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A DIALOGUE, BETWEEN AN EMINENT
LAWYER, AND DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D. S. P. D. IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. I.
6 Sunt quibus in Satirâ,” &c.
WRITTEN BY. MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729.
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'et?
Nor ever fools or knaves expose
Either in verse or humourous prose;
And to avoid all future ill,
In my scrutoire lock up my quil ?
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
Discovers freedom without rage.
To Woolston recommend our youth,
For learning, probity, and truth;
That noble genius, who unbinds
The chains which fetter freeborn 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 enthrall ? Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power Make me pollute the Muses' 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 has writ, Must taste your irony and wit;
While most that are, or would be great;
Must dread your pen, your person hate ;
And you on Drapier's bill must lie,
And there without a mitre die."
An ass's hoof alone can hold
That poisonous juice, which kills by cold.
Methought, when I this poem read,
No vessel but an ass's head
Such frigid fustian could contain ;
the head without the brain.
The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,
Went down like stupifying draughts:
my head began to swim,
A numbness crept through every limb.
In haste, with imprecations dire,
I threw the volume in the fire :
When (who could think?) though cold as ice,
It burnt to ashes in a trice.
How could I more enhance its fame?
Though born in snow, it dy'd in flame.
ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE
INTELLIGENCER *. 1729.
As a thorn bush, or oaken bough,
Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,
Above the door, on country fair,
Betokens entertainment there;
So bays on poets' brows have been
Set, for a sign of wit within.
And, as ill neighbours in the night
Pull down an alehouse bush for spite;
The laurel so, by poets worn,
Is by the teeth of Envy torn ;
Envy, a canker-worm, which tears
Those sacred leaves that lightning spares.
And now t' exemplify this moral :
Tom having earnd a twig of laurel,
(Which, measur’d on his head, was found,
Not long enough to reach half round,
But, like a girl's cockade, was tyd,
A trophy, on his temple-side)
Paddy repin'd to see him wear
This badge of honour in his hair ;
And, thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his Muse by Smedley's model,
Lets drive at ļom's devoted noddle,
• Dr. Sheridan was publisher of the Intelligencer," a weekly paper, written principally by himself; but Dr. Swift occasionally supplied him with a letter. Dr. Delany, piqued at the approbation those
papers received, attacked them violently both in conversation and in print; but unfortunately stumbled on some of the numbers which the Dean had written, and all the world admired ; which gave rise to these verses. H.
Pelts him by turns with verse and prose,
Hums like a hornet at his nose.
At length presumes to vent his satire on
The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patroni
The eagle in the tale, ye know,
Teas’d by a buzzing wasp below,
Took wing to Jove, and hop'd to rest
Securely in the thunderer's breast :
In vain ; even there, to spoil his pod,
The spiteful insect ștung the god.
AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY
JOHN LORD CARTERET.
« Credis ob hoc, me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare,
Propter quod, vulgus, crassaque curba rogat."
MART. Epig. lib. ix.
Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle,
Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile;
When next your generous soul shall condescend
T' instruct or entertain your bumble friend;
Whether, retiring from your weighty charge,
On some high theme you learnedly enlarge;
Of all the ways of wisdom reason well,
How Richlieu rose, and how Sejanus fell :
Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends,
Circled with Swift and some delighted friends;
When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine,
Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine ;