The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 62

HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI

Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine, Whose verses far his rays outshine, Look down upon your quondam foe; O! let me never write again, If e'er I disoblige you, Dean, Should you compa.s.sion show.

Take those iambics which I wrote, When anger made me piping hot, And give them to your cook, To singe your fowl, or save your paste The next time when you have a feast; They'll save you many a book.

To burn them, you are not content; I give you then my free consent, To sink them in the harbour; If not, they'll serve to set off blocks, To roll on pipes, and twist in locks; So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your physic take, I must entreat you then to make A proper application; 'Tis what I've done myself before, With Dan's fine thoughts and many more, Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do?

It makes the weak the strong pursue, A goose attack a swan; It makes a woman, tooth and nail, Her husband's hands and face a.s.sail, While he's no longer man.

Though some, we find, are more discreet, Before the world are wondrous sweet, And let their husbands hector: But when the world's asleep, they wake, That is the time they choose to speak: Witness the curtain lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find: All day you could conceal your mind; But when St. Patrick's chimes Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse, When I engaged for better for worse,) You scolded with your rhymes.

Have done! have done! I quit the field, To you as to my wife, I yield: As she must wear the breeches: So shall you wear the laurel crown, Win it and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

[Footnote 1: Recantation.--_W. E. B._]

A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN

You will excuse me, I suppose, For sending rhyme instead of prose.

Because hot weather makes me lazy, To write in metre is more easy.

While you are trudging London town, I'm strolling Dublin up and down; While you converse with lords and dukes, I have their betters here, my books: Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease, I choose companions as I please.

I'd rather have one single shelf Than all my friends, except yourself; For, after all that can be said, Our best acquaintance are the dead.

While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1]

I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.

While you are starving there in state, I'm cramming here with butchers' meat.

You say, when with those lords you dine, They treat you with the best of wine, Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay; Why, so can we, as well as they.

No reason then, my dear good Dean, But you should travel home again.

What though you mayn't in Ireland hope To find such folk as Gay and Pope; If you with rhymers here would share But half the wit that you can spare, I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days, You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.

Our weather's good, our sky is clear; We've every joy, if you were here; So lofty and so bright a sky Was never seen by Ireland's eye!

I think it fit to let you know, This week I shall to Quilca go; To see M'Faden's h.o.r.n.y brothers First suck, and after bull their mothers; To see, alas! my wither'd trees!

To see what all the country sees!

My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves, My servants such a pack of thieves; My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks, My house in common to all folks, No cabbage for a single snail, My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail; My no green peas, my few green sprouts; My mother always in the pouts; My horses rid, or gone astray; My fish all stolen or run away; My mutton lean, my pullets old, My poultry starved, the corn all sold.

A man come now from Quilca says, "_They_'ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;"

But, what must fret and vex me more, He says, "_They_ stole the keys before.

_They_'ve stol'n the knives from all the forks; And half the cows from half the sturks."

Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, "_They_'ve stol'n the sturks from half the cows:"

With many more accounts of woe, Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go: 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

[Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.--_Dublin Edition._]

[Footnote 2: _They_ is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, "They have stolen it." _Dublin Edition._--_W. E. B._]

AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT 1727

I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em, To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1]

Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2]

I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret, That's just disengaged from the toils of a net: An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted, With lemons, and b.u.t.ter, and sippets well toasted: Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies, Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes; And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died, And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried.

My wine will inspire you with joy and delight, 'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright; An emblem of one that you love, I suppose, Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4]

Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope, We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope; When we are together there's nothing that is dull, There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall.

We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast, Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.

Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers; you have a pencil in your pocket.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country house.]

[Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health.

She died the January following.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.,"

iii, 407.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable women in the world.--_F._]

ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1]

WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD

N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR.

SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728

Fair ladies, number five, Who in your merry freaks, With little Tom contrive To feast on ale and steaks;

While he sits by a-grinning, To see you safe in Sot's Hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole;

Alas! I never thought A priest would please your palate; Besides, I'll hold a groat He'll put you in a ballad;

Where I shall see your faces, On paper daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like graces, Than Venus like an owl.

And we shall take you rather To be a midnight pack Of witches met together, With Beelzebub in black.

It fills my heart with woe, To think such ladies fine Should be reduced so low, To treat a dull divine.

Be by a parson cheated!

Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By captains and by majors.