A TALE FROM DUBLIN. 1737.

AT Dublin's high feaft fate Primate and Dean,

Both drefs'd like divines, with band and face clean. Quoth Hugh of Armagh *, "The mob is grown bold.” "Ay, ay," quoth the Dean," the caufe is old gold.” "No, no," quoth the Primate, "if caufes we fift, This mischief arifes from witty Dean Swift." The fmart-one replied, "There's no wit in the cafe; "And nothing of that ever troubled your Grace,

Though with your ftate-fieve your own notions you "fplit,

"A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit.

It is matter of weight, and a mere money-jobb; But the lower the coin, the higher the mob. "Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk, "That finking the coin is a dangerous joke. "The Irish dear-joys have enough common fenfe, "To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence. "It is pity a Prelate should die without law; "But if I fay the word

take care of Armagh !"

Dr. SWIFT's 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;

* Dr. Hugh Boulter.

The

The next to be preferr'd, I think,

Is the glafs in which I drink;

The shelves on which my books I keep;
And the bed on which I fleep;
An antique elbow-chair between,
Big enough to hold the Dean';
And the store that gives delight
In the cold bleak wintery night;
To these we add a thing below,
More for use referv'd than fhow:
These are what the Dean do please;
All fuperfluous are but these.

IR

APOLLO'S EDICT*.

RELAND is now our royal care,
We lately fix'd our Viceroy there;
How near was the to be undone,
Till pious love inspir'd her Son !
What cannot our Vicegerent do,
As Poet and as Patriot too ? '
Let his fuccefs our fubjects fway,
Our infpirations to obey,

And follow where He leads the way:
Then study to correct your taste ;

Nor beaten paths be longer trac'd.

*This poem was originally written in 1720; the latter part of it was re-published in 1743, on the death of the Countess of Donegal. N.

No

No fimile fhall be begun, With rifing or with fetting fun And let the fecret head of Nile Be ever banish'd from your ifle.

;

When wretched lovers live on air,
I beg you 'll the Camelion spare;
And, when you'd make a hero grander,
Forget he 's like a Salamander.

No fon of mine fhall dare to fay,
Aurora ufber'd-in the Day,
Or ever name the milky-way.

You all agree, I make no doubt,
Elijah's mantle is worn out.

The bird of Jove fhall toil no more
To teach the humble Wren to foar.
Your Tragic Heroes fhall not rant,
Nor Shepherds use poetic cant.
Simplicity alone can grace

The manners of the rural race.
Theocritus and Philips be

Your guides to true fimplicity.

When Damon's foul fhall take its flight,
Though Poets have the second-fight,
They shall not fee a trail of light.
Nor fhall the vapours upward rise,
Nor a new far adorn the fkies:
For who can hope to place one there,
As glorious as Belinda's hair?
Yet, if his name you 'd eternize,
And muft exalt him to the fkies;

Without

Without a far, this may be done :
So Tickell mourn'd his Addifon.

If Anna's happy reign you praise,
Pray, not a word of halcyon-days;
Nor let my votaries fhew their skill
In aping lines from Cooper's-Hill;
For know, I cannot bear to hear
The mimickry of deep, yet clear.
Whene'er my Viceroy is addrefs'd,
Against the Phoenix I proteft.
When Poets foar in youthful strains,
No Phaeton to hold the reins.

When you defcribe a lovely girl,
No lips of coral, teeth of pearl.
Cupid fhall ne'er mistake another,
However beauteous, for his mother:
Nor fhall his darts at random fly
From magazine in Cælia's eye.
With women-compounds I am cloy'd,
Which only pleas'd in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign aid, what need they roam,
Whom Fate has amply bleft at home?

Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand,
Has form'd a model for your land,
Whom Jove endow'd with every grace;
The glory of the Granard race;
Now deftin'd by the powers divine
The bleffing of another line.

Then, would you paint a matchless dame,

Whom you 'd confign to endlefs fame?

VOL. II.

Bb

Invoke

Invoke not Cytherea's aid,

Nor borrow from the blue-ey'd maid;
Nor need you on the Graces call,
Take qualities from Donegal.

EPIGRA M*.

EHOLD! a proof of Irish fenfe!

BE

Here Irish wit is feen!

When nothing's left, that 's worth defence,

We build a magazine.

EPIGRAMS, occafioned by Dr. SwIFT's intended Hofpital for IDEOTS and LUNATICKS.,

HE Dean muft die

TH

I.

our Ideots to maintain.

Perifh, ye Ideots! and long live the Dean!

*The Dean, in his lunacy, had fome intervals of fenfe; at which time his guardians, or phyficians, took him out for the air. came to the Park,

On one of thefe days, when they Swift remarked a new building, which he had never feen, and afked what it was defigned for. To which Dr. Kingsbury answered, "That, Mr. "Dean, is the magazine for arms and powder, for the "fecurity of the city." "Oh! oh!" fays the Dean, pulling out his pocket-book, "let me take an item of "that. This is worth remarking: my tablets, as "Hamlet fays, my tablets - memory put down that !" Which produced the above lines, faid to be the last he ever wrote. N.

II. O GENIUS