Then ventured to give him some sober adviceBut 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 ventured his life; Went home and was cudgell'd again by his wife.

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 god of wit,

Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather,

Should Young and Philips drudge together.

EPITAPH
1

ON GENERAL GORGES, AND LADY MEATH.2

UNDER this stone lies Dick and Dolly.

Doll Dying first, Dick grew melancholy;
For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.

Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear:

1 Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.-F.

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

The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift treated so severely in his Juvenile Dialogue between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Miss Dorothy Stopford's Chair. -Scott.

But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.

Dick 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, Dick sigh'd and he cried : To live without both full three days he tried; But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.

Dick 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 Cuffe1 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!

1 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 pass 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 pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers? 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 crotchets !
[The rest is wanting.]
9

VOL. II.

AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION.

THE furniture that best doth please
St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these:
The knife and fork with which I eat;

And next the pot that boils the meat;
The next to be preferr'd, I think,
Is the glass in which I drink;

The shelves on which my books I keep,
And the bed on which I sleep;
An antique elbow-chair between,
Big enough to hold the Dean;
And the stove that gives delight
In the cold bleak wintry night:
To these we add a thing below,
More for use reserved than show:
These are what the Dean do please;
All superfluous are but these.

EPIGRAM.

BEHOLD! a proof of Irish sense;
Here Irish wit is seen!

When nothing's left that's worth defence,

We build a magazine.