HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. VI.. I 'VE often with'd that I had clear, I ask not to increase my store; I can't but think 'twould found more clever, If I ne'er got or loft a groat, By any trick, or any fault; As thus, "Vouchfafe, oh gracious Maker! In fhort, I'm perfectly content, Nor crofs the Channel twice a year, To spend fix months with statesmen here. 3. 35 "Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, "Let my Lord know you 're come to town.” I hurry me in hafte away, 45 Not thinking it is levee-day; And find his honour in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green : 50 How should I thruft myself between ? "I thought the Dean had been too proud, Tells me I have more zeal than wit, 55 • But "But rudely prefs before a duke." I own, I'm pleas'd with this rebuke, get a whisper, and withdraw ; This humbly offers me his cafe That begs my intereft for a place A hundred other mens' affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears. "To-morrow my apppeal comes on; “Without your help, the cause is gone The duke expects my lord and you, About fome great affair at two "Put my lord Bolingbroke in mind, "To get my warrant quickly fign'd: "Confider, 'tis my first request.". Be fatisfy'd, I'll do my beft: Then presently he falls to teaze, "You may for certain, if you please; “I doubt not, if his lordship knew "And, Mr. Dean, one word from you 85 And chofe me for an humble friend; And question me of this and that; As As, "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the wind?” "Whose chariot 's that we left behind ?" 90 Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country figns; Or, "Have you nothing new to-day "From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?" Such tattle often entertains 95 My lord and me as far as Staines, As once a week we travel down Because they see me us'd fo well : "How think you of our friend the Dean? "I wonder what fome people mean ! 66 My lord and he are grown fo great, "Always together, téte à tête; "What! they admire him for his jokes? "See but the fortune of fome folks!" There flies about a strange report Of fome exprefs arriv'd at court: I protest "Tis one to me - "Then tell us, pray, pay?" 120 I know no more than my lord mayor, My choiceft hours of life are loft ; And there in sweet oblivion drown Thofe cares that haunt the court and town*. 125 130 THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF. 1713. [A few of the firft lines are wanting.] By an old A * purfued crazy prelate †, and a royal prude ‡; * See the reft of this fatire among Mr. Pope's poems. + Dr. Sharp, archbishop of York. Q. Anne. |