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For, when we open'd him, we found
My Lady Club will take it ill, That all his vital parts were sound."
If he should fail her at quadrille. From Dublin soon to London spread,
He lov'd the Dean—(I lead a heart.) 'Tis told at court, “ The Dean is dead."
But dearest friends, they say, must part. And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen,
His time was come; he ran his race; Runs laughing up to tell the queen.
We hope he's in a better place." The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
Why do we grieve that friends should die? Cries, “ Is he gone! 'tis time he shou’d.
No loss more easy to supply. He's dead, you say; then let him rot.
One year is past; a different scene! I'm glad the medals were forgot.
No farther mention of the Dean, I promis'd him, I own; but when ?
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, I only was the princess then:
Than if he never did exist. But now, as consort of the king,
Where's now the favourite of Apollo? You know, 'tis quite another thing."
Departed :-and his works must follow; Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Must undergo the common fate ; Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
His kind of wit is out of date. " Why, if he dy'd without his shoes,"
Some country squire to Lintot goes, Cries Bob, “ I'm sorry for the news:
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Oh, were the wretch but living still,
Says Lintot, “ I have heard the name; And in his place my good friend Will!
He dy'd a year ago.”—“ The same.” Or had a mitre on his head,
He searches all the shop in vain, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"
“ Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane: Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains :
I sent them, with a load of books, Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!
Last Monday, to the pastry-cook’s. And then, to make them pass the glibber,
To fancy they could live a year! Revis’d by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
I find you're but a stranger here. He'll treat me as he does my betters,
The Dean was famous in his time, Publish my will, my life, my letters ;
And had a kind of knack at rhyme. Revive the libels born to die:
His way of writing now is past :Which Pope must bear, as well as I.
The town has got a better taste. Here shift the scene, to represent
I keep no antiquated stuff; How those I love my death lament.
But spick and span I have enough. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em : A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. St. John himself will scarce forbear
This ode you never yet have seen, To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
Then here's a letter finely penn'd " I'm sorry—but we all must die!"
Against the Craftsman and his friend : Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise,
Jt clearly shows that all reflection All fortitude of mind supplies :
On ministers is disaffection. For how can stony bowels melt
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, In those who never pity felt!
And Mr. Henley's last oration. When we are lash'd they kiss the rod,
The hawkers have not got them yet, Resigning to the will of God.
Your honour please to buy a set? The fools, my juniors by a year,
“ Here's Woolston's tracts, the twelfth edition ; Are tortur'd with suspense and fear ;
'Tis read by every politician: Who wisely thought my age a screen,
The country-members, when in town, When death approach’d, to stand between:
To all their boroughs send them down : The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling ;
You never met a thing so smart; They mourn for me without dissembling.
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honour who can read,
Are taught to use them for their creed,
The reverend author's good intention “ The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?)
Hath been rewarded with a pension :
He doth an honour to his gown, Then, Lord have mercy on his soul ! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloster, Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall:
That Moses was a grand impostor; (I wish I knew what king to call.)
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer ; “ No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;
A shame he hath not got a mitre !" And he's engag'd to-morrow night:
Suppose me dead; and then suppose
Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, A club assembled at the Rose;
Because its owner is a duke?
kerattade Where, from discourse of this and that,
His friendships, still to few confin'd, I grow the subject of their chat.
Were always of the middling kind; And while they toss my name about,
No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, With favour some, and some without;
Who fain would pass for lords indeed : One, quite indifferent in the cause,
Where titles give no right or power,
boer'd My character impartial draws.
And peerage is a wither'd flower; “ The Dean, if we believe report,
He would have deem'd it a disgrace, Was never ill-receiv'd at court,
If such a wretch had known his face. Although, ironically grave,
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave ;
He vented oft his wrath in vain:
Sladbe To steal a hint was never known,
* * squires to market brought,
Ad, But what he writ was all his own."
