But let your heart sincerer praise
Bestow on these or Charles's days:
You still approve some absent place
(The present's ever in disgrace!)
And, such your special inconsistence,
Make the chief merit in the distance.
If e'er you miss a supper-card
(Though all the while you think it hard,)
You're all for solitude and quiet,
Good hours and vegetable diet,
Reflection, air, and elbow-room:
No prison like a crowded drum!

But, should you meet her Grace's summons
In full committee of the Commons,
Though well you know her crowded house
Will scarce contain another mouse,
You quit the business of the nation,
And brethren of the reformation;
Though begs you'll stay and vote,

And zealous

tears your coat,
You damn your coachman, storm and stare,
And tear your throat to call a chair.
Nay, never frown, and good-now hold
Your hand a while; I've been so bold
To paint your follies; now I'm in,
Let's have a word or two on sin.

Last night I heard a learned poult'rer
Lay down the law against th' adulterer;
And let me tell you, Sir, that few
Hear better doctrine in a pew.
Well! you may laugh at Robin Hood,
I wish your studies were as good.
From Mandeville you take your inorals;
Your faith from controversial quarrels ;
But ever lean to those who scribble
Their crudities against the Bible;
Yet tell me I shall crack my brain
With hearing Henley or Romaine.

Deserves that critic most rebuke
In judging on the Pentateuch,
Who deems it, with some wild fanatics,
The only school of mathematics;
Or he, who, making grave profession
To lay aside all prepossession,
Calls it a bookseller's edition

Of maim'd records and vague tradition?
You covet, Sir, your neighbour's goods;
I take a piece at Peter Wood's +:

And when I've turn'd my back upon her,
Unwounded in my heart or honor,

I feel nor infamous, nor jealous
Of richer culls, or prettier fellows.
But you, the grave and sage reformer,
Must go by stealth to meet your charmer;
Must change your star, and every note
Of honor, for a bear-skin coat:
That legislative head so wise

Must stoop to base and mean disguise.
Some Abigail must then receive you,
Brib'd by the husband to deceive you.

She spies Cornuto on the stairs;

Wakes you; then, melted by your prayers,
Yields, if with greater bribe you ask it,
To pack your worship in the basket.
Laid neck and heels, true Falstaff-fashion,
There form new schemes of reformation.
Thus 'scap'd the murd'ring husband's fury,
Or thumping fine of cuckold jury;
Henceforth, in memory of your danger,
You'll live to all intrigues a stranger?
No; ere you've time for this reflection,
Some new debauch is in projection;
And, for the next approaching night,
Contrivance for another fright.

This makes you, though so great, so grave,
(Nay! wonder not) an abject slave ;
As much a slave as I; nay, more :
I serve one master, you a score,
And, as your various passions rule,
By turns are twenty tyrants' fool.

Memb Who then is free? Serv. The wise
alone,

Who only bows to reason's throne;
Whom neither want, nor death, nor chains,
Nor subtle persecutors' pains,

Nor honors, wealth, nor lust, can move
From virtue and his country's love.
Self-guarded like a globe of steel,
External insults can he feel,
Or e'er present one weaker part
To Fortune's most insidious dart?
Much-honor'd master, may you find
These wholesome symptoms in your mind!
Can you be free while passions rule you;
While women every moment fool you;
While forty mad capricious whores
Invite, then turn you out of doors;
Of every doit contrive to trick you,
Then bid their happier footman kick you?
Convinc'd by every new disaster
You serve a new despotic master;
Say, can your pride and folly see
Such difference 'twixt yourself and me?
Shall you be struck with Titian's tints,
And mayn't I stop to stare at prints?
Dispos'd along the extensive glass,
They catch and hold me ere I pass.
Where Slack is made to box with Brough-

ton,

I see the very stage they fought on:
The bruisers live, and move, and bleed,
As if they fought in very, deed.
Yet I'm a loiterer, to be sure;
You a great judge and connoisseur!
Shall you prolong the midnight ball
With costly banquet at Vauxhall;
And yet prohibit earlier suppers
At Kilbourn, Sadler's-wells, or Cuper's?
Are these less innocent in fact,
Or only made so by the act?

Those who contribute to the tax,
On tea, and chocolate, and wax*,
With high ragouts their blood inflame,
And nauseate what they eat for fame;
Of these the Houses take no knowledge,
But leave them fairly to the College.
O! ever prosper their endeavours
To aid your dropsies, gouts, and fevers!
Can it be deem'd a shame or sin
To pawn my livery for gin;

While bonds and mortgages at White's
Shall raise your fame with Arthur's knights?
Those worthies seem to see no shame in,
Nor strive to páss a slur on, gaming;
But rather to devise each session
Some law in honor o' the profession;
Lest sordid hands or vulgar place
The noble mystery should debase;
Lest ragged scoundrels, in an ale-house,
Should chalk their cheatings on the bellows;
Or boys the sacred rites profane
With orange-barrows in a lane.
Where lies the merit of your
labors
To curb the follies of your neighbours;
Deter the gambler, and prevent his
Confederate arts to gull the 'prentice;
Unless you could yourself desist
From hazard, faro, brag, and whist;
Unless your philosophic mind
Can froin within amusement find,
And give at once to use and pleasure
That truly precious time, your leisure?
In vain your busy thoughts prepare
*Deceitful sepulchres of care:

The downy couch, the sparkling bowl,
And all that lulls or soothes the soul-
Memb. Where is my cane, my whip, my
hanger?

I'll teach you to provoke my anger.
Serv. Heyday! my master's brain is crack'd,
Or else he's making some new act.

Memb. To set such rogues as you to work, Perhaps, or send you to the Turk †.

$235. The Intruder. In Imitation of Horace, Sat. I. ix. First printed in 1754.

A CERTAIN free, familiar spark,
Pertly accosts me in the Park:
"Tis lovely weather, sure! how gay
The sun!-I give you, Sir, good-day."
Your servant, Sir. To you the same-
But-give me leave to crave your name.
"My name? Why sure you've seen my face
About in every public place.

I'm known to almost all your friends
(No one e'er names you but commends)—
For some I plant; for some I build;
In every taste and fashion skill'd—

Were there the least regard for merit !-
The rich in purse are poor in spirit.
You know Sir Pagode (here, I'll give ye
A front I've drawn him for a privy)-
This winter, Sir, as I'm a sinner,
He has not ask'd me once to dinner."
Quite overpowered with this intrusion,
I stood in silence and confusion.

you

He tooh the advantage, and pursued: Perhaps, Sir, you may think me rude; But sure I may suppose my talk Will less disturb you while you walk. And yet I now may spoil a thought, But that's indeed a venial fault:I only mean to such, d'ye see, Who write with ease, like and me. I write a sonnet in a minute: Upon my soul, there's nothing in it. But you to all your friends are partial: You reckon *** another MartialHe'd think a fortnight well bestow'd To write an epigram or ode. ****'s no poet, to my knowledge; I knew him very well at college: I've writ more verses in an hour, Than he could ever do in four. You'll find me better worth your knowingBut tell me, which way are you going?" What various tumults swell'd my breast, With passion, shame, disgust, opprest! This courtship from my Brother Poet. Sure no similitude can show it: Not young Adonis when pursu'd By amorous antiquated prude; Nor Gulliver's distressful face, When in the Yahoo's loath'd embrace.

In rage, confusion and dismay,
Not knowing what to do or say;
And having no resource but lying-
A friend at Lambeth lies a-dying-
"Lambeth!" (he re-assumes his talk)
"Across the bridge-the finest walk-
Don't you admire the Chinese bridges,
That wave in furrows and in ridges!
They've finish'd such a one at Hampton:
'Faith, 'twas a plan I never dreamt on-
The prettiest thing that e'er was seen-
'Tis printed in the Magazine."

This wild farrago who could bear?
Sometimes I run; then stop and stare:
Vex'd and tormented to the quick,
By turns grow choleric and sick;
And glare my eye, and show the white,
Like vicious horses when they bite.

Regardless of my eye or ear,
His jargon he renews.-" D'ye hear
Who 'twas compos'd the tailor's dance?
I practis'd fifteen months in France:
I wrote a play-'twas done in haste-
I know the present want of taste,
And dare not trust it on the town-
No tragedy will e'er go down;

Lewis his patron's humor knows,
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift,
Found out that it was Doctor Dwift;
A clergyman of special note

For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care at times to run him down:
No libertine, nor over-nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice,

Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought,
Not rich, but owed no man a groat;
In state opinions à-la-mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad;
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell'd all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ.

His works were hawk'd in every street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late indeed the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And, since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended to retire.

Said Harley, "I desire to know
From his own mouth if this be so;
Step to the Doctor straight, and say,
I'd have him dine with me to-day."
Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my lord had sent:
So never offer'd once to stir;

But coldly said, "Your servant, Sir!"
"Does he refuse me?" Harley cried.
"He does, with insolence and pride."
Some few days after, Harley spies
The Doctor fasten'd by the eyes
At Charing-cross among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out:
He pull'd the string, and stopp'd his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.
Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to the chariot-side,
And offer'd many a lame excuse :
He never meant the least abuse-

My lord-the honor you design'd—
Extremely proud-but I had din'd.
I'm sure I never should neglect—
No man alive has more respect."
"Well, I shall think of that no more
If you'll be sure to come at four."

The Doctor now obeys the summons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talents, sits till ten;
Next day invited, comes again;
Soon grown domestic, seldom fails
Either at morning or at meals:
Came early, and departed late;
In short the gudgeon took the bait.
My lord would carry on the jest,
And down to Windsor take his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In summer round the park to ride,
In winter never to reside.

