Графични страници
PDF файл

Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
Still changing names, religions, climes,

At length she turns a bride:
In di'monds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,

And flutters in her pride.

So have I known those insects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)

Still vary shapes and dyes ;
Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms, ..

Then painted butterflies.

VII. DR. SWIFT.

The happy Life of a Country Parson.

PARSON, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop's blessing :
A wife that makes conserves ; a stecd
That carries double when there's need ;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea ;
Gazettes sent gratis down and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd;
A large concordance, bound long since ;
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince ;
A chronicle of ancient standing ;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band ini

VOL. III.

The Polyglot--three parts,—my text,
Howbeit,- likewise--now to my next :
Lo here the Septuagint,--and Paul,
To sum the whole,-the close of all.

He that has these may pass his life,
Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fil,
And fast on Fridays if he will ;
Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with church wardens about pews,
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor S--,

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT :

BEING THE
PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

ADVERTISEMENT To the first Publication of this Epistle. This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune (the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at HamptonCourt] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings, (of which, being public, the public is judge,) but my person, morals, and family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth, and the sentiment ; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the angenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there

being not a circumstance but what is true ; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and

they may escape being laughed at, if they please. I would have some of them know, it was owing to

the request of the learned and candid friend, to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. How. ever, I shall have this advantage and honor on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

P.SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu’d, I

said; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can

hide ? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide, By land, by water, they renew the charge, . They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer, 15 A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain 21 Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd Works the cause ; Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 23 And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

« ПредишнаНапред »