The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 31

[Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the Reformation."]

[Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him, see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in 1733.--_W.E.B._]

[Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.--_F_.]

ON BURNING A DULL POEM

1729

An a.s.s's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold.

Methought, when I this poem read, No vessel but an a.s.s's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean, the head without the brain.

The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, Went down like stupifying draughts; I found my head begin to swim, A numbness crept through every limb.

In haste, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire; When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice.

How could I more enhance its fame?

Though born in snow, it died in flame.

AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD OR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN[1] TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE. 1730

Our brethren of England, who love us so dear, And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year, For the good of our church, a true English dean.

A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in c.r.a.pe, The worst you can say, he committed a rape.

In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester, And there he grew fond of another man's wife; Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her; But she valued her honour much more than her life.

She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape.

The dean he pursued, to recover his game; And now to attack her again he prepares: But the company stood in defence of the dame, They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs.

His deanship was now in a d.a.m.nable sc.r.a.pe, And this was no time for committing a rape.

To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes, And orders the landlord to bring him a wh.o.r.e; No scruple came on him his gown to expose, 'Twas what all his life he had practised before.

He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, And got a good clap, but committed no rape.

The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade, Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight; For why, they had both been brought up to the trade Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night.

His landlord was ready his deanship to ape In every debauch but committing a rape.

This Protestant zealot, this English divine, In church and in state was of principles sound; Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line, And grieved that a Tory should live above ground.

Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape, For no other crime but committing a rape?

By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em, Each priest had a concubine _jure ecclesiae_; Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a _commendam_?

And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: Then why should the dean, when wh.o.r.es are so cheap, Be put to the peril and toil of a rape?

If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet, (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,) To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser.

But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape, For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape.

Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres, Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten?

To hang him, all England would lend him their garters, Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3]

Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape.

The dean he was vex'd that his wh.o.r.es were so willing; He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling; But here was to pay the devil and all.

His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap, And hang'd he must be for committing a rape.

If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice: Why are they so wilful to struggle with men?

If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, No devil nor dean could ravish them then.

Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape.

Our church and our state dear England maintains, For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, And better would give us, if better she had.

But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape!

[Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."--_London Evening Post_, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape was committed against her in the city of Dublin."--_Daily Post-Boy_, June 23, 1730.--_Nichols_.]

[Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.--See "The penitent death of a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several pa.s.sages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements, preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland.

"_Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam a.s.sequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed magisterium sanct.i.tatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia forta.s.se quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi_. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin, Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."]

[Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty of an a.s.sault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was fined 300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.--_W. E. B._]

ON STEPHEN DUCK THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET

A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730

The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail, The proverb says, "no fence against a flail."

From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; For which her majesty allows him grains: Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw His poems, think them all not worth a straw!

Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble, Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double.

[Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal Gardens of Richmond.

"How shall we fill a library with wit, When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?"

POPE, _Imitations of Horace_, ii, Ep. 1.--_W. E. B._]

THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730

Five hours (and who can do it less in?) By haughty Celia spent in dressing; The G.o.ddess from her chamber issues, Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues.

Strephon, who found the room was void, And Betty otherwise employ'd, Stole in, and took a strict survey Of all the litter as it lay: Whereof, to make the matter clear, An inventory follows here.

And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd; Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, And turn'd it round on ev'ry side: On such a point, few words are best, And Strephon bids us guess the rest; But swears, how d.a.m.nably the men lie In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.

Now listen, while he next produces The various combs for various uses; Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, No brush could force a way betwixt; A paste of composition rare, Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: A fore-head cloth with oil upon't, To smooth the wrinkles on her front: Here alum-flour, to stop the steams Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, [1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; With puppy-water, beauty's help, Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp.

Here gallipots and vials placed, Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, And ointments good for scabby chops.

Hard by a filthy bason stands, Foul'd with the scouring of her hands: The bason takes whatever comes, The sc.r.a.pings from her teeth and gums, A nasty compound of all hues, For here she spits, and here she spues.