts from Germany To find out proper words for harmony: And yet I must except the Rhine, Because it clinks to Caroline. Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes! Be sung ten hundred thousand times; Too happy were the poets' crew, If their own happiness they knew: Three syllables did never meet So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: Nine other tuneful words like that Would prove even Homer's numbers flat. Behold three beauteous vowels stand, With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; In concord here for ever fix'd, No jarring consonant betwixt. May Caroline continue long, For ever fair and young!—in song. What though the royal carcass must, Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust? Those elements her name compose, Like atoms, are exempt from blows. Though Caroline may fill your gaps, Yet still you must consult your maps; Find rivers with harmonious names, Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, Britannia long will wear like steel, But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; And Patience can endure no more To hear the Belgic lion roar. Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, But proud Iberia soundly maul: Restore the ships by Philip taken, And make him crouch to save his bacon. Nassau, who got the name of Glorious, Because he never was victorious, A hanger-on has always been; For old acquaintance bring him in. To Walpole you might lend a line, But much I fear he's in decline; And if you chance to come too late, When he goes out, you share his fate, And bear the new successor's frown; Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. Reject with scorn that stupid notion, To praise your hero for devotion; Nor entertain a thought so odd, That princes should believe in God; But follow the securest rule, And turn it all to ridicule: 'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, And gives the maids of honour sport; For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5] They now can venture in the dark: That sound divine the truth has spoke all, And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local. This will not give them half the trouble Of bargains sold, or meanings double. Supposing now your song is done, To Mynheer Handel next you run, Who artfully will pare and prune Your words to some Italian tune: Then print it in the largest letter, With capitals, the more the better. Present it boldly on your knee, And take a guinea for your fee. [Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, while the latter was Prince of Wales.— Scott .] [Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.— Scott .] [Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.— W. E. B. ] [Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander the Great.— W. E. B. ] [Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St. James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, "Moral Essays," Epist. iv.— W. E. B. ] THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK, A FABLE BY DR. DELANY 1730 —quis iniquae Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?— -Juv. i, 30. In ancient times, as bards indite, (If clerks have conn'd the records right.) A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway His subjects with delight obey: His tail was beauteous to behold, Replete with goodly eyes and gold; Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, Whose train at once is rich and wise; And princely ruled he many regions, And statesmen wise, and valiant legions. A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, With every grace and talent blest, Was sent to sway, with all his skill, The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2] No science was to him unknown, For all the arts were all his own: In all the living learned read, Though more delighted with the dead: For birds, if ancient tales say true, Had then their Popes and Homers too; Could read and write in prose and verse, And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3] He knew their voices, and their wings, Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, And who attain'd the true sublime. Their merits he could well descry, He had so exquisite an eye; And when that fail'd to show them clear, He had as exquisite an ear; It chanced as on a day he stray'd Beneath an academic shade, He liked, amidst a thousand throats, The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, And took him home, and made him tame; Found him on trial true and able, So cheer'd and fed him at his table. Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, And cries out, "Better fed than taught"—Then jests on game and tame, and reads, And jests, and so my tale proceeds. Long had he studied in the wood, Conversing with the wise and good: His soul with harmony inspired, With love of truth and virtue fired: His brethren's good and Maker's praise Were all the study of his lays; Were all his study in retreat, And now employ'd him with the great. His friendship was the sure resort Of all the wretched at the court; But chiefly merit in distress His greatest blessing was to bless.