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The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite-
The dog it was that died.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.*

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind:
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,

With definition and division,

Homo est ratione preditum ;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ;
And must in spite of them maintain,

That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;

*This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott has inserted it without any remark in his edition of Swift's Works.

That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;

And that brute beasts are far before 'em

Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbor prosecute,

Bring action for assault and battery?
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court:

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.*
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man, he imitates each fashion,

* Sir Robert Walpole.

And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;

At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

A NEW SIMILE.

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind ·
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite-
Till reading-I forgot what day on
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious, —
First please to turn to god Mercurius;
You'll find him pictured at full length,

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The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,

Wings upon either side - mark that.

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Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right;
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison — proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites;

For in a modern poet's flights,

I'm sure it may be justly said,

His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,
By classic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses:
To wit, most wondrously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

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Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore;
Add, too, what certain writers tell,

With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now, to apply, begin we then :-
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind,
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom❜d bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

stealing;

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postcript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But e'en this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance:
Our modern bards! why, what a pox,
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

DESCRIPTION

OF AN

AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,

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