A while they on each other look,

Then different studies choose; The Dean sits plodding on a book; Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

Now backs of letters, though design'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlin❜d,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by some other struck
All turns and motions tries:
Till, in a lump together stuck,
Behold a poem rise:

Yet to the Dean his share allot;

He claims it by a canon;

That without which a thing is not,

Is, causa sine quâ non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;

For, had our deaf divine

Been for your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock* thus, for preaching fam'd,

The sexton reason'd well;

And justly half the merit claim'd,

Because he rang the bell:

*The dean of St. Paul's, father to the bishop. H

Á LOVE POEM

FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS

WRITTEN AT LONDON.

By poets we are well assur'd

That love, alas! can ne'er be cur❜d à
A complicated heap of ills,

Despising boluses and pills.

Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard bound,
I strain my guts, my colon wound.
Now jealousy, my grumbling tripes
Assaults with grating, grinding gripes,
When pity in those eyes I view,
My bowels wambling make me spew.
When I an amorous kiss désign'd,
I belch'd a hurricane of wind.
Once you a gentle sigh let fall;
Remember how I suck'd it all:

What colick 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 pieces
With maggots, humours, and caprices!
By which I got the hemorrhoids;
And loathsome worms 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 yellow filth my linen stains;
Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst,
Smallbeer I guzzle till I burst;
And then I drag a bloated corpus,
Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpoise;
When, if I cannot purge or stale,
I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

TO DEAN SWIFT.

BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728.

GOOD cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear's the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,

Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;

And, sure as monument of brass,

Their fame to future time shall pass;
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung :
A subject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,

A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;

A bishop that is no divine;

And coxcombs in red ribbons shine :
Nay, he can make, what's greater far,
A middle state 'twixt peace and war;
And say, there shall, for years together,
Be peace and war, and both, and neither.
Happy, O Market-hill! at least,

That court and courtiers have no taste:
You never else had known the Dean,
But as of old, obscurely lain;
All things gone on the same dull track,
And Drapier's-hill* been still Drumlack;
But now your name with Penshurst vies,
And wing'd with fame shall reach the skies.

DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON'S,

IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND.

THE Dean would visit Market-hill,
Our invitation was but slight;

I said—“ Why let him, if he will:"
And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait,
Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
And so we saw him at our gate

Three days before he was expected.

* The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlack, which he rented of Sir Arthur Acheson, whose seat lay between that and Market-hill; and intended to build a house upon it, but afterwards changed his mind. F.

After a week, a month, a quarter,

And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,

Though not a soul would have him stay.

I've said enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or else the Devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,

Nor for my life will take the hint.

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

How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaise.

Or you may say-" My wife intends,
Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite some friends,

And, sir, I know, you hate a crowd.”

Or, "Mr. Dean-I should with joy
Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnecloy; .*
Or, Mr. Moore will take it ill.”

The house accounts are daily rising;

ls;

So much his stay doth swell the bills

My dearest life, it is surprising,

How much he eats, how much he swills.

His brace of puppies how they stuff!

And they must have three meals a day,

Yet never think they get enough;

His horses too eat all our hay.

*The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq. in the county of Tyrone. F.