"A canon! that's a place too mean;
No, Doctor, you shall be a Dean;

Two dozen canons round your stall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all :
You need but cross the Irish seas,
To live in plenty, pow'r, and ease."
Poor Swift departs; and, what is worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse;
Travels at least a hundred leagues,
And suffers numberless fatigues.

Suppose him now a Dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his seat;
The silver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cushion-side;
Suppose him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,
First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats-
(The wicked laity's contriving,

To hinder clergymen from thriving).
Now, all the Doctor's money spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent;
The farmers, spitefully combin'd,
Force him to take his tithes in kind:
And Parvisol discounts arrears
By bills for taxes and repairs.

Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd,
Not knowing where to turn him next,
Above a thousand pounds in debt,
Takes horse, and in a mighty fret,
Rides day and night at such a rate,
He soon arrives at Harley's gate;
But was so dirty, pale, and thin,
Old Read + would hardly let him in.

Said Harley, "Welcome, Reverend Dean!
What makes your worship look so lean?
Why, sure you won't appear in town
In that old wig and rusty gown?
I doubt your heart is set on pelf,
So much that you neglect yourself.
What! I suppose, now stocks are high,
You've some good purchase in your eye?
Or is your money out at use?”

"Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce," The Doctor in a passion cried, "Your raillery is misapplied; Experience I have dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat; But you resolv'd to have your jest, And 'twas a folly to contest.

Then, since you now have done your worst, Pray leave me where you found me first.

§ 237. Horace, Book II. Sat. VI.

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace-walk, and half a rood Of land set out to plant a wood. Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;

* The Dean's agent, a Frenchman. + The Lord Treasurer's porter.

But here a grievance seems to lie,
All this is mine but till I die;

I can't but think 'twould sound more clever,
"To me and to my heirs for ever."
If I ne'er got or lost a groat,

By any trick or any fault;
And if I pray by reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools:

As thus: "" Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t'other acre:
Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure!"
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, Almighty Providence!
Just what you gave me, competence:
And let me in these shades compose
Something in verse as true as prose;
Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene,
Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen.
In short, I'm perfectly content,
Let me but live on this side Trent;
Nor cross the Channel twice a year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
I must by all means come to town,
"Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse.'
The toil, the danger of the seas-
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found;
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er consider'd yet.

"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown;
Let my lord know you're come to town."
I hurry me in haste away,
Not thinking it is levee-day;
And find his Honor in a pound,
Hemm'd by a triple circle round,
Chequer'd with ribands blue and green :
How should I thrust myself between?
Some wag observes me thus perplex'd,
And, smiling, whispers to the next:
"I thought the Dean had been too proud
To jostle here among the crowd!"
Another, in a surly fit,

Tells me I have more zeal than wit:
"So eager to express your love,
You ne'er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a duke."
I own I'm pleased with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant to show
What I desire the world should know.
I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Desiring I would stand their friend.
This humbly offers me his case;
That begs my interest for a place:
A hundred other men's affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears.
"To-morrow my appeal comes on:
Without your help the cause is gone."
"The duke expects my lord and you,
About some great affair, at two:

Put my Lord Bolingbroke in in mind
To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
Consider, 'tis my first request."
Be satisfied, I'll do my best.
Then presently he falls to tease:
"You may for certain if you please:
I doubt not, if his lordship knew-
And, Mr. Dean, one word from you—”
'Tis (let me see) three years and more
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chose me for an humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that:

[wind?" As, What's o'clock?" and "How's the "Whose chariot's that we left behind?" Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs: Or, "Have you nothing new to-day From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?”

Such tattle often entertains

My lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor and again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.
Yet sonie I know with envy swell,
Because they see me used so well.
"How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean!
My lord and he are grown so great,
Always together, téte-à-tête :
What! they admire him for his jokes?
See but the fortune of some folks!"

There flies about a strange report
Of some express arriv'd at court.
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in ev'ry street.
"You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great;
Inform us, will the emperor treat,
Or do the prints and papers lie?"
Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.

Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
"Tis now no secret."-I protest
"Tis one to me." Then tell us, pray,
When are the troops to have their pay?"
And though I solemnly declare

I know no more than my lord-mayor,
They stand amaz'd, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known.

Thus, in a sea of folly tost,
My choicest hours of life are lost;
Yet always wishing to retreat,
O could I see my country-seat!
There, leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or peruse some ancient book;
And there in sweet oblivion drown
Those cares that haunt the court and town!

$238. A true and faithful Inventory of the Goods belonging to Dr. Swift, Vicar of Laracor, upon lending his house to the Bishop of Meath till his Palace was rebuilt.

AN oaken broken elbow-chair; A caudle-cup without an ear;