— This fix'd him in his patron's breast, But fired with envy all the rest: I mean that noisy, craving crew, Who round the court incessant flew, And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, To fill the maws of sons and cousins: "Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood To every thought of common good, Confining every hope and care, To their own low, contracted sphere." These ran him down with ceaseless cry, But found it hard to tell you why, Till his own worth and wit supplied Sufficient matter to deride: "'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, To hide her rage in ridicule: The vulgar eye she best beguiles, When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised! Tormented most when seeming pleased!" Their spite had more than half expired, Had he not wrote what all admired; What morsels had their malice wanted, But that he built, and plann'd, and planted! How had his sense and learning grieved them, But that his charity relieved them! "At highest worth dull malice reaches, As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: Envy defames, as harpies vile Devour the food they first defile." Now ask the fruit of all his favour— "He was not hitherto a saver."— What then could make their rage run mad? "Why, what he hoped, not what he had." "What tyrant e'er invented ropes, Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes? Th' inheritance of hope and fame Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; Or, if it were, is not so small, But there is room enough for all." If he but chance to breathe a song, (He seldom sang, and never long,) The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, Where it was high, pronounced it loud: Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, Easy and Friendly was Familiar. Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, With solemn air to Virtue's praise, Alike abusive and erroneous, They call'd it hoarse and inharmonious. Yet so it was to souls like theirs, Tuneless as Abel to the bears! A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6] (Though some, who would be thought to know, Are positive it was a crow:) Jack Daw was seconded by Tit, Tom Tit[7] could write, and so he writ; A tribe of tuneless praters follow, The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; And twenty more their throats let loose, Down to the witless, waddling Goose. Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, Swore all his singing was but croaking. Some thought they meant to show their wit, Might think so still—"but that they writ"— Could it be spite or envy?—"No— Who did no ill could have no foe."— So wise Simplicity esteem'd; Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; This question rightly understood, "What more provokes than doing good? A soul ennobled and refined Reproaches every baser mind: As strains exalted and melodious Make every meaner music odious."— At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, For voice and wisdom long revered, Esteem'd of all the wise and good, The Guardian Genius of the wood: He long in discontent retired, Yet not obscured, but more admired: His brethren's servile souls disdaining, He lived indignant and complaining: They now afresh provoke his choler, (It seems the Lark had been his scholar, A favourite scholar always near him, And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) Enraged he canvasses the matter, Exposes all their senseless chatter, Shows him and them in such a light, As more inflames, yet quells their spite. They hear his voice, and frighted fly, For rage had raised it very high: Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, They hide their heads, and hush their throats. [Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.— F .] [Footnote 2: Ireland.— F ] [Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in Dublin.— F .] [Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.— F .] [Footnote 5: Dr. T——r.— F. ] [Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.— F. ] [Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.— F. ] [Footnote 8: Dean Swift.— F. ] ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK. 1730 In ancient times, the wise were able In proper terms to write a fable: Their tales would always justly suit The characters of every brute. The ass was dull, the lion brave, The stag was swift, the fox a knave; The daw a thief, the ape a droll, The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop, Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up. Far otherwise a great divine Has learnt his fables to refine; He jumbles men and birds together, As if they all were of a feather: You see him first the Peacock bring, Against all rules, to be a king; That in his tail he wore his eyes, By which he grew both rich and wise. Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, A Peacock chose for flight and voice; Did ever mortal see a peacock Attempt a flight above a haycock? And for his singing, doctor, you know Himself complain'd of it to Juno. He squalls in such a hellish noise, He frightens all the village boys. This Peacock kept a standing force, In regiments of foot and horse: Had statesmen too of every kind, Who waited on his eyes behind; And this was thought the highest post; For, rule the rump, you rule the roast. The doctor names but one at present, And he of all birds was a Pheasant. This Pheasant was a man of wit, Could read all books were ever writ; And, when among companions privy, Could quote you Cicero and Livy. Birds, as he says, and I allow, Were scholars then, as we are now; Could read all volumes up to folios, And feed on fricassees and olios: This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will, Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; And, as he wander'd in his park, He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; Was taken with his person outward, So prettily he pick'd a cow-t—d: Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, And in his palace fed and taught him. The moral of the tale is pleasant, Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: A lark he is, and such a lark As never came from Noah's ark: And though he had no other notion, But building, planning, and