At length prefumes to vent his fatire on
The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron.
The eagle in the tale, ye know,

Teaz'd by a buzzing wafp below,
Took wing to Jove, and hop'd tỏ reft
Securely in the thunderer's breast:
In vain; even there, to spoil his nod,
The fpiteful infect ftung the god.

PA

R O D Y

ON A

CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY®.

Written in Latin by himself.

THE very reverend Dean Smedley,
Of dullness, pride, conceit, a medley,

Was equally allow'd to shine

As poet, fcholar, and divine;
With godliness could well difpenfe,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would strictly after Truth enquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his shoulder.
To half the world a standing jeft,
A perfect nuifance to the reft:

From many (and we may believe him)

Had the best wishes they could give him.

*The original is in the "Supplement to Swift." N.

To all mankind a conftant friend,
Provided they had cash to lend.

One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a laconic fentence,

Το

prove

By cutting of his phrafe, and trimming,
that Bishops were old women.
Poor Envy durft not shew her phiz,
She was fo terrified at his.

He waded, without any shame,
Through thick and thin to get a name,
Tried every sharping trick for bread,
And after all he feldom fped.

When Fortune favour'd, he was nice;
He never once would cog the dice:
But, if she turn'd against his play,
He knew to stop à quatre trois.
Now found in mind, and found in corpus,
(Says he) though fwell'd like any porpoise,
He heys from hence at forty-four
(But by his leave he finks a fcore)
To The Eaft Indies, there to cheat,
Till he can purchase an estate ;

Where, after he has fill'd his cheft,

He'll mount his tub, and preach his beft,
And plainly prove, by dint of text,
This world is his, and theirs the next.
Left that the reader fhould not know
The bank where laft he fet his toe,
'Twas Greenwich. There he took a fhip,
And gave his creditors the flip.

But

But left chronology should vary,

Upon the Ides of February;

In feventeen hundred eight and twenty,
To Fort St. George a pedlar went he.
Ye Fates, when all he gets is spent,

RETURN HIM BEGGAR AS HE WENT!.

PAULUS. BY MR. LINDSAY*.

868

Dublin, Sept. 7, 1728.

A SLAVE to crowds, fcorch'd with the fummer's

"heats,

"In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats;

-66

While fmiling Nature, in her best attire,

Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire.

"Can he, who knows that real good fhould please, "Barter for gold his liberty and ease?”—

Thus Paulus preach'd:-When, entering at the door,
Upon his board the client pours the ore :

He grafps the fhining gift, pores o'er the cause,
Forgets the fun, and dozeth on the laws.

THE

A NS WE R

BY DR.

SWIFT.

LINDSAY mistakes the matter quite,

And honeft Paulus judges right.

Then, why thefe quarrels to the fun,

Without whofe aid you're all undone ?

* Mr. Lindsay, a polite and elegant scholar, at that time an eminent pleader in Dublin, afterwards one of the juftices of the court of common-pleas. N.

Did Paulus e'er complain of fweat?
Did Paulus e'er the fun forget;

The influence of whofe golden beams
Soon licks up all unfavory fteams?
The fun, you fay, his face hath kiss'd:
It has; but then it greas'd his fift./
True lawyers, for the wifeft ends,
Have always been Apollo's friends.
Not for his fuperficial powers

Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers;
Not for infpiring poets brains
With pennylefs and starveling ftrains;
Not for his boafted healing art;
Not for his fkill to fhoot the dart;
Nor yet because he fweetly fiddles;
Nor for his prophecies in riddles :
But for a more fubftantial caufe-
Apollo's patron of the laws;
Whom Paulus ever must adore,
As parent of the golden ore,
By Phoebus, an inceftuous birth,
Begot upon his grand-dame Earth;
By Phoebus first produc'd to light;
By Vulcan form'd so round and bright:
Then offer'd at the fhrine of justice,
By clients to her priefts and trustees.
Nor, when we fee Aftræa ftand
With even balance in her hand,
Muft we fuppofe fhe hath in view,'
How to give every man his due;

Her

Her fcales you fee her only hold,
To weigh her priests' the lawyers gold.
Now, fhould I own your cafe was grievous,
Poor fweaty Paulus, who'd believe us?
'Tis very true, and none denies,

At least, that such complaints are wife :
'Tis wife, no doubt, as clients fat you more,
To cry, like statesmen, Quanta patimur !
But, fince the truth must needs be stretched,
To prove that lawyers are so wretched;

This paradox I'll undertake,

For Paulus' and for Lindsay's fake;

By topicks, which, though I abomine 'em,
May serve as arguments ad hominem:
Yet I difdain to offer those

Made ufe of by detracting foes.

I own, the curfes of mankind

Sit light upon a lawyer's mind :
The clamours of ten thousand tongues
Break not his reft, nor hurt his lungs.
I own, his confcience always free
(Provided he has got his fee);
Secure of constant peace within,

He knows no guilt, who knows no fin.
Yet well they merit to be pitied,

By clients always over-witted..
And though the gofpel feems to fay
What heavy burthens lawyers lay
Upon the shoulders of their neighbour,
Nor lend a finger to the labour,

Always