And they, alas! yield fmall relief, Seem rather to renew my grief;

My wounds bleed all anew: For every stroke goes to my heart, And at each lath I feel the mart Of lath laid on by you.

To the Rev. DANIEL JACKSNN ; To be humbly prefented by Mr. SHERIDAN in Perfon, with Refpe&t, Care, and Speed.

DEAR DAN,

ERE I return my truft, nor afk

HERE I return my

If I have well perform'd my talk,
Pray fend me an acquittance.

Too long I bore this weighty pack,
As Hercules the sky;

Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back,
Let me be ftander-by.

Not all the witty things you fpeak
In compafs of a day,
Not half the puns you make a week,
Should bribe his longer ftay.
With me you left him out at nurse,
Yet are you not my debtor;
For, as he hardly can be worse,

I ne'er could make him better.

He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes, Juft as he did before;

And, when he 's lath'd a hundred times,

He rhymes and puns the more.

When rods are laid on fchool-boys bums,
The more they frisk and skip.
The fchool-boy's top but louder hums,
The more they use the whip.

Thus, a lean leaft beneath a load

(A beat of Irish breed)

Will, in a tedious, dirty road,
Outgo the prancing fteed.

You knock him down and down in vain,
And lay him flat before ye:
For, foon as he gets up again,
He'll ftrut, and cry, Vi&oria!
At every stroke of mine he fell :
'Tis true he roar'd and cry'd;

But his impenetrable shell

Could feel no harm bende.

The tortoife thus, with motion flow,
Will clamber up a wall;

Yet, fenfelefs to the hardest blow,
Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why fhould you, or I,

Attack his pericrany?

And, fince it is in vain to try,
We'll fend him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT.

Lean Tom, when I faw him, laft week, on his horfe awry,

Threaten'd loudly to turn me to ftone with his forcery.

But, I think, little Dan, that, in fpight of what our foe fays,

He will find Iread Ovid and his Metamorphofes, For omitting the firft (where I make a comparison,

With a fort of allufion to Putland or Harrilou)
Yet, by my description, you'll find he in fhortis
A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.
So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask,
can I maul

This teazing, conceited, rude, infolent animal?
And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(For I pity the man) Ifhould be glad then of it.

TO

DR.

SHERIDAN,

ON HIS "ART OF PUNNING."

AD I ten thousand mouths and tongues,

H Had I ten thousand pair of lungs,

Ten thoufand feulls with brains to think.
Ten thoufandandishes of irk,
Ten thousand hands and pens, to write
Thy praife I'd budy day and night.

Oh may thy Work for ever live!
(Dear Tom, a friendly zeal forgive)
May no vile mifcreant faucy Cook
Prefume to tear thy learned Book,
To firge his Fear/ for nicer guest,
Or pin it on the Turkey's breast.
Keep it from pafy buk'd or fyirg,
From broiling Jake, or fritters frying,
From lighting i, e, or making fruff,
Or cafing up a feather muff;

From all the feveral ways the Grocer
(Who to the learned world's afoe, Sir)
Has found in twifling, folding, packing,
His br ins d ours at once a racking.
And may it never curl the head,
Of either living block or dead!
Thus, when all dangers they have past,
Your leaves, like leaves of brafs, fhall laft.
No blaft fall from a Critick's breath,
By vile infecior, caufe their death,
Till they in Ames at last expire,
And help to fet the world on fire.

STELLA TO DR. SWIFT,

On his Birth-day, Nov. 30, 1721.
T. Patrick's Dean, your country's pride,
My early and my only quid,

Let me among the reft atten,

Your pupil and your humble friend,

* Alluding to the Prologue, mentioned above p. 319.

To celebrate in female strains
The day that paid your mother's pains;
Defcend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you.

When men began to call me fair,
You interpos'd your timely care;
You early taught me to deipife
The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes;
Shew'd where my judgment was misplac'd;
Refin'd my fancy and my tafte.

Behold that beauty just decay'd,
Invoking art to nature's aid:
Forfook by her admiring train,
She fpreads her tatter'd nets in vain :
Short was her part upon the stage;
Went smoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, fhe wanted art,

As the scene chang'd, to change her part:
She, whom no lover could retift,
Before the fecond act was hifs'd.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face:
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.

Stella to you, her tutor, owes
That she has ne'er refembled thofe ;
Nor was a burden to mankind

With half her courfe of years behind.
You taught how I might youth prolong,
By knowing what was right and wrong;
How from my heart to bring fupplies
Of huftre to my fading eyes;
How foon a beauteous mind repairs
The lofs of chang'd or falling hairs;
How wit and virtue from within
Send out a fmoothness o'er the skin:
Your lectures could my fancy fix,
And I can pleafe at thirty-fix.
The fight of Chloe at fifteen
Coquetting, gives me not the fpleen;
The idol now of every fool,

Till time shall make their paffions cool;
Then tumbling down time's fteepy hill,
While Stella holds her ftation ftill.
Oh! turn your precepts into laws,
Redeem the women's ruin'd caufe;
Retrieve loft empire to our fex,
That men may bow their rebel necks.

