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No cruel master could require
From llaves employ'd for daily hire,
What Stella, by her friendship warmd,
With vigour and delight perform’d:
My finking spirits now supplies
With cordials in her hands and eyes;
Now with a soft and silent tread
Unheard she moves about my

I see her taste each nauseous draught,
And so obligingly am caught:
I bless the hand from whence they came,
Nor dare distort my face for shame.

Best pattern of true friends, beware:
You pay too dearly for your care,
If, while your tenderness fecures
My life, it must endanger yours;
For such a fool was never found,
Who pulld a palace to the ground,
Only to have the ruins made
Materials for an house decay'd.




VERSES on the Death of Dr. SWIFT, oc

casioned by reading the following Maxim in RocHEFOUCAULT.

Dans l' adversité de nos mellieurs amis nous trouvons

toujours quelque chose, qui ne nous deplaist pas.

In the adversity of our best friends, we always find

something that doth not difplease us.

Written in Nov. 1731.


S Rochefoucault his maxims drew

From nature, I believe them true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.


This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast : « In all distresses of our friends " We first consult our private ends ; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, “ Points out some circumstance to please us.”


If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes
Our equal rais'd above our fize.
Who would not at a crouded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?


I love my


friend as well as you :
But why should he obstruct my view ?
Then let me have the higher post ;
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle


should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had fome heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not with his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without :
How patiently you hear him groan !
How glad, the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he ?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would with his rivals all in hell ?




Her end when Emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hiffes :
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our fide.



Vain human-kind ! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station;
'Tis all on me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire ;
Yet, when you fink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a figh I wish it mine :
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in lix;
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry, Pox take him and his wit.



I grieve


I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own hum'rous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refind it first, and thew'd its use.
St. John *, as well as Pultney +, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortify'd my pride,
And made me throw my pen afide ;
If with such talents heav'n hath bless'd 'em,
Have I not reason to deteft 'em ?



To all my foes, dear fortune, send
Thy gifts, but never to my friend :
I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy, makes me burst.


Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem.


The time is not remote, when I
Must by the course of nature die;
When, I forcfee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood,
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them fpeak;
See, how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentlemen! he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him, till he's dead.


* Lord Viscount. Bolingbroke.
† William Pulirey, Eq; now Earl of Bat':.



Plies you

Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to inind;
Forgets the place where last he din'd;

with stories o’er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before,
How does he fancy, we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
'Faith he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a-quarter :
In half the time he talks them round:
There must another set be found.




For poetry, he's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhyme :
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy funk, his mufe a jade.
I'd have him throw away his

pen; But there's no talking to some nien.

And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years :
He's older than he would be reckon’d,
And well remembers Charles the Second.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine ;
And that, I doubt, is no good fign.
His ftomach too begins to fail :
Last year we thought him strong and hale;
But now he's quite another thing:
I wish he may hold out till spring.
They hug themselves, and reason thus;
It is not yet so bad with us.

In such a case they talk in tropes.
And by their fears express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.



120 With

B 2

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