Who sell their souls and **** for nought: “ Sir, I have heard another story;
* go joyful back, He was a most confounded Tory,
To rob the church, their tenants rack; And grew, or he is much bely'd,
Go snacks with ***** justices,
S see the Extremely dull, before he dy’d."
And keep the peace to pick up fees; “ Can we the Drapier then forget?
In every job to have a share, Is not our nation in his debt ?
A gaol or turnpike to repair; 'Twas be that writ the Drapier's letters !"
A turn ****** * to public roads “ He should have left them for his betters; Commodious to their own abodes. We had a hundred abler men,
“ He never thought an honour done him, Nor need depend upon his pen.
Because a peer was proud to own him; Say what you will about his reading,
Would rather slip aside, and choose You never can defend his breeding;
To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; Who, in his satires running riot,
And scorn the tools with stars and garters, Could never leave the world in quiet;
So often seen caressing Chartres. Attacking when he took the whim,
He never courted men in station, Court, city, camp—all one to him.
Nor persons held in admiration; But why would he, except he slobber'd,
Of no man's greatness was afraid, Offend our patriot great Sir Robert,
Because he sought for no man's aid. Whose counsels aid the sovereign power
Though trusted long in great affairs, To save the nation every hour!
He gave himself no haughty airs: What scenes of evil he unravels
Without regarding private ends, In satires, libels, lying travels,
Spent all his credit for his friends; Not sparing his own clergy cloth,
And only chose the wise and good ; But eats into it, like a moth!"
No flatterers; no allies in blood: “ Perhaps I may allow the Dean
But succour'd virtue in distress, Had too much satire in his vein,
And seldom fail'd of good success ; And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
As numbers in their hearts must own, Because no age could more deserve it.
Who, but for him, had been unknown. Yet malice never was his aim;
“ He kept with princes due decorum; He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name.
Yet never stood in awe before 'em. No individual could resent,
He follow'd David's lesson just; Where thousands equally were meant:
In princes never put his trust: His satire points at no defect,
And, would you make him truly sour, But what all mortals may correct;
Provoke him with a slave in power. For he abhor'd the senseless tribe
The Irish senate if you nam’d, Who call it humour when they gibe :
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry;
For her he stood prepar'd to die ;
“ Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
Ingratitude he often found,
Who long all justice had discarded, And pity'd those who meant the wound;
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded; But kept the tenor of his mind,
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, To merit well of human-kind;
And make him of his zeal repent: Nor made a sacrifice of those
But Heaven his innocence defends, Who still were true, to please his foes.
The grateful people stand his friends; He labour'd many a fruitless hour,
Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, To reconcile his friends in power;
Nor topics brought to please the crown, Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
Nor witness hir’d, nor jury pick’d, While they pursued each other's ruin.
Prevail to bring him in convict. But, finding vain was all his care,
“ In exile, with a steady heart, He left the court in mere despair.
He spent his life's declining part, “And, oh ! how short are human schemes ! Where folly, pride, and faction sway ; Here ended all our golden dreams.
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay." What St. John's skill in state affairs,
“ Alas, poor Dean! his only scope What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
Was to be held a misanthrope. To save their sinking country lent,
This into general odium drew him, Was all destroy'd by one event.
Which if he lik’d, much good may't do him. Too soon that precious life was ended,
His zeal was not to lash our crimes, On which alone our weal depended.
But discontent against the times : When up a dangerous faction starts,
For, had we made him timely offers With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;
To raise his post, or fill his coffers, By solemn league and covenant bound,
Perhaps he might have truckled down, To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
Like other brethren of his gown; To turn religion to a fable,
For party he would scarce have bled :And make the government a Babel ;
I say no more because he's dead. Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,
What writings has he left behind ?" Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
“ I hear they're of a different kind: To sacrifice old England's glory,
A few in verse; but most in prose" And make her infamous in story:
“ Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose : When such a tempest shook the land,
All scribbled in the worst of times, How could unguarded virtue stand!
