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How in the lake the Dean was drench'd:

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The cryer was order'd to dismiss

Begin, my Muse. First from our bowers The court, so made his last yes!

We sally forth at different hours; The goddess would no longer wait;

At seven the Dean in night-gown drest, But, rising from her chair of state,

Goes round the house to wake the rest; Left all below at six and seven,

At nine, grave Nim, and George facetious,
Harness'd her doves, and flew to Heaven.

Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;
At ten, my lady comes and hectors,

And kisses George, and ends our lectures ;
AN ELEGY

And when she has him by the neck fast,
ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER, Hauls him, and scolds us down to breakfast.
Who died the 6th of July, 1720.

We squander there an hour or more,
Know all men by these presents, Death the tamer,

And then all hands, boys, to the oar ;

All, heteroclite Dan except,
By mortgage, hath secur'd the corpse of Demar :
Nor can four hundred thousand stirling pound

Who neither time nor order kept,
Redeem him from his prison under ground.

But, by peculiar whimsies drawn,

Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn; His heirs might well, of all his wealth possess'd,

O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, Bestow to bury him one iron chest.

Or mars a text, or mends his hose; Plutus the god of wealth will joy to know

Or- but proceed we in our journalHis faithful steward in the shades below.

At two, or after, we return all : He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak;

From the four elements ascending, He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk:

Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling: And by his looks, had he held out his palms,

From airy garrets some descend, He might be thought an object fit for alms.

Some from the lake's remotest end; So, to the poor, if he refus'd his pelf,

My Lord and Dean the fire forsake; He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Dan leaves the earthly spade and rake: Where'er he went, he never saw his betters;

The loiterers quake, no corner hides them, Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble

And Lady Betty soundly chides them. And under hand and seal the Irish nation [debtors;

Now water's brought, and dinner's done : Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.

With “ Church and King” the lady's gone; He that could once have half a kingdom bought,

(Not reckoning half an hour we pass In half a minute is not worth a groat.

In talking o'er a moderate glass). His coffers from the coffin could not save,

Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief Nor all his interest kept him from the grave.

Steals off to dose away his beef; A golden monument would not be right,

And this must pass for reading Hammond, Because we wish the earth upon him light.

While George and Dean go to backgammon. Oh London tavern! thou hast lost a friend,

George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend:

And then again, boys, to the oar. He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot;

But when the sun goes to the deep, The hand that sign’d the mortgage paid the shot.

(Not to disturb him in luis sleep, Old as he was, no vulgar known disease

Or make a rumbling o'er his head, On him could ever boast a power to seize;

His candle out and he a-bed) “ But, as he weigh'd his gold, grim Death in spite

We watch his motions to a minute, Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light;

And leave the flood when he goes in it.
And, as he saw his darling money fail,

Now stinted in the shortening day,
Blew his last breath, to sink the lighter scale.”
He who so long was current, 'twould be strange
If he should now be cry'd down since his change.
The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;

'Tis late--the old and younger pairs,
Alas, the sexton is thy banker now!
A dismal banker must that banker be,
Who gives no bills but of mortality.

We go to prayers, and then to play,
Till supper comes; and after that
We sit an hour to drink and chat.

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By Adam lighted, walk up stairs.
The weary Dean goes to his chamber ;
And Nim and Dan to garret clamber.
So when the circle we have run,
The curtain falls, and all is done.

I might have mention”d several facts,
Like episodes between the acts ;
And tell who loses and who wins,
Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins ;
How Dan caught nothing in his net,
And how the boat was overset.
For brevity I have retrench'd

Thalia, tell in sober lays,
How George, Nim, Dan, Dean, pass their days;
And, should our Gaulstown's art grow fallow,
Yet, Neget quis carmina Gallo ?
Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I
Not Sheridan, but friend Delany.

you were bred.

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excuse,

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It would be an exploit to brag on,

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon;

DR. SHERIDAN. 1723. How steady in the storm he sat,

Well, if ever I saw such another man since my And saved his oar, but lost his hat:

mother bound my head ! How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) Still brings us hares when he can catch them: You a gentleman! marry come up! I wonder where How skilfully Dan mends his nets;

I'm sure such words do not become a man of your How fortune fails him when he sets:

cloth; Or how the Dean delights to vex The ladies, and lampoon their sex.

I would not give such language to a dog, faith and

troth. I might have told how oft Dean Percivale Displays his pedantry unmerciful ;

Yes, you call'd my master a knave: fie, Mr. She

ridan! 'tis a shame How haughtily he cocks his nose, To tell what every school-boy knows;

For'a parson, who should know better things, to

coine out with such a name. And with his finger and his thumb, Explaining, strikes opposers dumb:

Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a

shame and a sin; But now there needs no more be said on't, Nor how his wife, that female pedant,

And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than Shows all her secrets of house-keeping ;

you and all your kin: For candles how she trucks her dripping;

He has more goodness in his little finger, than you Was forc'd to send three miles for yeast,

have in your whole body: To brew her ale, and raise her paste;

My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindleTells every thing that you can think of,

shank'd hoddy-doddy. How she cur'd Charley of the chincough ;

And now, whereby I find you would fain make an What

[goose; gave her brats and pigs the measles, And how her dores were kill'd by weasels :

Because my master one day, in anger, call'd you How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright

Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four She had with dreams the other night.

years since October, But now, since I have gone so far on,

And he never called me worse than sweet-heart A word or two of Lord Chief Baron;

drunk or sober: And tell how little weight he sets

Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd On all Whig papers and Gazettes;

to my knowledge, But for the politics of Pue,

Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so Thinks every syllable is true.

late in your college. And since he owns the King of Sweden

You say you will eat grass on his grave: a chrisIs dead at last, without evading,

tian eat grass ! Now all his hopes are in the Czar:

Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose Why, Mu-covy is not so far: Down the Black Sea, and up the Streights,

But that's as much as to say, that my master should And in a month he's at your gates ;

die before ye; Perhaps, from what the packet brings,

Well, well, that 's as God pleases; and I don't By Christmas we shall see strange things.”

believe that 's a true story: Why should I tell of ponds and drains,

And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my What carps we met with for our pains ;

master; wliat care 1? Of sparrows tame, and nuts innumerable

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble ? Every body knows that I love to tell truth and But you, who are a scholar, know

shame the devil; How transient all things are below,

I am but a poor servant; but I think gentle folks How prone to change is human life!

should be civil. Last night arriv'd Clem and his wife

Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day This grand event hath broke our measures ;

that you was here: Their reign began with cruel seizures:

I remember it was on a Tuesday of all days in the The Dean must with his quilt supply

year. The bed in which those tyrants lie:

And Saunders the man says you are always jesting Nim lost his wig-block, Dan bis jordan

and mocking: (My lady says she can't afford one):

Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my George is half-scar'd out of his wits,

master's stocking) For Clem gets all the dainty bits,

My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the Henceforth expect a different survey,

schoolThis house will soon turn topsy-turvy:

I thought my master a wise man, but that man They talk of further alterations,

makes him a fool. Which causes many speculations.

Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale

or an ass:

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The sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd, 400 NEW ELEGANT EXTRACTS.

(swirt. He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin

And but neglects to warm her hair lace, a dish-clout to his tail.

She gets a cold as sure as death, And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct And rows she scarce can feich her breath; this letter;

Admires how modest women can For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget, Be so robustious, like a man. she writes better.

In party, furious to her power; Well, but I mu ruu and make the bed, before my A bitter Whig, or Tory sour; master coines from prayers;

Her arguments directly tend And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear hiin coming Against the side she would defend; up stairs;

Will prove herself a Tory plain, Whereof I could say more to your verses,

if I could From principles the Whigs maintain ; write written hand:

And to defend the Whiggish cause, And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to Her topics from the Tories draws. command,

O yes! if any man can find
MARY. More virtues in a woman's mind,

Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;

She'll pay the charges to a farthing; THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND.

Take notice, she has my commission 1727.

To add them in the next edition; A set of phrases learnt by rote;

They may out-sell a better thing:
A passion for a scarlet coat;

So, halloo, boys; God save the king!
When at a play, to laugh, or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute,

ON CUTTING DOWN THE OLD THORN
While all she prates has nothing in it;

AT MARKET-HILL. Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,

At Market-hill, as well appears, And take his nonsense all for wit;

By chronicle of ancient date, Her learning mounts to read a song,

There stood for many hundred years
But half the words pronouncing wrong ;

A spacious thorn before the gate.
Hath every repartee in store
She spoke ten thousand times before;

Hither came every village maid,
Can ready compliments supply

And on the boughs her garland hung ; On all occasions, cut and dry;

And here, beneath the spreading shade, Such hatred to a parson's gown,

Secure from satyrs sat and sung. The sight would put her in a swoon ;

Sir Archibald, that valorous knight, For conversation well endued,

The lord of all the fruitful plain, She calls it witty to be rude ;

Would come and listen with delight;
And, placing raillery in railing,

For he was fond of rural strain.
Will tell aloud your greatest failing ;
Nor make a scruple to expose

(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name Your bandy leg, or crooked nose;

Shall stand for ages on record, Can at her morning tea run o'er

By Scottish bards of highest fame,
The scandal of the day before;

Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.)
Improving hourly in her skill
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.

In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs dispute,
What linen best the silk will suit;
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.

If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear hier.
Can dextrously her husband teaze,
By taking fits whene'er she please ;
By frequent practice learns the trick

proper seasons to be sick ;
Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless

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But time with iron teeth, I ween,

Has canker'd all its branches round;
No fruit or blossom to be seen,

Its head reclining towards the ground.
This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,

Which must, alas / no longer stand,
Behold the cruel Dean in scorn

Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.
Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,

Astonishid, gave a dreadful shriek;
And mother Tellus trembled so,

She scarce recover'd in a week.