devotion; Though 'tis a maxim you must know, "Who does no ill can have no foe;" Yet how can I express in words The strange stupidity of birds? This Lark was hated in the wood, Because he did his brethren good. At last the Nightingale comes in, To hold the doctor by the chin: We all can find out what he means, The worst of disaffected deans: Whose wit at best was next to none, And now that little next is gone; Against the court is always blabbing, And calls the senate-house a cabin; So dull, that but for spleen and spite, We ne'er should know that he could write Who thinks the nation always err'd, Because himself is not preferr'd; His heart is through his libel seen, Nor could his malice spare the queen; Who, had she known his vile behaviour, Would ne'er have shown him so much favour. A noble lord[1] has told his pranks, And well deserves the nation's thanks. O! would the senate deign to show Resentment on this public foe, Our Nightingale might fit a cage; There let him starve, and vent his rage: Or would they but in fetters bind This enemy of human kind! Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, Thou champion for the commonweal: Nor on a theme like this repine, For once to wet thy pen divine: Bestow that libeller a lash, Who daily vends seditious trash: Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, But in the praise of virtue is dumb: That scribbler lash, who neither knows The turn of verse, nor style of prose; Whose malice, for the worst of ends, Would have us lose our English friends:[3] Who never had one public thought, Nor ever gave the poor a groat. One clincher more, and I have done, I end my labours with a pun. Jove send this Nightingale may fall, Who spends his day and night in gall! So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; I see the greatest owls in you That ever screech'd, or ever flew. [Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.— F. ] [Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.— F. ] [Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.— F. ] DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1] Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.—HOR. Epist. , I, ii, 47. It was, my lord, the dexterous shift Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, With silver verge, and surplice clean, Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, In looser rhyme to beg a place. A place he got, yclept a stall, And eke a thousand pounds withal; And were he less a witty writer, He might as well have got a mitre. Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, In humble lays my thanks to offer, Approach your grace with grateful heart, My thanks and verse both void of art, Content with what your bounty gave, No larger income do I crave: Rejoicing that, in better times, Grafton requires my loyal lines. Proud! while my patron is polite, I likewise to the patriot write! Proud! that at once I can commend King George's and the Muses' friend! Endear'd to Britain; and to thee (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) Endear'd by twice three anxious years, Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; By love, by wisdom, and by skill; For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will. But where shall Smedley make his nest, And lay his wandering head to rest? Where shall he find a decent house, To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, In wholesome soil, and ether pure; The garden stored with artless flowers, In either angle shady bowers. No gay parterre, with costly green, Within the ambient hedge be seen: Let Nature freely take her course, Nor fear from me ungrateful force; No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, Nor shape the yews to antic figure: A limpid brook shall trout supply, In May, to take the mimic fly; Round a small orchard may it run, Whose apples redden to the sun. Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, A little Euston[2] may it be, Euston I'll carve on every tree. But then, to keep it in repair, My lord—twice fifty pounds a-year Will barely do; but if your grace Could make them hundreds—charming place! Thou then wouldst show another face. Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, 'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: One shivers with the arctic wind, One hears the polar axis grind. Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, Makes the place warm, that one may bear it. He has a purse to keep a table, And eke a soul as hospitable. My heart is good; but assets fail, To fight with storms of snow and hail. Besides, the country's thin of people, Who seldom meet but at the steeple: The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, Ne'er named the thing without a frown, When, much fatigued with sermon study, He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; No fit companion could be found, To push the lazy bottle round: Sure then, for want of better folks To pledge, his clerk was orthodox. Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, Where beaux and belles in parties meet; Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, And jostle as they troll along; Where tea and coffee hourly flow, And gape-seed does in plenty grow; And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!" There Lady Luna in her sphere Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. There—but 'tis endless to write down All the amusements of the town; And spouse will think herself quite undone, To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; And care we must our wives to please, Or else—we shall be ill at ease. You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, 'Tis only some convenient tack, Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, To be my late, my last retreat; A decent church, close by its side, There, preaching, praying, to reside; And as my time securely rolls, To save my own and other souls. [Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to in the preceding poems.