The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 58

Those loads of paint upon your toilet Will never mend your face, but spoil it, It looks as if you did parboil it: Drink claret.

Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean, That they're like Cynthia in the wane, Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean, or pullet:

See what by drinking you have done: You've made your phiz a skeleton, From the long distance of your crown, t' your gullet.

A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME

Wearied with saying grace and prayer, I hasten'd down to country air, To read your answer, and prepare reply to't:

But your fair lines so grossly flatter, Pray do they praise me or bespatter?

I must suspect you mean the latter-- Ah! slyboot!

It must be so! what else, alas!

Can mean by culling of a face, And all that stuff of toilet, gla.s.s, and box-comb?

But be't as 'twill, this you must grant, That you're a daub, whilst I but paint; Then which of us two is the quaint- er c.o.xcomb?

I value not your jokes of noose, Your gibes and all your foul abuse, More than the dirt beneath my shoes, nor fear it.

Yet one thing vexes me, I own, Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone; To be called lean by a skeleton, who'd bear it?

'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends, You seem to praise, to make amends, And yet, before your stanza ends, you flout me,

'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes, For every one that knows me, knows That I have nothing like my nose about me:

I pa.s.s now where you fleer and laugh, 'Cause I call Dan my better half!

O there you think you have me safe!

But hold, sir;

Is not a penny often found To be much greater than a pound!

By your good leave, my most profound and bold sir, Dan's n.o.ble metal, Sherry base; So Dan's the better, though the less, An ounce of gold's worth ten of bra.s.s, dull pedant!

As to your spelling, let me see, If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry, Good spelling-master: your crany has lead in't.

ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME

Three days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose; But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1]

Thy fame, thy genius, now declines, proud boaster.

I hear with some concern your roar And flying think to quit the score, By clapping billets on your door and posts, sir.

Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, I'm grieved to hear your banishment, But pleased to find you do relent and cry on.

I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, But now I'll secret keep your stuff; For know, prostration is enough to th' lion.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.--_F._]

SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN

Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae, Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1]

Poor Sherry, inglorious, To Dan the victorious, Presents, as 'tis fitting, Pet.i.tion and greeting.

To you, victorious and brave, Your now subdued and suppliant slave Most humbly sues for pardon; Who when I fought still cut me down, And when I vanquish'd, fled the town Pursued and laid me hard on.

Now lowly crouch'd, I cry _peccavi_, And prostrate, supplicate _pour ma vie_; Your mercy I rely on; For you my conqueror and my king, In pardoning, as in punishing, Will show yourself a lion.

Alas! sir, I had no design, But was unwarily drawn in; For spite I ne'er had any; 'Twas the d.a.m.n'd squire with the hard name; The de'il too that owed me a shame, The devil and Delany;

They tempted me t' attack your highness, And then, with wonted wile and slyness, They left me in the lurch: Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween, I've nothing left to vent my spleen But ferula and birch:

And they, alas! yield small relief, Seem rather to renew my grief, My wounds bleed all anew: For every stroke goes to my heart And at each lash I feel the smart Of lash laid on by you.

[Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.--_W. E. B._]

THE PARDON

The suit which humbly you have made Is fully and maturely weigh'd; And as 'tis your pet.i.tion, I do forgive, for well I know, Since you're so bruised, another blow Would break the head of Priscian.[1]

'Tis not my purpose or intent That you should suffer banishment; I pardon, now you've courted; And yet I fear this clemency Will come too late to profit thee, For you're with grief transported.

However, this I do command, That you your birch do take in hand, Read concord and syntax on; The bays, your own, are only mine, Do you then still your nouns decline, Since you've declined Dan Jackson.

[Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has left a work ent.i.tled "Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri xviii."--_W. E. B._]

THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON

MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,

--mediocribus esse poetis Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1]