Dick loft in Doll a wife tender and dear:

But Dick loft by Doll twelve hundred a year;
A lofs that Dick thought no mortal could bear.

Dick figh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms croft; Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost : The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.

Thus loaded with grief, Dick figh'd and he cry'd; To live without both full three days he try'd: But lik'd neither loss, and fo quietly dy’d.

after:

Dick left a pattern few will copy
Then, reader, pray shed some tears of falt-water;
For fo fad a tale is no fubject of laughter.

Meath fmiles for the jointure, though gotten fo late;
The fon laughs, that got the hard-gotten eftate;
And Cuffe grins, for getting the Alicant plate.
Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day,
Both folemnly put in this hole on a Sunday,
And here reft-fic tranfit gloria mundi !

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT.

MY lateft tribute here I fend,

With this let your collection end.

Thus I confign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame :
And, if the whole may pass for true,
Contented reft, you have your

due.

Give future times the fatisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction.

*John Cuffe of Defart, Efq; married the general's

eldeft daughter. N.

VOL. II.

DR. SWIFT'S COMPLAINT,

ON HIS OWN DEAFNES.S..
WITH AN ANSWER.

Because to few you will be fhewn.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.

DOCTOR.

No more I hear my church's bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell.

ANSWER.

Then write and read, 'twill do as well.

A woman's clack, if I have skill,
Sounds fomewhat like a throwfter's mill;
But louder than a bell, or thunder;

'That does, I own, increafe my wonder.

DR.

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF,

ON

SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

TRAVE Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pafs,

GR

That you, who know mufic no more than an ass, That you, who fo lately were writing of Drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and fcrapers ? To act fuch an opera once in a year,

So offenfive to every true Proteftant ear,

With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and finging,
Will fure the Pretender and Popery bring in:
No Proteftant Prelate, his Lordship or Grace,
Durft there fhew his Right or Moft Reverend face:
How would it pollute their crofiers and rochets
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets !

* Dr. Sheridan was publisher of the "Intelligencer," a weekly paper, written principally by himself; but Dr.

H 2

Swift

Above the door, at country-fair,
Betokens entertainment there;
So bays on poets' brows have been
Set, for a fign of wit within.

And, as ill neighbours in the night
Pull down an ale-house bush for spite;
The laurel fo, by poets worn,

Is by the teeth of Envy torn;
Envy, a canker-worm, which tears
Thofe facred leaves that lightning Spares.
And now t' exemplify this moral:
Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel
(Which, measur'd on his head, was found
Not long enough to reach half round,
But, like a girl's cockade, was ty'd,
A trophy, on his temple-fide);
Paddy repin'd to see him wear
This badge of honour in his hair
And, thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his Mufe by Smedley's † model,
Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle,

Pelts him by turns with veife and profe,
Hums like a hornet at his nose,

Swift occafionally supplied him with a letter. Dr. Delany, piqued at the approbation those papers received, attacked them violently both in converfation and in print; but unfortunately ftumbled on fome of the numbers which the Dean had written, and all the world admired; which gave rife to these verses. N.

+ Dean of Ferns. See the next poem. N.

At

At length prefumes to vent his fatire on
The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron.
The eagle in the tale, ye know,
Teaz'd by a buzzing wasp below,
Took wing to Jove, and hop'd to rest
Securely in the thunderer's breast:
In vain; even there, to fpoil his nod,
The Spiteful infect ftung the god.

PARODY

ON A

CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY. Written in Latin by himself.

THE very reverend Dean Smedley,

Of dullness, pride, conceit, a medley,

Was equally allow'd to shine

As poet, fcholar, and divine;

With godliness could well difpenfe,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would strictly after Truth enquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his fhoulder.
To half the world a standing jeft,
A perfect nuifance to the reft:

From many (and we may believe him)
Had the best wishes they could give him.

The original is in the "Supplement to Swift." N.