But I, who all punctilios hate,
Though long familiar with the great,
Nor glory in my reputation,

Am come without an invitation;
And, though I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste Iernian;
But fearing that you might dispute
(Had I put on my common suit)
My breeding and my politesse,
I visit in my birthday dress;
My coat of purest Turkey red,
With gold embroidery richly spread;
To which I've sure as good pretensions,
As Irish lords who starve on pensions.
What though proud ministers of state
Did at your antichamber wait;

What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns,
Have at your levee paid attendance;
And Peterborow and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid aside the general's Staff,
And publick cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I some friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling sons of fame;
For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Though they made Lewis beg a parley;
And as for Mordaunt, your lov'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drusus Nero.
You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope;
But Virgil is as good, I hope.

I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helsham and Delany;
Since Athens brought forth Socrates,
A Grecian isle Hippocrates;
Since Tully liv'd before my time,

And Galen bless'd another clime.

You'll plead perhaps, at my request,
To be admitted as a guest,

"Your hearing's bad!"-But why such fears?
I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason wisely took
The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd by slow devouring moths,
By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths;
By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes,
By Creech's rhymes, and Dunster's prose;
I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet still they but in vain assail'd;
For, had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my fame,
They would have partly miss'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page

Defies the Vandals of this age.

'Tis yours to save these small remains From future pedant's muddy brains,

And fix my long uncertain fate,

You best know how-"which way?"-TRANSLATE.

EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER.

INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF

GULLIVER, 1733.

HERE learn, from moral truth and wit refin'd, How vice and folly have debas'd mankind; Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause; Thus her great votary vindicates her laws: While bold and free the glowing colours strike; Blame not the picture, if the picture's like."

'ON PSYCHE *.

Ar two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,
Her teakettle's on, and her smock at the fire:
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;

Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle?
Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,
Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm
place.

She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main.
To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit;
For her taste is almost as refin'd as her wit.

To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it.

Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears,
She saves half her victnals, by feeding your ears.

THE DEAN AND DUKE. 1734.

JAMES
AMES BRYDGES + and the Dean had long been friends;
James is beduk'd; of course their friendship ends:
But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke.

* Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of the poem in p. 320. F.

† James Brydges was created duke of Chandos, April 30, 1719.

N.

Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,
His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The duke and dean seem near upon a level.

O! wert thou not a duke, my good duke Humphry, From bailiff's claws thou scarce could'st keep thy bum free.

*

A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown':
Thy brother (far thy betters) wore a gown.
Well, but a duke thou art; so pleas'd the king:
O! would his majesty but add a string!

WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT,

ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS †, IN SEPTEMBER 1734.

VERTIGINOSUS, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures.

N.

The hon. Henry Brydges, archdeacon of Rochester. These lines were found on his table when his servant brought up his dinner. Mrs. Ridgeway, his housekeeper, requested a copy of them; and the Dean immediately gave her the paper. N.

The second syllable Vertiginosus" is here made short by the Dean; perhaps the more expressive of the malady it describes, as "steteruntque come" in Virgil. W. B.

THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED.

DOCTOR.

DEAF, giddy, helpless, left alone.

ANSWER.

Except, the first, the fault's your own.

DOCTOR.

To all my friends a burden grown.

ANSWER.

Because to few you will be shown.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.

DOCTOR.

No more I hear my church's bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell.

ANSWER.

Then write and read, 'twill do as well.

DOCTOR.

At thunder now no more I start,
Than at the rumbling of a cart.

ANSWER.

Think then of thunder when you f—t.

DOCTOR.

Nay, what's incredible, alack!

No more I hear a woman's clack.