II.

Sunderland 's run out of his wits,
And Dismal double-Dismal looks;
Wharton can only swear by fits,
And strutting Hal is off the hooks,
Old Godolphin full of fpleen
Made falfe moves, and loft his queen;
Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane :

But a prince of high renown

Swore he 'd rather lose a crown,

Than the Queen should enjoy ber oron again.

III.

Our merchant-thips may cut the Line,
And not be snapt by privateers,
And commoners who love good wine
Will drink it now as well as peers :
Landed-men shall have their rent,
Yet our stocks rife cent. per cent.

The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain:

We 'll bring on us no more debts,

Nor with bankrupts fill Gazettes;

And the Queen shall enjoy ber own again.

IV.

The towns we took ne'er did us good :
What fignified the French to beat?

We fpent our money and our blood,

To make the Dutchmen proud and great :'
But the lord of Oxford swears,
Dunkirk never shall be theirs.

The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
But true Englishmen may fill
A good health to General Hill;

For the Queen now enjoys her own again.

HORACE, BOOK I. EP. VII.

Addressed to the Earl of OXFORD, 1713.

HARLEY, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,

(His mind with public cares poffeft,
All Europe's business in his breast),
Observ'd a parson near Whitehall
Cheapening old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in cafe,
And shew'd fome humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of fize that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to fit still.
My Lord (who, if a man may say 't,
Loves mischief better than his meat)
Was now dispos'd to crack a jest,
And bid friend Lewis* go in quest

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(This Lewis is a cunning shaver,

And very much in Harley's favour),
In quest who might this parfon be,
What was his name, of what degree;

* Erasmus Lewis efq. the treasurer's secretary.

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If poffible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.

Lewis his patron's humour knows,
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter fift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift;
A clergyman of special note

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4

For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes to run him down:

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No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no fort of vice,

Went where he pleas'd, faid what he thought;

Not rich, but ow'd no man a groat:

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In state opinions à la mode,

He hated Wharton like a toad,
Had given the fa&ion many a wound,

And libel'd all the junto round:

Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ:
His works were hawk'd in every ftreet,

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But feldom rose above a sheet:

Of late indeed the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp:
And fince he could not fpend his fire,
He now intended to retire.

Said Harley, "I defire to know
"From his own mouth if this be fo;
"Step to the Doctor strait, and say,
" I 'd have him dine with me to-day."

G3

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50

Swift

Swift feem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my Lord had fent;
So never offer'd once to ftir;
But coldly faid, "Your fervant, Sir!"
"Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd;
"He does, with insolence and pride."
Some few days after Harley spies

The Doctor faften'd by the eyes
At Charing-crofs among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out:
*He pull'd the string, and stopt his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.

Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,

Came fneaking to the chariot-fide,
And offer'd many a lame excufe:
He never meant the leaft abuse -

" My Lord

the honour you defign'd

"Extremely proud - but I had din'd
" I 'm fure I never should neglect -
"No man alive has more refpect -"
"Well, I shall think of that no more,
"If you 'll be fure to come at four."
The Doctor now obeys the fummons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talent, fits till ten;
Next day invited comes again;
Soon grows domeftic, feldom fails
Either at morning or at meals :
Came early, and departed late;
In short, the gudgeon took the bait.

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6.

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My Lord would carry on the jeft,
And down to Windfor takes his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In fummer round the park to ride,
In winter, never to refide.
A canon ! that's a place too mean;
No, Doctor, you shall be a Dean;
Two dozen canons round your stall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all:
You need but cross the Irish feas,
To live in plenty, power, and eafe.
Poor Swift departs; and, what is worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse,
Travels at least an hundred leagues,
And fuffers numberless fatigues.

Suppose him now a Dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his feat;
The filver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cushion-fide;
Suppose him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,
First-fruits and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats -
(The wicked laity's contriving
To hinder clergymen from thriving).
Now all the Doctor's money 's spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent;
The farmers, spitefully combin'd,
Force him to take his tithes in kind: