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Then leave him to his birch,3
And at the Rose on Sunday,
The parson safe at church,

I'll treat you with Burgundy.

THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER.

TO THE BEAU WITH THE WHIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD.

You little scribbling Beau,

What demon made you write?
Because to write you know
As much as you can fight.
For compliment so scurvy
I wish we had you here,
We'd turn you topsyturvy
Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on
The man and place we chose ;
We're sure a single parson

Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us vassals,
Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
To silver-clocks and tassels;

You would, you thing of things!

Because around your cane

A round of di'monds is set,

And you in some by-lane,

Have gain'd a paltry Grizette;

1 He kept a school.

Shall we, of sense refin'd,
Your trifling nonsense bear,

As noisy as the wind,

As empty as the air?

We hate your empty prattle,

And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle Than twenty fops like you.

THE BEAU'S REPLY

TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER.

WHY, how now, dapper Black,
I smell your gown and cassock
As strong upon your back

As Tisdall smells of a sock.
To write such scurvy stuff!
Fine ladies, never do't;
I know you well enough,
And eke your cloven foot.

Fine ladies, when they write,

Nor scold nor keep a splutter;

Their verses give delight,

As soft and sweet as butter.

But Satan never saw

Such haggard lines as these; They stick athwart my maw, As bad as Suffolk-cheese.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER AND DR.
SWIFT, D. S. P. D.

Being an allusion to the first Satire of the second Book of
Horace.-Sunt quibus in Satyra, &c.

FEBRUARY, 1728.

'SINCE there are persons who complain
There's too much satire in my vein,
That I am often found exceeding
The rules of raillery and breeding,
With too much freedom treat my betters,
Not sparing even men of letters;
You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore,
What's your advice?-Shall I give o'er,
Nor ever fools or knaves expose
Either in verse or humorous prose,
And, to avoid all future ill,

In my 'scrutoire lock up my quill?'

" Since you are pleas'd to condescend
To ask the judgment of a friend;
Your case consider'd, I must think
You should withdraw from pen and ink;
Forbear your poetry and jokes,

And live like other Christian folks:

Or, if the Muses must inspire

Your fancy with their pleasing fire,

Take subjects safer for your wit
Than those on which you lately writ;
Commend the times, your thoughts correct,
And follow the prevailing sect;

Assert that Hyde in writing story
Shows all the malice of a Tory,
While Burnet, in his deathless page,
Discovers freedom without rage:
To Woolston recommend our youth,
For learning, probity, and truth;
That noble genius! who unbinds
The chains which fetter free-born minds;
Redeems us from the slavish fears
Which lasted near two thousand years;
He can alone the priesthood humble,
Make gilded spires and altars tumble."
'Must I commend against my conscience
Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense ?
To such a subject tune my lyre,
And sing like one of Milton's choir,
Where devils to a vale retreat,
And call the laws of wisdom, Fate;
Lament upon their hapless fall,

That force free virtue should enthral ?
Or, shall the charms of wealth and power
Make me pollute the Muse's bower ?"
'As from the tripod of Apollo,

Hear, from my desk, the words that follow:
Some, by philosophers misled,

Must honour you alive and dead;

And such as know what Greece hath writ,

Must taste your irony and wit;

Whilst most that are or would be great,
Must dread your pen, your person hate;
And you on Drapier's Hill must lie,
And there without a mitre die.'

MY LADY'S1

LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT

AGAINST THE DEAN.

JULY 28, 1728.

SURE never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teas'd day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my sins
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe
With Skinny and Snipe2:

His malice is plain,

Hallooing the Dean,
The Dean never stops
When he opens his chops;
I'm quite over-run

With rebus and pun.

Before he came here,
To spunge for good cheer,
I sat with delight
From morning till night;
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my own gums,
Or scratching my nose
And jogging my toes;

1 Lady Acheson, wife to Sir Arthur Acheson.

The Dean used to call her by those names.

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