'A certain Doctor is observ'd of late To haunt a certain minister of state;
From whence with half an eye we may discover
The peace is made, and Perkin must come over.
York is from Lambeth sent to shew the Queen
A dangerous treatise writ against the spleen';
Which, by the style, the matter, and the drift,
'Tis thought could be the work of none but Swift.
Poor York! the harmless tool of others' hate;
He sues for pardon, and repents too late.
her vengeance vows On Swift's reproaches for her
From her red locks her mouth with venom fills,
And thence into the royal ear instils.
The Queen, incens'd, his services forgot,
Leaves him a victim to the vengeful Scot.
Now through the realm a proclamation spread,
To fix a price on his devoted head;
While, innocent, he scorns ignoble flight,
His watchful friends preserve him by a sleight.
By Harley's favour once again he shines;
Is now caress'd by candidate-divines,
Who change opinions with the changing scene:
Lord! how were they mistaken in the Dean!
Now Delaware3 again familiar grows,
And in Swift's ear thrusts half his powder'd nose.
2 The proclamation was against the author of a pamphlet called, The public Spirit of the Whigs;' against which the Scotch Lords complained.
3 Delaware, then Lord Treasurer of the Household, always caressed the Author at court; but, during the trial of the printers before the House of Lords, and while the proclamation hung over the Author, his Lordship would not seem to know him.
The Scottish nation, whom he durst offend, Again apply that Swift would be their friend". By faction tir'd, with grief he waits awhile, His great contending friends to reconcile; Performs what friendship, justice, truth, require: What could he more but decently retire?
WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE AUTHOR'S COMING
TO LIVE IN IRELAND, UPON THE QUEEN'S
DEATH, OCTOBER, 1714.
"Tis true-then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither lov'd nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul's concern ;
And those with whom I now converse,
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Remov'd from kind Arbuthnot's aid,
Who knows his art but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for ne
Before his credit or his fee.
Some formal visits, looks and words,
What mere humanity affords,
I meet, perhaps, from three or four
From whom I once expected more,
4 The Scotch Lords treated and visited the Author more after the proclamation than before, except the Duke of Argyle, who would never be reconciled.
Which those who tend the sick for pay
Can act as decently as they;
But no obliging tender friend
To help at my approaching end.
My life is now a burden grown
To others, ere it be my own.
Ye formal weepers for the sick!
In your last offices be quick,
And spare my absent friends the grief-
To hear, yet give me no relief:
Expir'd to-day, entomb'd to-morrow,
When known will save a double sorrow.
OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE.
DESPONDING Phillis was endued
With every talent of a prude;
She trembled when a man drew near;
Salute her, and she turn'd her ear:
If o'er against her you were plac'd,
She durst not look above your waist:
She'd rather take you to her bed,
Than let you see her dress her head.
In church you hear her, through the crowd,
Repeat the Absolution lond:
In church secure behind her fan,
She durst behold that monster man;
There practis'd how to place her head,
And bite her lips to make them red;
Or on the mat devoutly kneeling,
Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling,
And heave her bosom unaware,
For neighbouring beaux to see it bare,
At length a lucky lover came,
And found admittance to the dame.
Suppose all parties now agreed,
The writings drawn, the lawyer fee'd,
The vicar and the ring bespoke;
Guess, how could such a match be broke?
See then what mortals place their bliss in!
Next morn betimes the bride was missing:
The mother scream'd, the father chid;
Where can this idle wench be hid?
No news of Phil! The bridegroom came,
And thought his bride had sculk'd for shame,
Because her father us'd to say,
The girl had such a bashful way.
Now John the Butler must be sent
To learn the road that Phillis went :
The groom was wish'd to saddle Crop,
For John must neither light nor stop,
But find her, whereso'er she fled,
And bring her back, alive or dead.
See here again the devil to do,
For truly John was missing too;
The horse and pillion both were gone:
Phillis, it seems, was fled with John!
Old Madam, who went up to find
What papers Phil had left behind,
A letter on the toilette sees,
"To my much honour'd father-these,'
('Tis always done, romances tell us,
When daughters run away with fellows)
Fill'd the choicest common-places By others us'd in the like cases: That long ago a fortune-teller Exactly said what now befel her, And in a glass had made her see A serving-man of low degree: It was her fate, must be forgiven, For marriages were made in heaven: His pardon begg'd; but, to be plain, She'd do't, if 'twere to do, again: Thank'd God 'twas neither shame nor sin, For John was come of honest kin: Love never thinks of rich and poor; She'd beg with John from door to door: Forgive her if it be a crime; She'll never do't another time: She ne'er before in all her life, Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife.' One argument she summ'd up all in, 'The thing was done, and past recalling; And therefore hop'd she should recover His favour, when his passion's over: She valued not what others thought her, And was-his most obedient daughter.' Fair maidens all! attend the Muse Who now the wandering pair pursues: Away they rode in homely sort, Their journey long, their money short: The loving couple well bemir'd, The horse and both the riders tir'd, Their victuals bad, their lodging worse, Phil cried, and John began to curse; Phil wish'd that she had strain'd a limb When first she ventur'd out with him;
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