PALINODIA.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XVI.

GREAT sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays outshine,
Look down upon your quondam foe;
O! let me never write again,
If e'er I disoblige you, Dean,
Should you compassion show.

Take those iambicks which I wrotę,
When anger made me piping hot,
And give them to your cook,

To singe your fowl, or save your paste,
The next time when you have a feast;
They'll save you many a book.

To burn them, you are not content;
I give you then my free consent,

To sink them in the harbour:

If not, they'll serve to set off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your physic take,
I must entreat you then to make

A proper application;

'Tis what I've done myself before,

With Dan's fine thoughts, and many more,

Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do?

It makes the weak the strong pursue,
A goose attack a swan;

It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
IIer husband's hands and face assail,
While he's no longer man.

Though some, we find, are more discreet, Before the world are wondrous sweet, And let their husbands hector:

But, when the world's asleep, they wake, That is the time they choose to speak; Witness the curtain lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find :
All day you could conceal your mind;
But when St. Patrick's chimes

Awak'd your Muse (my midnight curse,
When I engag'd for better for worse)
You scolded with your rhymes.

Have done have done! I quit the field, To you, as to my wife, I yield:

As she must wear the breeches : So shall you wear the laurel crown, Win it, and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

BEC'S BIRTHDAY.

Nov. 8, 1726.

९

THIS day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;
Had Fate a luckier one, she'd give it ye :
She chose a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for strength;

Nor will be able with her shears
To cut it off these forty years.
Then who says care will kill a cat?
Rebecca shows they're out in that.
For she, though overrun with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair.

As, if the gout should seize the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;

But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to th' extremest parts,

They give the sick man joy, and praise
The gout that will prolong his days.
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,

Who drives her cares to hands and feet;

For, though philosophers maintain

The limbs are guided by the brain,

Quite contrary Rebecca's led,

Her hands and feet conduct her head,

By arbitrary power convey her,

She ne'er considers why, or where :

Her hands may meddle, feet may wander, Her head is but a mere by-stander;

And all her bustling but supplies

The part of wholesome exercise.
Thus nature has resolv'd to pay her
The cat's nine lives, and eke the care.

Load our plates from every dish;
This is not the thing we wish.
Colonel ***** may be your

debtor ;

We expect employment better.

You must learn, if you would gain us,
With good sense to entertain us.
Scholars, when good sense describing,
Call it tasting and imbibing:
Metaphorick meat and drink
Is to understand and think;
We may carve for others thus;
And let others carve for us;

To discourse, and to attend,
Is, to help yourself and friend.
Conversation is but carving;
Carve for all, yourself is starving:
Give no more to every guest,
Than he's able to digest;

Give him always of the prime;
And but little at a time.

Carve to all but just enough:
Let them neither starve nor stuff:
And that you may have your due,
Let your neighbours carve for you.
[This comparison will hold,

Could it well in rhyme be told,
How conversing, listening, thinking,
Justly may resemble drinking;
For a friend a glass you fill,

What is this but to instil ?*]

To conclude this long essay;

Pardon, if I disobey;

*These six lines are wanting in some editions. N.

Nor against my natural vein,

Treat you in heroic strain.
I, as all the parish knows,
Hardly can be grave in prose:
Still to lash, and lashing smile,
Ill befits a lofty style.

From the planet of my birth.
I encounter vice with mirth.
Wicked ministers of state
I can easier scorn than hate;
And I find it answers right:
Scorn torments them more than spite
All the vices of a court

Do but serve to make me sport.
[Were I in some foreign realm,
Which all vices overwhelm;
Should a monkey wear a crown,
Must I tremble at his frown?
Could I not, through all his ermine,
'Spy the strutting, chattering vermin?
Safely write a smart lampoon,
To expose the brisk baboon ?*]
When my Muse officious ventures
On the nation's representers:
Teaching by what golden rules
Into knaves they turn their fools:
How the helm is rul'd by Walpole,
At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull;
Let the vessel split on shelves;
With the freight enrich themselves :
Safe within my little wherry,

All their madness makes me merry:

* These eight lines are also wanting in some editions. N.