Nor with less praise the conversation guide,
Than in the publick councils you decide:
Or when the Dean, long privileg'd to rail,
Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal;
You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute)
With soft concessions shortening the dispute;
Then close with kind inquiries of my state,
"How are your tithes, and have they rose of late?
Why, Christ Church is a pretty situation,
There are not many better in the nation!
This, with your other things, must yield you clear
Some six-at least five hundred pounds a year."
Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom
To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em;
You shall rejoin, my Lord, when I've replied,
And, if you please, my Lady shall decide:

"My Lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well:
And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell :
But you'll forgive me, if I own th' event
Is short, is very short, of your intent;
At least, I feel some ills unfelt before,
My income less, and my expenses more."

How, Doctor! double vicar! double rector!

A dignitary with a city lecture!

What glebes-what dues-what tithes-what fines -what rent!

Why, Doctor!-will you never be content?"
"Would my good Lord but cast up the account,
And see to what my revenues amount;
My titles ample; but my gain so small,
That one good vicarage is worth them all:
And very wretched sure is he, that's double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
Add to this crying grievance, if you please,
My horses founder'd on Fermanah ways;
Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone,
Where every step endangers every bone;-

And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, Two churches-twelve Hibernian miles asunder! With complicated cures, I labour hard in,

Beside whole summers absent from my garden!-
But that the world would think I play'd the fool,
I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school *.
What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make,
Fixt in the centre of th' Iernian lake!

There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe,
Beneath the conduct of my good sir Ralph †:
There's not a better steerer in the realm;
I hope, my Lord, you'll call him to the helm."—
"Doctor-a glorious scheme to ease your grief!
When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief.
You cannot fail of being happy there,
The lake will be the Lethe of your care:
The scheme is for your honour and your ease,;
And, Doctor, I'll promote it when you please.
Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit,
Yet, Doctor, you've a philosophick spirit;
Your wants are few, and, like your income, small,
And you've enough to gratify them all:

You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store:
And what would a philosopher have more?

You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks—"

My Lord, I've not enough to buy me booksOr pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, Are there no wants I should regard beside? Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve? Who can be happy-who should wish to live, And want the godlike happiness to give? That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: I had it once-and I'm debarr'd it now.

A freeschool at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, eig

See Journal to Stella, March 29, 1713. N.

Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of Erin. F.

Ask

your own heart, my Then how unblest am I

Lord; if this be true,
how blest are you!"

""Tis true but, Doctor, let us wave all that→→ Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at."

"Excuse me, good my Lord-I won't be sounded, Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. My Lord, I challenge nothing as my due, Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, (Whose rigid rules * are antiquated now)My Lord! I'd wish to pay the debts I oweI'd wish besides—to build, and to bestow."

AN EPISTLE UPON AN

EPISTLE

FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR
TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD.

BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY.

A's Jove will not attend on less,

When things of more importance press:
You can't, grave sir, believe it hard,
That you, a low Hibernian bard,

Should cool your heels a while, and wait
Unanswer'd at your patron's gate;
And would my lord vouchsafe to grant
This one, poor, humble boon I want,
Free leave to play his secretary,

As Falstaff acted old king Harry;

Symmachus bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment, before the death of the incumbent. H.

I'd tell of yours in rhime and print;
Folks shrug, and cry, " There's nothing in't."
And, after several readings over,

It shines most in the marble cover.
How could so fine a taste dispense
With mean degrees of wit and sense?
Nor will my lord so far beguile
The wise and learned of our isle;
To make it pass upon the nation,
By dint of his sole approbation.
The task is arduous, patrons find,
To warp the sense of all mankind:
Who think your Muse must first aspire,
Ere he advance the doctor higher.

You've cause to say he meant you well:
That you are thankful, who can tell?
For still you're short (which grieves your spirit)
Of his intent; you mean, your merit.
Ah! quanto rectius, tu adepte,
Qui nil moliris tam inepte?

Smedley, thou Jonathan of Clogher,
"When thou thy humble lay dost offer
To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart,
Thy thanks and verse devoid of art:
Content with what his bounty gave,
No larger income dost thou crave."

But you must have cascades, and all
Ierne's lake, for your canal,
Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on
All pride!) our speaker for your coxon?
It's pity that he can't bestow you
Twelve commoners in caps to row you.
Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,
Held monarchs labouring at the oar;
And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee,
Enrag'd, as Ern would do at thee.

How different is this from Smedley! (His name is up, he may in bed lie

"Who only asks some pretty cure,
In wholesome soil and ether pure;
The garden stor'd with artless flowers,
In either angle shady bowers:

No

gay parterre with costly green
Must in the ambient hedge be seen;
But Nature freely takes her course,
Nor fears from him ungrateful force:
No sheers to check her sprouting vigour,
Or shape the yews to antick figure.'

But you forsooth your all must squander
On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder:
And when you've been at vast expenses
In whims, parterres, canals, and fences,
Your assets fail, and cash is wanting;
Nor farther buildings, farther planting :
No wonder, when you raise and level,
Think this wall low, and that wall bevel.
Here a convenient box you found,
Which you demolish'd to the ground:
Then built, then took up with your arbour,
And set the house to Rupert Barber.
You sprang an arch, which, in a scurvy
Humour, you tumbled topsyturvy..
You change a circle to a square,
Then to a circle as you were:
Who can imagine whence the fund is,
That you quadrata change rotundis ?
To Fame a temple you erect,
A Flora does the dome protect;
Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow
You place the Muses and Apollo;

There shining 'midst his train, to grace
Your whimsical poetick place.

These stories were of old design'd

As fables: but you have refin'd
The poets' mythologick dreams,
To real Muses, gods, and streams.