ar My lord, I'd wish to pay the debts I owe"I'd wish befides-to build, and to bestow.”

AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE

FROM

A CERTAIN DOCTOR

то

A CERTAIN GREAT LORD.

Being a CHRISTMAS-BOX for Dr. DELANY.

AS Jove will not attend on less,

When things of more importance prefs:

You can't, grave Sir, believe it hard,

That you, a low Hibernian bard,

Should cool your heels a while, and wait
Unanswer'd at your patron's gate;
And would my lord vouchfafe to grant
This one, poor, humble boon I want,
Free leave to play his Secretary,
As Falftaff acted old King Harry ;
I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print:
Folks fhrug, and cry There's nothing in't.
And, after feveral readings over,

It fhines moft in the marble cover.

How could fo fine a tafte difpenfe,
With mean degrees of wit and sense?
Nor will my lord fo far beguile
The wife and learned of our isle;

То

To make it pass upon the nation,
By dint of his fole approbation.
The task is arduous, patrons find,
To warp the sense of all mankind :
Who think your Muse must first aspire,
Ere he advance the doctor higher.

You've cause to say he meant you well :
That you are thankful, who can tell?
For ftill you 're short (which grieves your spirit)
Of his intent; you mean, your merit.
Ah! quanto rectius, tu adepte,
Qui nil moliris tam inepte?

Smedley, thou Jonathan of Clogher,
"When thou thy humble lay dost offer
"To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart,
"Thy thanks and verfe devoid of art:
"Content with what his bounty gave,
"No larger income dost thou crave.”
But you must have cafcades, and all
Ierne's lake, for your canal,
Your viftos, barges, and (a pox on
All pride!) our Speaker for your coxon :
It's pity that he can't bestow you
Twelve commoners in caps to row you.
Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,
Held monarchs labouring at the oar;
And, as he pass'd, fo fwell'd the Dee,
Enrag'd, as Ern would do at thee.

* See a Petition to the duke of Grafton, vol. I. p. 158.

How different is this from Smedley!
(His name is up, he may in bed lie)
"Who only asks some pretty cure,
"In wholefome foil and æther pure;
"The garden ftor'd with artless flowers,
"In either angle fhady bowers :
"No gay parterre with coftly green
"Muft in the ambient hedge be seen ;
"But Nature freely takes her course,
"Nor fears from him ungrateful force:
"No fheers to check her sprouting vigour,
"Or fhape the yews to antic figure."

But you forfooth your all must fquander
On that poor fpot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder:
And when you 've been at vaft expences
In whims, parterres, canals, and fences,
Your affets fail, and cash is wanting;
Nor farther buildings, farther planting:
No wonder, when you raise and level,
Think this wall low, and that wall bevel.
Here a convenient box you found,
Which you demolish'd to the ground:
Then built, then took up with your arbour,
And fet the house to Rupert Barber.

You fprang an arch, which, in a scurvy
Humour, you tumbled topfy-turvy.
You change a circle to a square,
Then to a circle as you were:
Who can imagine whence the fund is,
That you quadrata change rotundis ?

To Fame a temple you erect,

A Flora does the dome protect;

Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow

You place the Muses and Apollo;

There fhining 'midst his train, to grace

Your whimsical poetic place.

These stories were of old defign'd
As fables: but you have refin'd
The poets' mythologic dreams,
To real Muses, gods, and streams.

Who would not fwear, when you contrive thus,
That you're Don Quixote Redivivus ?

Beneath, a dry canal there lies,
Which only Winter's rain supplies.
Oh! couldst thou, by fome magic spell,
Hither convey St. Patrick's well!
Here may it re-affume its stream
And take a greater Patrick's name!
If your expences rife so high;
What income can your wants fupply?
Yet ftill you fancy you
inherit

A fund of fuch fuperior merit,
That you can't fail of more provifion,
All by my lady's kind decifion.
For, the more livings you can fish up,
You think you'll fooner be a bishop:
That could not be my lord's intent,
Nor can it answer the event.

* See Dr. Swift's verfes on the drying-up of this well,

In this volume, p. 7.

I 4

Moft

Moft think what has been heap'd on you
To other fort of folk was due:

Rewards too great for your flim-flams,
Epiftles, riddles, epigrams.

Though now your depth must not be founded,
The time was, when you'd have compounded
For less than Charley Grattan's school:
Five hundred pound a year's no fool!
Take this advice then from you friend,
Το your ambition put an end.
Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe,
Before you build and you beflow.
Be modeft; nor addrefs your betters
With begging, vain, familiar letters.

A paffage may be found, I've heard,
In fome old Greek or Latian bard,
Which fays, "Would crows in filence eat
"Their offals, or their better meat,
"Their generous feeders not provoking
"By loud and unharmonious croaking:
"They might, unhurt by Envy's claws,.
"Live on, and ftuff to boot their maws."

Hor. Lib. I. Ep. xvii,

A LIBEL