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; “ With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, Beheld the dire destructive scene:
As never favouring the Pretender : His friends in exile, or the tower,
Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, Himself within the frown of power;
Against the court to show his spite : Pursued by base envenom'd pens,
Perhaps his travels, part the third ; Far to the land of s—and fens;
A lie at every second word A servile race in folly nurs'd,
Offensive to a loyal ear:Who truckle most, when treated worst.
But not one sermon, you may swear." “ By innocence and resolution,
“ He knew an hundred pleasing stories, He bore continual persecution ;
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories : While numbers to preferment rose,
Was cheerful to his dying-day; Whose merit was to be his foes;
And friends would let him have his way. When ev'n his own familiar friends,
“ As for his works in verse or prose, Intent upon their private ends,
I own myself no judge of those. Like renegadoes now he feels,
Nor can I tell what critics thought them; Against him lifting up their heels.
But this I know, all people bought them, “ The Dean did, by his pen, defeat
As with a moral view design'd, An infamous destructive cheat;
To please and to reform mankind: Taught fools their interest how to know,
And, if he often miss'd his aim,
The world must own it to their shame,
The praise is his, and theirs the blame.
He gave the little wealth he had To save that hapless land from ruin;
To build a house for fools and mad; While they who at the steerage stood,
To show, by one satiric touch, And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.
No nation wanted it so much. “ To save them from their evil fate,
That kingdom he hath left his debtor, In him was held a crime of state.
I wish it soon may have a better. A wicked monster on the bench,
And, since you dread no further lashes, Whose fury blood could never quench:
Methinks you may forgive his ashes.”
As vile and profligate a villain
While they never hold their tongue,
4 CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DE Let them, with their gosling quills, SCRIPTION OF THE LEGION-CLUB.
Scribble senseless heads of bills. 1736.
We may, while they strain their throats,
Wipe our a-s with their votes. As I stroll the city, oft I
Let Sir Tom, that rampant ass, See a building large and lofty,
Stuff his guts with flax and grass ; Not a bow-shot from the college;
But, before the priest he fleeces, Half the globe from sense and knowledge:
Tear the bible all to pieces : By the prudent architect,
At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Plac'd against the church direct,
Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, Making good thy grandame's jest,
Footman, traitor, vile seducer, “ Near the church”-you know the rest.
Perjur'd rebel, brib'd accuser, Tell us, what the pile contains?
Lay thy paltry privilege aside, Many a head that holds no brains.
Sprung from papists, and a regicide; These demoniacs let me dub
Fall a-working like a mole, With the name of Legion-club.
Raise the dirt about your hole. Such assemblies, you might swear,
Come, assist me, Muse obedient! Meet when butchers bait a bear;
Let us try some new expedient; Such a noise, and such haranguing,
Shift the scene for half an hour, When a brother thief is hanging:
Time and place are in thy power. Such a rout and such a rabble
Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me; Run to hear Jack-pudding gabble ;
I shall ask, and you instruct me. Such a crowd their ordure throws
See, the Muse unbars the gate ! On a far less villain's nose.
Hark, the monkeys, how they prate ! Could I from the building's top
All ye gods who rule the soul! Hear the rattling thunder drop,
Styx, through hell whose waters roll! While the devil upon the roof
Let me be allow'd to tell (If the devil be thunder-proof)
What I heard in yonder hell. Should with poker fiery red
Near the door an entrance gapes, Crack the stones, and melt the lead ;
Crowded round with antic shapes, Drive them down on every skull,
Poverty, and grief, and care, While the den of thieves is full;
Causeless joy, and true despair ; Quite destroy the harpies' nest:
Discord, periwigg'd with snakes,
See the dreadful strides she takes !
By this odious crew beset,
I began to rage and fret,
And resolv'd to break their pates, And the gospel will inform us,
Ere we enter'd at the gates; He can punish sins enormous.
Had not Clio in the pick Yet should Swift endow the schools,
Whisper'd me,“ Lay down your stick.” For his lunatics and fools,
What, said I, is this the mad-house? With a rood or two of land,
These, she answer'd, are but shadows, I allow the pile may stand.
