Each atom by fome other ftruck.

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 quá non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boaft your

For, had our deaf Divine

Been for your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line.

wit;

Of Sherlock thus, for preaching fam'd,

The Sexton reafon'd well;
And juftly 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.

BY Poets we are well affur'd

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.

Ah!

Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard-bound,
1 ftrain my guls, my colon wound.
Now jealoufy my grumbling tripes
Affaults with grating, grinding gripes.
When pity in those eyes I view,
My bowels wambling make me perw
When I an amorous kifs defign'd,
I belel'd a hurricans of wind.
Once you a gentle figh let fall;
Remember how I fuck'd it all :
What colie pangs from thence I felt,
Had you but known, your heart would melt,
Like ruffling winds in caverns pent,
Till Nature pointed out a vent.
How have you torn my heart to piece§
With maggots, humours, and exprice9 1
By which I got the bæmorrhoids ;
And loathfome avorms 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 yellows filib my linen flains;
Or, parched with unextinguifled thirft,
Small beer I gussle till I burft i
And then I drag a bloated corpus,
Swell'd with a dreply, like a porpoife;
When, if I cannot purge ut fiale,
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

I faid,

Our invitation was but flight;

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 ftay.
I've faid enough to make him blufh,
Methinks, or elfe the Devil's in 't;
But he cares not for it à rush,

Nor for my life will take the hint.

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

How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaife.
Or you may lay-My wife intends,
Though I fhould be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite fome friends,

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

Or, Mr. Dean-1 themla with joy

Beg you would here continue Aill,
★m dan muß gry he Aphmanding a
Or, Mr. Moore will take it ill.

'The homife seements sex daily rifing:
By mach his Ray Arth fell the billaj
My Anstalt life, it is furprising,

How much he kate, how much he fwill,

His Presee if porppike how they fuffi
And they trift have three meals a day,
You never think they get enough;
His hofen the bat all our hay.

Om 1 of 1 cald, here i would manl

His tallow fare and wainferre paws,
Hi Heerle hits, and eves of wall,
And make him from give up the exule i

My 1 he evety mhment clnâ

Wih ↑ Skinny bonia, Snipe, and Lean 1 (1 that ĺbould but once be rid

Of this infulting Tyrant Drant

On a very old Glass at Marett-Hitta RA11; plafel the bane'll that tranne me well se iz "Through nine hat 111, which of us firft thall die

ON CUTTING DOWN THE OLD THORN

A

AT MARKET-HILL*.

T Market-Hill, as well appears,

By chronicle of ancient date,
There ftood for many hundred years
A fpacious thorn before the gate.
Hither came every village-maid,

And on the boughs her garland hung;
And here, beneath the fpreading shade,
Secure from Satyrs fate and fung.

Sir Archibald +, that valorous knight,
The lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come and listen with delight;

For he was fond of rural ftrain.

* A village near the feat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the Dean sometimes made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much admired by the Knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours, gave directions for cutting it down in the abfence of Sir Arthur; who was of courfe highly incenfed, nor would fee Swift for fome time after. By way of making his peace, the Dean wrote this poem; which had the defired effect. N.

+ Sir Archibald Achefon, fecretary of state for Scotland.