Then faid, I must speak to the people a little;
But I'll fee you all damn'd before I will* whittle.
My honest friend + Wild may he long hold his place,
He lengthen'd my life with a whole year
of grace.
Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid,
Nor flip this occafion to follow your trade;

My confcience is clear, and my spirits are calm,
And thus I go off without prayer-book or psalm;
Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch,
Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE DUNCIAD.

POPE has the talent well to speak,

But not to reach the ear;

His loudeft voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,
Then different ftudies chufe:
The Dean fits plodding on a book;
Pope walks, and courts the Mufe.
Now backs of letters †, though design'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

* A cant word for confeffing at the gallows. + The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was hanged for receiving stolen goods. ↑ An allufion to the fingularity mentioned p. 16. N.

E 2

Each

Each atom by fome other struck

All turns and motions tries:
Till, in a lump together stuck,
Behold a Poem rife!

Yet to the Dean his fhare allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
Is, caufa fine quâ non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
For, had our deaf Divine
Been for your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock thus, for preaching fam'd,
The Sexton reafon'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.

A LOVE POEM

FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

Written at LONDON in the Year 1727.

Y Poets we are well affur'd

BY

That Love, alas! can ne'er be cur'd:

A complicated heap of ills,

Defpifing bolufes and pills.

* The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the bishop. N. '

ᎪᏂ !

Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard-bound,
I ftrain my guts, my colon wound.
Now jealoufy my grumbling tripes,
Alfaults with grating, grinding gripes.
When pity in those eyes I view,
My bowels wambling make me pew.
When I an amorous kifs defign'd,
I belch'd a hurricane of wind.
Once you a gentle figh let fall
Remember how I fuck'd it all:
What colic pangs from thence I felt,
Had you bur known, your heart would melt,
"Like ruffling winds in caverns pent,

Till Nature pointed out a vent.

How have you torn my heart to pieces
With maggots, humours, and caprices!
By which I got the hæmorrhoids ;
And loathfome worms my anus voids.
Whene'er I hear a rival nam'd,
I feel my body all inflam'd;

Which, breaking out in boils and blanes,
With yellow filth my linen ftains;
Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst,
Small beer I guzzle till I burst:
And then I drag a bloated corpus,
Swell'd with a drop, like a porpoise;
When, if I cannot purge or ftale,
I must be tapp'd to fill a pail

DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S

IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND.

HE Dean would vifit Market-hill,

THE

Our invitation was but flight;

I faid, Why let him, if he will:
And fo. I bade Sir Arthur write..
His manners would not let him wait,
Left we should think ourselves neglected;
And fo we faw him at our gate

Three days before he was expected.

After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day fucceeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
Though not a foul would have him stay.
I've faid enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or else the Devil's in 't;
But he cares not for it a rush,

Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know,
In civil language, if he stays,

How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaise.
Or you may fayMy wife intends,
Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite fome friends,

And, Sir, I know, you hate a crowd.

Or,

Or, Mr. Dean-I should with joy

Beg you would here continue ftill,
But we must go to Aghnacloy;
Or, Mr. Moore will take it ill.
The house accounts are daily rifing;
So much his stay doth fwell the bills;
My deareft life, it is furprizing,

How much he eats, how much he fwills.

His brace of puppies how they stuff!

And they must have three meals a day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horfes too eat all our hay.

Oh 1 if I could, how I would maul
His tallow-face and wainscot-paws,
His beetle-brows, and eyes of wall,
And make him foon give up the caufe!

Muft I be every moment chid

With Skinny bonia, Snipe, and Lean?
Oh! that I could but once be rid

Of this infulting Tyrant Dean!

On a very old GLASS at MARKET-HILL.

FRAI

RAIL glafs thou bear'st that name as well as I;
Though none can tell, which of us firft fhall die.

ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT. ME only chance can kill; thou, frailer creature, May'ft die, like me, by chance; but muft by nature.

The feat of Achefon Moore, Efq.

The Dean used to call Lady Achefon by thofe names.