(Those authors he so oft had nam'd,
For learning, wit, and wisdom fam'd ;)
Was struck with love, esteem, and awe,
For persons whom he never saw.
Suppose Cadenus flourish'd then,
He must adore such godlike men.
If one short volume could comprise
All that was witty, learn'd, and wise,
How would it be esteem'd and read,
Although the writer long were dead!
If such an author were alive,

How all would for his friendship strive,
And come in crowds to see his face!
And this she takes to be her case.
Cadenus answers every end,

The book, the author, and the friend;
The utmost her desires will reach,
Is but to learn what he can teach :

His converse is a system fit
Alone to fill up all her wit:
While every passion of her mind
In him is cent'red and confin'd.

Love can with speech inspire a mute,
And taught Vanessa to dispute.
This topic, never touch'd before,
Display'd her eloquence the more :

Her knowledge, with such pains acquir'd,
By this new passion grew inspir'd;
Through this she made all objects pass,
Which gave a tincture o'er the mass;
As rivers, though they bend and twine,
Still to the sea their course incline;
Or, as philosophers who find
Some favourite system to their mind,
In every point to make it fit,
Will force all nature to submit.
Cadenus, who could ne'er suspect
His lessons would have such effect,

Or be so artfully apply'd,
Insensibly came on her side.
It was an unforeseen event;
Things took a turn he never meant.
Whoe'er excels in what we prize,
Appears a hero in our eyes:

Each girl, when pleas'd with what is taught,
Will have the teacher in her thought.
When miss delights in her spinnet,

A fiddler may a fortune get;

A blockhead, with melodious voice,

In boarding-schools may have his choice;
And oft the dancing-master's art
Climbs from the toe to touch the heart.
In learning let a nymph delight,
The pedant gets a mistress by 't.
Cadenus, to his grief and shame,
Could scarce oppose Vanessa's flame;
And, though her arguments were strong,
At least could hardly wish them wrong.
Howe'er it came, he could not tell,
But sure she never talk'd so well.
His pride began to interpose;
Preferr'd before a crowd of beaux !
So bright a nymph to come unsought!
Such wonder by his merit wrought!
'Tis merit must with her prevail !
He never knew her judgment fail!

She noted all she ever read!
And had a most discerning head!
'Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery's the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.

So, when Cadenus could not hide,
He chose to justify his pride;
Construing the passion he had shown,
Much to her praise, more to his own.
Nature in him had merit plac'd,

In her a most judicious taste.
Love, hitherto a transient guest,
Ne'er held possession of his breast;
So long attending at the gate,
Disdain'd to enter in so late.
Love why do we one passion call,
When 'tis a compound of them all?

Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet,

In all their equipages meet;

Where pleasures mix'd with pains appear,
Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear;
Wherein his dignity and age
Forbid Cadenus to engage.

But friendship, in its greatest height,

A constant, rational delight,
On virtue's basis fix'd to last,
When love allurements long are past,
Which gently warms, but cannot burn,
He gladly offers in return;
His want of passion will redeem
With gratitude, respect, esteem:
With that devotion we bestow,
When goddesses appear below.

While thus Cadenus entertains
Vanessa in exalted strains,

The nymph in sober words entreats

A truce with all sublime conceits:

For why such raptures, flights, and fancies, To her who durst not read romances?

In lofty style to make replies,

Which he had taught her to despise ?
But when her tutor will affect
Devotion, duty, and respect,
He fairly abdicates the throne:
The government is now her own;
He has a forfeiture incurr'd;
She vows to take him at his word,
And hopes he will not think it strange,
If both should now their stations change;
The nymph will have her turn to be
The tutor; and the pupil, he:
Though she already can discern
Her scholar is not apt to learn ;
Or wants capacity to reach
The science she designs to teach;
Wherein his genius was below
The skill of every common beau,
Who, though he cannot spell, is wise
Enough to read a lady's eyes,
And will each accidental glance
Interpret for a kind advance.

But what success Vanessa met
Is to the world a secret yet,
Whether the nymph, to please her swain,
Talks in a high romantic strain;

Or whether he at last descends

To act with less seraphic ends;

Or, to compound the business, whether They temper love and books together; Must never to mankind be told,

Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold.

From 'Verses on the Death of Dr Swift.'

As Rochefoucault his Maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
'In all distresses of our friends
We first consult our private ends;
While nature kindly bent to ease us,

Points out some circumstance to please us.'
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
We all behold with envious eyes
Our equal raised above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you;

But why should he obstruct my view?
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppose it but an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find

One whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,

A champion killed, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopp'd,

Would you not wish his laurels cropp'd?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies racked with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!
What poet would not grieve to see

His brother write as well as he?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?

Her end when Emulation misses,
She turns to Envy, stings, and hisses :
The strongest friendship yields to Pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.

Vain human kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
'Tis all on me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire ;

Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.

In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six,
It gives me such a jealous fit,

I cry: Pox take him and his wit.'
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refined it first, and shewed its use.

Afterwards Lords Bolingbroke and Bath

St John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents heaven hath blest 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts, but never to my friend :

I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem;
Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote, when I
Must by the course of nature die;
When, I foresee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood,
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak :
'See, how the dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman! he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides his memory decays:

He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind;
Forgets the place where last he dined;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er-
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith, he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter :
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

'For poetry he 's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhyme :
His fire is out, his wit decayed,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen-
But there's no talking to some men.'
And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years:
'He's older than he would be reckoned,
And well remembers Charles the Second.

He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

His stomach, too, begins to fail;

Last year we thought him strong and hale;

But now he's quite another thing;

I wish he may hold out till spring.'

They hug themselves and reason thus: 'It is not yet so bad with us.'

In such a case they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend

No enemy can match a friend.

With all the kindness they profess,

The merit of a lucky guess

(When daily How-d'ye's come of course,

And servants answer: Worse and worse!')

Then he who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest :
You know I always feared the worst,
And often told you so at first.'

He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his prediction prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover,
But all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbour feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send !
What hearty prayers that I should mend!
Inquire what regimen I kept?
What gave me ease, and how I slept ?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.
My good companions, never fear;
For, though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
How is the dean? He's just alive.'
Now the departing prayer is read;
'He hardly breathes.' "The dean is dead.'
Before the passing-bell begun,
The news through half the town is run;
'Oh! may we all for death prepare!
What has he left? and who 's his heir?'
'I know no more than what the news is;
'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.'

To public uses! there's a whim!
What had the public done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride:
He gave it all-but first he died.
And had the dean in all the nation
No worthy friend, no poor relation?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood!'. . .
Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains :
Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains!
And then to make them pass the glibber,
Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters;
Revive the libels born to die,
Which Pope must bear, as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
St John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry:
'I'm sorry-but we all must die !'. . .
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the dean,
Who now, alas! no more is missed,
Than if he never did exist.

Where's now this favourite of Apollo?
Departed and his works must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;

His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country squire to Lintot goes, A bookseller Inquires for Swift in verse and prose.

Says Lintot: 'I have heard the name ;
He died a year ago.' 'The same.'
He searches all the shop in vain :
'Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane.
I sent them, with a load of books,
Last Monday to the pastry-cooks.
To fancy they could live a year!
I find you're but a stranger here.
The dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
His way of writing now is past;
The town has got a better taste.

I keep no antiquated stuff,

But spick-and-span I have enough.
Pray, do but give me leave to shew 'em :
Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem ;
This ode you never yet have seen
By Stephen Duck upon the queen.
Then here's a letter finely penned
Against the Craftsman and his friend;
It clearly shews that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
And Mr Henley's last oration.

The hawkers have not got them yet;
Your honour please to buy a set?'.

Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose,
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat..
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without,
One, quite indifferent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:
'The dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill received at court.

As for his works in verse and prose,

I own myself no judge of those :

Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em, But this I know, all people bought 'em ; As with a moral view designed

To cure the vices of mankind,

His vein, ironically grave,

He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave.

To steal a hint was never known,

But what he writ was all his own.

'He never thought an honour done him, Because a duke was proud to own him ; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; Despis'd the fools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration ; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs, He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends: And only chose the wise and good; No flatterers; no allies in blood: But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown.

'With princes kept a due decorum;
But never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just ;
In princes never put thy trust:

And would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry;

For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head ;
But not a traitor could be found,
To sell him for six hundred pound.

'Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men :
But power was never in his thought,
And wealth he valu'd not a groat :
Ingratitude he often found,

And pitied those who meant the wound:
But kept the tenor of his mind,

To merit well of human kind :
Nor made a sacrifice of those

Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour,
To reconcile his friends in power;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursu'd each other's ruin.
But finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair. . . .
By innocence and resolution,
He bore continual persecution;
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merits were to be his foes;
With even his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegadoes now he feels,
Against him lifting up their heels.

The dean did by his pen defeat
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their interest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy has own'd it was his doing,
To save that hapless land from ruin ;
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. . . .

He

'In exile, with a steady heart,

spent his life's declining part; Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay. His friendships there, to few confin'd, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed : Where titles give no right, or power, And peerage is a wither'd flower; He would have held it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face.

·

Perhaps I may allow the dean

Had too much satire in his vein;
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;

He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name :

No individual could resent,

Where thousands equally were meant ;
His satire points at no defect,

But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe:
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confest,
He ne'er offended with a jest ;
But laughed to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.

'He knew a hundred pleasing stories,
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories :
Was cheerful to his dying day;

And friends would let him have his way.

'He gave the little wealth he had

To build a house for fools and mad;
And show'd by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.

That kingdom he hath left his debtor,

I wish it soon may have a better.'

Curll was the Dean's pet aversion, the bookseller who published bogus pieces in Swift's name; Tibbalds is Theobald, the editor of Shakespeare; Moore, James Moore (afterwards J. Moore Smythe), a forgotten dramatist satirised in the Dunciad; Stephen Duck, a farm-labourer who took to rhyming and was patronised by Queen Caroline; 'Orator Henley' was a quack preacher; The Craftsman was a political periodical, organ of the opposition to Walpole; Sir Robert is Walpole; Colonel Francis Charteris was infamous (see Arbuthnot's epitaph, page 146); the six hundred pounds refers to proclamations offering that sum for the discovery of the author of two of Swift's pamphlets; Wood was the destructive cheat.'

Mrs Frances Harris's Petition, 1700.

To their excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,
The humble petition of Frances Harris,

Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries ;
Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady
Betty's chamber, because I was cold;

And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold;

So because I had been buying things for my lady last night,

I was resolv'd to tell my money, to see if it was right. Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,

Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock,

I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock.

So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was unripp'd,

And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipp'd; Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to

bed;

And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead.

So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light;

But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have sunk outright.

'Lord! madam,' says Mary, 'how d'ye do?'-' Indeed,' says I, 'never worse:

But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?'

'Lord help me!' says Mary, 'I never stirr'd out of this place!'

'Nay,' said I, 'I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case.'

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think,

But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.

So I was a dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs Dukes's box, tied in a rag, the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a swearing: Then my dame Wadger came; and she, you know, is

thick of hearing.

‘Dame,' said I, as loud I could bawl, 'do you know what a loss I have had?'

'Nay,' said she, my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad:

For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail.' Pugh!' said I, 'but that's not the business that I ail.' Says Cary, says he, 'I have been a servant this five and twenty years, come spring,

And in all the places I liv'd I never heard of such a thing.'

'Yes,' says the steward, 'I remember when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's,

Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of gooseberries.

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief :

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world, I hate a thief :)

However, I was resolv'd to bring the discourse slily about:

'Mrs Dukes,' said I, 'here's an ugly accident has happen'd out:

'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse; But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole in my wages:

Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.

Now, Mrs Dukes, you know, and every body understands, That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go with out hands.'

'The devil take me!' said she (blessing herself,) 'if ever I saw 't!'

So she roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to naught.

So you know, what could I say to her any more?
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.
Well; but then they would have had me gone to the
cunning man!

'No,' said I, ''tis the same thing, the Chaplain will be here anon.'

So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart,

Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part.

So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

(Now you must know, he hates to be call'd Parson, like the devil!)

'Truly,' says he, 'Mrs Nab, it might become you to be more civil ;

If your money be gone, as a learned Divine says, d'ye

see,

You are no text for my handling; so take that from

me:

I was never taken for a Conjurer before, I'd have you to know.'

'Lord!' said I, 'don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;

You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife;

I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life.'

With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

'Now you may go hang yourself for me!' and so went away.

Well I thought I should have swoon'd. 'Lord!' said I, 'what shall I do?

I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!' Then my lord call'd me: 'Harry,' said my Lord, 'don't cry;

I'll give you something toward thy loss:' And,' says my lady, 'so will I.'

Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to?

For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you.

The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies letter,

With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner, both night and day,

Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.

Vanbrugh's House, built from the ruins of
Whitehall that was burnt, 1703.
In times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verses sung,

A verse would draw a stone or beam,
That now would overload a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its different power:
Heroic strains could build a tower;
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a house about two stories;
A lyric ode would slate; a catch
Would tile; an epigram would thatch.

But, to their own or landlord's cost,
Now poets feel this art is lost.
Not one of all our tuneful throng
Can raise a lodging for a song.
For Jove consider'd well the case,
Observ'd they grew a numerous race;
And should they build as fast as write,
'Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil therefore to prevent,

He wisely chang'd their element :