Long be the day that gave you birth,
Scred to friendship, wit, and mirth !
Late dying, may you caft a fhred
Of your rich mantle o'er my head;
To bear with dignity my forrow,
One day alone, then die to-morrow!

If I perform this talk with pain,
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
1 grow lefs equal to the charge:
In you cach virtue brighter fhines,
But my poetic vein delines;
My harp will foon in vain be ftrung,
And all your virtues left unfung:
For none among the upitart race
Of Poets dare affume my place;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stella's of their own;
And thus, my ftock of wit decay'd,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir.

Will answer for the whole arrear.

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE.

BY DR. DELANY.

AMPHORA, que maftum linquis, lætumque

Arentem dominum, fit tibi terra levis.

Tu quoque depofitum ferves, neve opprime,

marmor;

Amphora non meruit tam pretiofa mori.

EPITAPH, BY THE SAME.

HOC tumulata jacet proles Lenæa fepulchro,

Immortale genus, nec peritura jacet; Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo; Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY;

A great BOTTLE of WINE, long buried, being that DAY dug up. 1722-3.

R

ESOLV'D my annual verfe to pay,

By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think:

I bit my nails, and feratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled :
Or, if with more than ufual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It coit me lord knows how much time
To shape it into fenfe and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curfe.
Long thinking made my fancy worfe.
Forfaken by th' infpiring Nine,

I waited at Apollo's fhrine:

I told him what the world would fay,
If Stella were unfung to day;

How Jould hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;

How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer;
How Sheridan the rogue would fneer,

And fwear it does not always follow,
That femel 'n anno ridet Apello.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus infpir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry finces
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine,

Nor do I ask for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at ftake:
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a ftander-by,

Apollo, having thought a little, Return'd this anfwer to a little.

Though you should live like old Methufalem,
I furnish hints, and you fall use all 'em,
You yearly fing as the grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to fay truth, fuch dulnefs reigns
Through the whole fet of Irish deans,
I'm daily ftunn'd with such a medley,
Dean W, Dean D-, and Dean Smedley,
That, let what Dean foever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And, if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pafs'd among the croud.

But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For fre, as prie ftefs, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth dights.
Firft, nine ways looking, let her ftand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her defcribe a circle round
In Saunder's cellar, on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy hold,
And with difcretion dig the mould
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the kies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth confpire;
And Bacchus, for the poet's ufe,
Pour'd in a firong infpiring juice.
See! as you raife it from its tomb,
It drags behind a fpacious womb,
And in the fpacious wo. ab contains
A fovereign medicine for the brains.

You'll find it foon, if fate confents;
If not, a feufaid Mrs. Erents,
Ten thoufand Archys arm'd with fpades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the Mufe
(But firft let Robert, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees);
Th Mule will at your cail appear,
With Stella's prae to crown the year.

A SATIRICAL ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF

A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL,
IS Grace! impoffible! what dead!

Hof old age top, and in his bed!

And could that mighty warrior fall,
And fo inglorious, after all!

Well, fince he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump muft wake him now:
And, truft me, as the noife grows ftronger,
He'd with to fleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed fo eld

As by the news-papers we 're told?
Threefcore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in confcience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burat his candle to the fnuff;
And that's the reafon, fome folks think,
He left behind fe great a f—k.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow's fighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at fuch times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progrefs of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may fay,
He had thofe honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy'd,

Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate.
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing 's a Duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he fprung,

Proud! that at once I can commend
King George's and the Mufes' friend!
Endear'd to Britain; and to thee
(Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the fea)
Endear'd by twice three anxious years,
Employ'd in guardian toils and cares;
By love, by wifdom, and by skill;
For he has fav'd thee 'gainst thy will.
But where fhall Smedley make his neft,
And lay his wandering head to reft?
Where all he find a decent house,
To treat his friends and cheer his spouse?
Oh! tack, my lord, fome pretty cure;
In whole fome foil, and æther pure ;
The garden ftor'd with artlefs flowers,
In either angle fhady bowers.
No gay parterre, with coftly green,
Within the ambient hedge be feen:
Let Nature freely take her course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful force;

No fheers fhall check her (prouting vigour,
Nor shape the yews to antic figure :
A limpid brook fall trout fupply,
In May, to take the mimic fly;
Round a fmall orchard may it run,
Whofe apples redden to the fun.

Let all be fung, and warm, and neat;
For fifty turn'd a fafe retreat.
A little Eufton may it be,
Eufton I'll carve on every tree.
But then, to keep it in repair,
My lord twice fifty pounds a year
Will barely do; but if your grace

Could make them hundreds-charming place!

Thou then would'ft fhew another face.

Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,

Midit inowy hills, inclement fkies;
One fivers with the Arctic wind;
One hears the polar axis grind.
Good John indeed, with beef and claret,
Makes the place warm that one may bear it.
He has a purfe to keep a table,
And eke a foul as hoipitable.
My heart is good; but affets fail,
To fight with ftorms of fnow and hail.
Befides the country 's thin of people,
Who feldom meet but at the steeple:
The trapping dean, that 's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the thing without a frown;
When, much fatigu'd with fermon-study,
He felt his brain grow dull and nuddy ;'
No fit companion could be found,
To push the lazy bottle round;
Sure then, for want of better folks
To pledge, is clerk was orthodox.

Ah! how unlike to Gerard-street,
Where beaux and belles in parties meet;
Where gilded chairs and coaches throug,
And jofile as they trowlalong;
Where tea and coßee hourly flow,
And gape-feed does in plenty grow ;
And Griz (no clock more certain) cries,
Exact at feven, "Hot mutton-pies!"

* Bishop Sterne..

There lady Luna in her fphere
Once fhone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now the wanes, and, as 'tis faid,
Keeps fober hours, and goes to bed.
There-but 'tis endlefs to write down
All the amufements of the town;

And fpoufe will think herself quite undone,
To trudge to Connor* from fweet London;
And care we muft our wives to please,
Or else we shall be ill at ease.

You fee, my lord, what 'tis I lack;
'Tis only fome convenient tack,
Some parfonage-house, with garden sweet,
To be my late, my last retreat;
A decent church clofe by its fide,
There preaching, praying, to refide;
And, as my time fecurely rolls,
To fave my own and other fouls.

Dwhere wit in all its glory fhines;

EAR Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,

Where compliment, with all their 'pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:

I hope to make you yet as clean
As that fame Viz, St. Patrick's dean,
I'll give thee furplice, verge, and ftall,
And may be fomething elfe withal;
And, were you not fo good a writer,
I fhould prefent you with a mitre.
Write wore then, if you can-Be wife-
Believe me, 'tis the sway to rife.
Talk not of making of thy neft:
Ah! never lay thy head to reft!
That head sh well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought!
While others rack their bufy brains,
You are not in the leaft at pains.
Down to your deanry now repair,
And build a cafile in the air.
I'm fure a man of your fine fense
Can do it with a fmall expence.
There you dear fufe and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ether.
When lady Luna is your neighbour,
She'll help your wife when the 's in labour;
Well fill'd in midwife artifices,
For the herself oft' falls in pieces
There you fhall fee a raree-fhewy
Will make you fcorn this world below
When you behold the milky way,
As white as fnow, as bright as day;
The glittering conftellations roll
About the grinding Arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your cars,
Wrought by the mufick of the fpheres
Your fpoufe fhall then no longer hector,
You need not fear a curtain-lecture;

The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down, but there re two deans.

Nor fhall the think that he is undone
For quitting her beloved London.
When the 's exalted in the fkies,
She'll never think of mutton-pies;
When you 're advanc'd above dean Viz,
You'll never think of goody Griz.
Tit ever, ever, live at eafe,

And ftrive, and strive, your arife to please;
In her you' centre all your joys,
And get ten thousand girls and beys:
Ten thousand girls and boys you 'll get,
And they like itars fhall rife and fet;
While you and fpoufe, transform'd, fhall foon
Be a new fun and a new moon:

Nor fhall you ftrive your horns to hide,
For then your horns fhall be your pride.

BY

THE SAME.

Shield me from his rage, celeftial Powers;` This tyrant, that embitters all my hours! Ah, Love! you 've poorly play'd the hero's part: You conquer'd, but you can't defend my heart. When first I bent beneath your gentle reign, I thought this monster banish'd from your train : But you would raife him to fupport your throne; And now he claims your empire as his own. Or tell me, tyrants! have you both agreed, That where one reigns, the other fhall fucceed?

WOULD You

DR. DELANY'S VILLA.
that Delville I defcribe?
Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe:
For who would be fatirical
Upon a thing fo very small?

You fearce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A fingle crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm the takes her flight;
Yet, in this narrow compafs, we
Obferve a vast variety;

Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and ftairs,
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and grafs, and corn, it yields;

*On the publication of "Caderus and Vanessa,”

All to your haggard brought fo cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razer, though to say 't I'm loth,
Would have you and your meadows both
Though fmall's the farm, yet here's a houfe
Full large to entertain a moufe,
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than favage Caledonian bear;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.

A little rivulet feems to fteal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek;
And this you call your fweet meander,
Which might be fuck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill

To fcoop the channel of the rill:
For fure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city-gutter.

Next come I to your kitchen-garden,
Where one poor moufe would fare but hard in;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a taylor's chalk:
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A fail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a fhift to fqueeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees;
And, once a year, a fingle rofe
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow, for want of room.

In fhort, in all your boafted feat,
There's nothing but yourself that 's GREAT,