The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 54

I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated: Much plague it created. I scolded and rated; My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited.

I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited: Your man is belated: the case I have stated; And me you have cheated. My stable's unslated.

Come back t'us well freighted.

I remember my late head; and wish you translated, For teasing me.

2 P.S.

Mrs. Dingley desires me singly Her service to present you; hopes that will content you; But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame, For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse.

3 P.S.

You keep such a t.w.a.ttling with you and your bottling; But I see the sum total, we shall ne'er have a bottle; The long and the short, we shall not have a quart, I wish you would sign't, that we have a pint.

For all your colloguing,[3] I'd be glad for a knoggin:[4]

But I doubt 'tis a sham; you won't give us a dram.

'Tis of shine a mouth moon-ful, you won't part with a spoonful, And I must be nimble, if I can fill my thimble, You see I won't stop, till I come to a drop; But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum; Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we smell it.

STELLA.

[Footnote 1: In this letter, though written in prose, the reader, upon examining, will find each second sentence rhymes to the former.--_H._]

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of kindness without sincerity.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: A name used in Ireland for the English quartern.--_F._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER

I'd have you to know, as sure as you're Dean, On Thursday my cask of Obrien I'll drain; If my wife is not willing, I say she's a quean; And my right to the cellar, egad, I'll maintain As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain: Go tell her it over and over again.

I hope, as I ride to the town, it won't rain; For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain, Entirely extinguish my poetic vein; And then I should be as stupid as Kain, Who preach'd on three heads, though he mention'd but twain.

Now Wardel's in haste, and begins to complain; Your most humble servant, dear Sir, I remain, T. S.--N.

Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany, And some Grattans, if there be any:[1]

Take care you do not bid too many.

[Footnote 1: _I.e._ in Dublin, for they were country clergy.--_F._]

DR. SWIFT'S REPLY

The verses you sent on the bottling your wine Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine; And I must confess, as a dean and divine, I think you inspired by the Muses all nine.

I nicely examined them every line, And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine; O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine!

With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine.

I know they have many a wicked design; And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine.

However, I wish, honest comrade of mine, You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,[1]

Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a swine; With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine, Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine; So I wish you were toothless, like Lord Ma.s.serine.

But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,[2]

I wish you would tell me which way you incline.

If when you return your road you don't line, On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine, Wherever you bend, wherever you twine, In square, or in opposite, circle, or trine.

Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine; I hope you have swill'd with new milk from the kine, As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine; And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline.

If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyne; Or may your gown never be good Lutherine.

The beef you have got I hear is a chine; But if too many come, your madam will whine; And then you may kiss the low end of her spine.

But enough of this poetry Alexandrine; I hope you will not think this a pasquine.

[Footnote 1: The seat of Lady Mountcashel, near Dublin.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), an Italian poet noted for his satirical and licentious verse,--_W. E. B._]

A COPY OF A COPY OF VERSES FROM THOMAS SHERIDAN, CLERK, TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.[1]

Written July 15, 1721, at night.

I'd have you t' know, George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, That I've learned how verse t' compose trim, Much better b'half th'n you, n'r you, n'r him, And that I'd rid'cule their'nd your flam-flim.

Ay b't then, p'rhaps, says you, t's a merry whim, With 'bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim, So th't I ought n't for t' be morose 'nd t' look grim, Think n't your 'p'stle put m' in a megrim; Though 'n rep't't'on day, I 'ppear ver' slim, Th' last bowl't Helsham's did m' head t' swim, So th't I h'd man' aches 'n v'ry scrubb'd limb, Cause th' top of th' bowl I h'd oft us'd t' skim; And b'sides D'lan' swears th't I h'd swall'w'd s'v'r'l brim- Mers, 'nd that my vis'ge's cov'r'd o'er with r'd pim- Ples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were ('s 'tis n't) 's strong's tim- Ber, 't must have ach'd. Th' clans of th' c'llege Sanh'drim, Pres'nt the'r humbl' and 'fect'nate respects; that's t' say, D'ln', 'chlin, P. Ludl', Dic' St'wart, H'lsham, Capt'n P'rr' Walmsl', 'nd Long sh'nks Timm.[2]

[Footnote 1: For the persons here alluded to see "The Country Life," vol.

i, p. 137.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. James Stopford, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER

Dear Sheridan! a gentle pair Of Gaulstown lads (for such they are) Besides a brace of grave divines, Adore the smoothness of thy lines: Smooth as our basin's silver flood, Ere George had robb'd it of its mud; Smoother than Pegasus' old shoe, Ere Vulcan comes to make him new.

The board on which we set our a--s, Is not so smooth as are thy verses; Compared with which (and that's enough) A smoothing-iron itself is rough.

Nor praise I less that circ.u.mcision, By modern poets call'd elision, With which, in proper station placed, Thy polish'd lines are firmly braced.[1]

Thus a wise tailor is not pinching, But turns at every seam an inch in: Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold their st.i.tches.

Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather, When smooth'd by rubbing them together; Thy words so closely wedged and short are, Like walls, more lasting without mortar; By leaving out the needless vowels, You save the charge of lime and trowels.

One letter still another locks, Each grooved and dovetail'd like a box; Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct; In chains thy syllables are linkt; Thy words together tied in small hanks, Close as the Macedonian phalanx;[2]

Or like the _umbo_[3] of the Romans, Which fiercest foes could break by no means.

The critic, to his grief will find, How firmly these indentures bind.

So, in the kindred painter's art, The shortening is the nicest part.

Philologers of future ages, How will they pore upon thy pages!