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(For

In prudence and compassion, sent

none could tell whose tura was next) Sad omens of the dire event.

The magpie, lighting on the stock,

“ When thou, suspended high in air, Stood chattering with incessant din ;

Dy’st on a more ignoble tree, And with her beak gave many a knock,

(For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare), To rouse and warn the nymph within.

Then, bloody caitiff! think on me.”

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" And thy confederate dame, who brags

That she condemn'd me to the fire, Shall rend her petticoats to rags,

And wound her legs with every brier. “ Nor thou, Lord Arthur, shalt escape ;

To thee I often call'd in vain, Against that assassin iu crape ;

Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain. • Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,

Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse; Since you

could see me treated so (An old retainer to your house): May that fell Dean, by whose command Was form'd this Machiavelian plot, Not leave a thistle on thy land;

Then who will own thee for a Scot?

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. Occasioned by reading the following Maxim in RocherOU.

CAULT,“ Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplaît pas." " In the adversity of our best friends, we always find some

thing that doth not displease us."
As Rochefoucault his maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
“ In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
While nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.”

If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes
Our equals rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you :
But why should he obstruct my view ?
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be over-topt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you

without: How patiently you hear him groan! How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he ?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?

Her end when emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Vain human-kind! fantastic race !
Thy various follies who can trace ?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
?Tis all to me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire;
Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six;

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" Pigs and fanatics, cows, and teagues,
Through all thy empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges, join in leagues,

Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. “ And now, thou wretch ordain'd by fate,

Neal Gahagen, Hibernian clown, With hatchet blunter than thy pate,

To hack my hallow'd timber down;

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It gives me such a jealous fit,

But now he's quite another thing: I cry, “ Pox take him and his wit!”

I wish he may hold out till spring!" I grieve to be outdone by Gay

They hug themselves, and reason thus: In my own humorous biting way.

“ It is not yet so bad with us!” Arbuthnot is no more my friend,

In such a case, they talk in tropes, Who dares to irony pretend,

And by their fears express their hopes. Which I was born to introduce,

Some great misfortune to portend, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use.

No enemy can match a friend. St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows

With all the kindness they profess, That I had some repute for prose;

The merit of a lucky guess And, till they drove me out of date,

(When daily how-d'ye's come of course, Could maul a minister of state.

And servants answer, “ Worse and worse !") If they have mortified my pride,

Would please them better, than to tell,
And made me throw my pen aside ;

That, “ God be prais'd, the Dean is well."
If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em, Then he who prophesy'd the best,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?

Approves his foresight to the rest:
To all my foes, dear fortune, send

“ You know I always fear'd the worst, Thy gifts; but never to my friend :

And often told you so at first." I tamely can endure the first;

He'd rather choose that I should die, But this with envy makes me burst.

Than his predictions prove a lie. Thus much may serve by way of proem;

Not one foretells I shall recover; Proceed we therefore to our poem.

But all agree to give me over. The time is not remote when I

Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Must by the course of nature die ;

Just in the parts where I complain; When, I foresee, my special friends

How many a message would he send ! Will try to find their private ends :

What hearty prayers that I should mend! And, though 'tis hardly understood

Inquire what regimen I kept; Which way my death can do them good,

What gave me ease, and how I slept? Yet thus, methirks, I hear them speak:

And more lament when I was dead, “ See how the Dean begins to break!

Thau all the snivellers round my bed. Poor gentleman, he droops apace !

My good companions, never fear; You plainly find it in his face.

For, though you may mistake a year, That old vertigo in his head

Though your prognostics run too fast, Will never leave him, till he's dead.

They must be verify'd at last. Besides, his memory decays:

Behold the fatal day arrive! He recollects not what he says;

“ How is the Dean?"--" He's just alive." He cannot call his friends to mind;

Now the departing prayer is read; Forgets the place where last he din’d;

He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead. Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;

Before the passing-bell begun, He told them fifty times before.

The news through half the town is run. How does he fancy we can sit

“ Oh! may we all for death prepare ! To hear his out-of-fashion wit?

What has he left? and who's his heir ?" But he takes up with younger folks,

“ I know no more than what the news is; Who for his wine will bear his jokes.

'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."
Faith! he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

“ For poetry, he's past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen;-
But there's no talking to some men !"

And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years:
“ He's older than he would be reckon'd,
And well remembers Charles the Second.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach too begins to fail :
Last year we thought him strong and hale;

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“ To public uses ! there's a whim!
What had the public done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride:
He gave it all--but first he dy'd.
And had the Dean, in all the nation,
No worthy friend, no poor relation?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood !"

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd ;
With elegies the town is cloy'd :
Some paragraph in every paper,
To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.

The doctors, tender of their fame,
Wisely on me lay all the blame.
“ We must confess, his case was nice;
But he would never take advice.
Had he been rul’d, for aught appears,
He might have liv'd these twenty years :

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