— Scott .] [Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.— N. ] [Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.— H. ] [Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there are two deans.— Scott .] THE DUKE'S ANSWER BY DR. SWIFT Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, Where wit in all its glory shines; Where compliments, with all their pride, Are by their numbers dignified: I hope to make you yet as clean As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, And may be something else withal; And, were you not so good a writer, I should present you with a mitre. Write worse, then, if you can—be wise- Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. Talk not of making of thy nest: Ah! never lay thy head to rest! That head so well with wisdom fraught, That writes without the toil of thought! While others rack their busy brains, You are not in the least at pains. Down to your dean'ry now repair, And build a castle in the air. I'm sure a man of your fine sense Can do it with a small expense. There your dear spouse and you together May breathe your bellies full of ether, When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, She'll help your wife when she's in labour, Well skill'd in midwife artifices, For she herself oft falls in pieces. There you shall see a raree show Will make you scorn this world below, When you behold the milky-way, As white as snow, as bright as day; The glittering constellations roll About the grinding arctic pole; The lovely tingling in your ears, Wrought by the music of the spheres— Your spouse shall then no longer hector, You need not fear a curtain-lecture; Nor shall she think that she is undone For quitting her beloved London. When she's exalted in the skies, She'll never think of mutton-pies; When you're advanced above Dean Viz, You'll never think of Goody Griz; But ever, ever live at ease, And strive, and strive your wife to please; In her you'll centre all your joys, And get ten thousand girls and boys; Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, And they like stars shall rise and set. While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon Be a new sun and a new moon: Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, For then your horns shall be your pride. [Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the text.— W. E. B. ] PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1] The very reverend Dean Smedley, Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, Was equally allow'd to shine As poet, scholar, and divine; With godliness could well dispense, Would be a rake, but wanted sense; Would strictly after Truth inquire, Because he dreaded to come nigh her. For Liberty no champion bolder, He hated bailiffs at his shoulder. To half the world a standing jest, A perfect nuisance to the rest; From many (and we may believe him) Had the best wishes they could give him. To all mankind a constant friend, Provided they had cash to lend. One thing he did before he went hence, He left us a laconic sentence, By cutting of his phrase, and trimming To prove that bishops were old women. Poor Envy durst not show her phiz, She was so terrified at his. He waded, without any shame, Through thick and thin to get a name, Tried every sharping trick for bread, And after all he seldom sped. When Fortune favour'd, he was nice; He never once would cog the dice; But, if she turn'd against his play, He knew to stop à quatre trois . Now sound in mind, and sound in corpus , (Says he) though swell'd like any porpoise, He hies from hence at forty-four (But by his leave he sinks a score) To the East Indies, there to cheat, Till he can purchase an estate; Where, after he has fill'd his chest, He'll mount his tub, and preach his best, And plainly prove, by dint of text, This world is his, and theirs the next. Lest that the reader should not know The bank where last he set his toe, 'Twas Greenwich. There he took a ship, And gave his creditors the slip. But lest chronology should vary, Upon the ides of February, In seventeen hundred eight-and-twenty, To Fort St. George, a pedler went he. Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent, RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT! [Footnote 1: INSCRIPTION, BY DEAN SMEDLEY, 1729. [*text centered] Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY, Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus, Politioribus excultus literis; Parce pius, impius minime; Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor; Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam, Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus, Auctor hujus sententiae, PATRES SUNT VETULAE. Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam; Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus, Mente Sana, sano corpore, volens, laetusque, Lustris plus quam XI numeratis, Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque, Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales praedicandum, Grevae , idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, Arcemque Sancti petens Georgii , vernale per aequinoxium, Anno Aerae Christianae MDCCXXVIII, Transfretavit. Fata vocant—revocentque precamur.] END OF VOL. I *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D., VOLUME 1 *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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