Phantoms bodiless and vain,
Empty visions of the brain.
In the porch Briareus stands,
Shows a bribe in all his hands; Let the royal grant be pass'd,
Briareus the secretary, That the club have right to dwell
But we mortals call him Carey. Each within his proper cell,
When the rogues their country fleece, With a passage left to creep in,
They may hope for pence a-piece. And a hole above for peeping.
Clio, who had been so wise
To put on a fool's disguise,
Sell the nation for a pin;
Let them dabble in their dung:
Clio, stifled with the smell,
How they swagger from their garrison ! nto spleen and vapours fell,
Such a triplet could you tell By the Stygian streams that flew
Where to find on this side hell? From the dire infectious crew.
Harrison, and D-ks, and Clements, Not the stench of Lake Avernus
Keeper, see they have their payments ; Could have more offended her nose;
Every mischief's in their hearts; Had she flown but o'er the top,
If they fail, 'tis want of parts. She had felt her pinions drop,
Bless us, Morgan ! art thou there, man! And by exhalations dire,
Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman ! Though a goddess, must expire.
Chairman to your damn’d committee ! In a fright she crept away;
Yet I look on thee with pity. Bravely I resolv'd to stay.
Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan When I saw the keeper frown,
Metamorphos'd to a Gorgon? Tipping him with half a crown,
For thy horrid looks, I own, Now, said I, we are alone,
Half convert me to a stone. Name your heroes one by one.
Hast thou been so long at school, Who is that hell-featur'd brawler?
Now to turn a factious tool ? Is it Satan? No, 'tis Waller.
Alma Mater was thy mother, lo what figure can a bard dress
Every young divine thy brother. Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress?
Thou, a disobedient varlet, Honest keeper, drive him further,
Treat thy mother like a harlot ! In his looks are hell and murther;
Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, See the scowling visage drop,
Who are all grown reverend preachers! Just as when he murder'd T-p.
Morgan, would it not surprise one! Keeper, show me where to fix
Turn thy nourishment to poison ! On the puppy pair of Dicks;
When you walk among your books, By their lantern jaws and leathern,
They reproach you with their looks : You might swear they both are brethren:
Bind them fast, or from their shelves Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player,
They will come and right themselves; Old acquaintance, are you there?
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, Dear companions hug and kiss,
All in arms prepare to back us. Toast Old Glorious in your
Soon repent, or put to slaughter Tie them, keeper, in a tether,
Every Greek and Roman author. Let them starve and stink together;
Will you in your faction's phrase, Both are apt to be unruly,
Send the clergy all to graze, Lash them daily, lash them duly;
And, to make your project pass, Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Leave them not a blade of grass ? Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.
How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,
Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art. Sweetly snoring in his cloak;
Were but you and I acquainted, Who is he? 'tis humdrum Wynne,
Every monster should be painted: Half encompass’d by his kin:
You should try your graving-tools There observe the tribe of Bingham,
On this odious group of fools: For he never fails to bring 'em;
Draw the beasts as I describe them While he sleeps the whole debate,
From their features, while I gibe them ; They submissive round him wait;
Draw them like ; for I assure you Yet would gladly see the hunks
You will need no car'catura; In his grave, and search his trunks.
Draw them so, that we may trace See, they gently twitch his coat,
All the soul in every face. Just to yawn and give his vote,
Keeper, I must now retire, Always firm in his vocation,
You have done what I desire : For the court, against the nation.
But I feel my spirits spent Those are A-s, Jack and Bob,
With the noise, the sight, the scent. First in every wicked job,
“ Pray be patient ; you shall find Son and brother to a queer
Half the best are still behind : Brain-sick brute, they call a peer.
You have hardly seen a score ; We must give them better quarter,
I can show two hundred more.” For their ancestor trod mortar,
Keeper, I have seen enough, And H—th, to boast his fame,
Taking then a pinch of snuff, On a chimney cut his name.
I concluded, looking round them, There sit Clements, D-ks, and Harrison : “ May their god, the devil, confound them!”