The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 25

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 gla.s.s, Which near the _os petrosum_ pa.s.s; 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 gla.s.s 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._]

A QUIET LIFE AND A GOOD NAME TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724

NELL scolded in so loud a din, That Will durst hardly venture in: He mark'd the conjugal dispute; Nell roar'd incessant, d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k! the devil's in thy Nell, (Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than h.e.l.l.

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 d.i.c.k; And entering in the very nick, He saw virago Nell belabour, With d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k to take a quart.

Why, d.i.c.k, 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.

d.i.c.k 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?

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.ks beside; Slaves to their quiet and good name, Are used like d.i.c.k, 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, _pa.s.sim.--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.]

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE

WRITTEN JUNE, 1727, JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE I, WHO DIED THE 12TH OF THAT MONTH IN GERMANY [1]

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 pa.s.sed 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 Middles.e.x 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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.