The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 48

And thy freckled neck, display'd, Envy breeds in every maid; Like a fly-blown cake of tallow, Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow; Or a tawny speckled pippin, Shrivell'd with a winter's keeping.

And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd, Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd.

Sets of phrases, cut and dry, Evermore thy tongue supply; And thy memory is loaded With old sc.r.a.ps from plays exploded; Stock'd with repartees and jokes, Suited to all Christian folks: Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes, Blunder'd out a thousand times; Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing, Which can ne'er be worse for wearing.

Picking wit among collegians, In the playhouse upper regions; Where, in the eighteen-penny gallery, Irish nymphs learn Irish raillery.

But thy merit is thy failing, And thy raillery is railing.

Thus with talents well endued To be scurrilous and rude; When you pertly raise your snout, Fleer and gibe, and laugh and flout; This among Hibernian a.s.ses For sheer wit and humour pa.s.ses.

Thus indulgent Chloe, bit, Swears you have a world of wit.

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH[1]

Who can believe with common sense, A bacon slice gives G.o.d offence; Or, how a herring has a charm Almighty vengeance to disarm?

Wrapp'd up in majesty divine, Does he regard on what we dine?

[Footnote 1: A French gentleman dining with some company on a fast-day, called for some bacon and eggs. The rest were very angry, and reproved him for so heinous a sin; whereupon he wrote the following lines, which are translated above: "Peut-on croire avec bon sens Qu'un lardon le mil en colere, Ou, que manger un hareng, C'est un secret pour lui plaire?

En sa gloire envelope, Songe-t-il bien de nos soupes?"--_H_.]

EPIGRAM[1]

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, He took to the street, and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some sober advice-- But Tom is a person of honour so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning.

Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life; Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife.

[Footnote 1: Collated with copy transcribed by Stella.--_Forster_.]

EPIGRAM ADDED BY STELLA[1]

When Margery chastises Ned, She calls it combing of his head; A kinder wife was never born: She combs his head, and finds him horn.

[Footnote 1: From Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's volume.--_Forster._]

JOAN CUDGELS NED

Joan cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully.

Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, She dares not say her life's her own.

Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, And every day she combs his head.

VERSES ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS

Behold, those monarch oaks, that rise With lofty branches to the skies, Have large proportion'd roots that grow With equal longitude below: Two bards that now in fashion reign, Most aptly this device explain: If this to clouds and stars will venture, That creeps as far to reach the centre; Or, more to show the thing I mean, Have you not o'er a saw-pit seen A skill'd mechanic, that has stood High on a length of prostrate wood, Who hired a subterraneous friend To take his iron by the end; But which excell'd was never found, The man above or under ground.

The moral is so plain to hit, That, had I been the G.o.d of wit, Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, Should Young and Philips drudge together.

EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2]

Under this stone lies d.i.c.k and Dolly.

Doll dying first, d.i.c.k grew melancholy; For d.i.c.k without Doll thought living a folly.

d.i.c.k lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: But d.i.c.k lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; A loss that d.i.c.k thought no mortal could bear.

d.i.c.k sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.

Thus loaded with grief, d.i.c.k sigh'd and he cried: To live without both full three days he tried; But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.

d.i.c.k left a pattern few will copy after: Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.

Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate.

Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, And here rest----_sic transit gloria mundi_!

[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived her but two days.--_F_.

The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in his "Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy Stopford's Chair." See _ante_, p.85.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest daughter.--_F._]

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT

My latest tribute here I send, With this let your collection end.

Thus I consign you down to fame A character to praise or blame: And if the whole may pa.s.s for true, Contented rest, you have your due.

Give future time the satisfaction, To leave one handle for detraction.

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY

Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pa.s.s, That you, who know music no more than an a.s.s, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and sc.r.a.pers?

To act such an opera once in a year, So offensive to every true Protestant ear, With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace, Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets!

[The rest is wanting.]

AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION