129 Is that too little? come, then, I'll comply Spirit of Arnall, aid me while I lie! Cobham's a coward! Polworth is a slave! And Lyttelton a dark designing knave! St. John has ever been a wealthy fool! But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull, Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife! But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine? What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, 140 Or each new-pension'd Sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend; Then, wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, But 't was my guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure if I spare the Minister, no rules It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, 150 To see a footman kick'd that took his pay; But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave, Knew one a Man of Honour, one a Knave, The prudent Gen'ral turn'd it to a jest, And begg'd he 'd take the pains to kick the Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous Pastor blame a failing spouse Without a staring reason on his brows? And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man but God? Ask you what provocation I have had ? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When Truth or Virtue an affront endures, Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours. 200 Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence, Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense; Mine, as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind; And mine as man, who feel for all mankind. F. You're strangely proud. P. So proud, I am no slave; So impudent, I own myself no knave; So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me; Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne, 210 Yet touch'd and shamed by Ridicule alone. O sacred weapon! left for Truth's defence, Sole dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence, To all but Heav'n-directed hands denied, The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide! Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal, To rouse the watchmen of the public weal, To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the Prelate, slumb'ring in his stall. Ye tinsel insects! whom a Court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, 221 THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN THE YEAR 1714 BY DR. SWIFT; THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS Of the following Imitations of Horace the first two are rather imitations of Swift, Horace merely supplying the text for the travesty. For (as previous editors have not failed to point out) no styles could be found less like one another than the bland and polite style of Horace and the downright, and often cynically plain, manner of Swift. With Pope the attempt to write in Swift's style was a mere tour de force, which he could indeed carry out with success through a few lines, but not further, without relapsing into his own more elaborate manner. Swift's marvellous precision and netteté of expression are something very different from Pope's pointed and rhetorical elegance. The Ode to Venus, which was first published in 1737, more nearly approaches the character of a translation. (Ward.) I'VE often wish'd that I had clear Well, now I have all this, and more, 10 I can't but think 't would 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; As thus: Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker! 20 30 Nor cross the channel twice a year, To spend six months with statesmen here. I must by all means come to town, The toil, the danger of the seas, 40 '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, Tells me I have more zeal than wit; 50 60 70 80 Or, Have you nothing new to-day From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?' My Lord and me as far as Staines, 90 Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross. 100 What! they admire him for his jokes Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! ?' I know no more than my Lord Mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known. 110 120 130 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. O charming Noons! and Nights divine! Or when I sup, or when I dine, My friends above, my folks below, Chatting and laughing all-a-row, The beans and bacon set before 'em, The grace-cup served with all decorum; Each willing to be pleas'd, and please, A Neighbour's madness, or his Spouse's, Whether we ought to choose our friends 140 150 Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) He brought him bacon (nothing lean), 160 170 But let it (in a word) be said, Our Courtier walks from dish to dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, 200 "Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça ! That Jelly 's rich, this Malmsey healing, Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.' Was ever such a happy swain! He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. 'I'm quite ashamed - 't is mighty rude To eat so much - but all 's so goodI have a thousand thanks to give My Lord alone knows how to live.' No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all: 'A rat, a rat! clap to the door' The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the art of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink!) 'An't please Your Honour,' quoth the 210 220 THE SEVENTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT 'Tis true, my Lord, I gave my word And W[ard] and H[enley] both in town! The dogdays are no more the case.' ΤΟ 'Tis true, but winter comes apace: Then southward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, And you shall see the first warm weather Me and the butterflies together. 20 My Lord, your favours well I know; Now this I'll say, you'll find in me To give me back my constitution, A Weasel once made shift to slink All that may make me none of mine. 'T was what I said to Craggs and Child, Who praised my modesty, and smil❜d. 'Give me,' I cried (enough for me) 'My bread and independency!' So bought an annual rent or two, And lived just as you see I do; 30 40 50 |