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Next day, to be sure, the Captain will come At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum. [state: Now, madam, observe how he marches in The man with the kettle-drums enters the gate;

Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, Tantara, tantara; while all the boys halloo. See now comes the Captain, all daub'd with gold lace:

O la! the sweet gentleman! look in his face; And see how he rides like a lord of the land, With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand;

And his horse, the dear cretur, it prances and

rears,

With ribands in knots at its tail and its ears: At last comes the troop, by the word of command,

Drawn up in our court; when the Captain cries, STAND!

Your Ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen (For sure I have dizen'd you out like a queen). The Captain, to show he is proud of the favor, Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver;

(His beaver is cock'd; pray, madam, mark that, For a Captain of horse never takes off his hat, Because he has never a hand that is idle; For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle ;)

Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, As a compliment due to a lady so fair; (How I tremble to think of the blood it hath spilt!)

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Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the

hilt.

Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin:

Pray, Captain, be pleas'd to alight and walk in.' The Captain salutes you with congee profound, And your Ladyship curtsies half-way to thei ground.

Kit, run to your master, and bid him come

to us:

I'm sure he'll be proud of the honor you do us. And, Captain, you'll do us the favor to stay And take a short dinner here with us to-day: You're heartily welcome: but as for good cheer, You come in the very worst time of the year;

If I had expected so worthy a guest-
Lord, madam! your ladyship sure is in jest:
You banter me, madam-The kingdom
must grant,

You officers, Captain, are so coinplaisant!""
"Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody coming."
No, madam, 'tis only Sir Arthur a humming.
To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story)
The Captain at dinner appears in his glory:
The Dean and the Doctor have humbled their
pride,

For the Captain's entreated to sit by your side: And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first:

The parsons for envy are ready to burst.
The servants, amazed, are scarce ever able
To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table;
And Molly and I have thrust in our nose
To peep at the Captain in all his fine clo'es.
Dear madam, be sure he's a fine spoken man,
Do but hear on the Clergy how glib his tongue

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a ninny,

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In mending your cassock, and smoothing your (For the Dean was so shabby, and look'd like [Jinny). That the Captain suppos'd he was curate to Whenever you see a cassock and gown, A hundred to one but it covers a clown. Observe how a Parson comes into a room; G-d-n me! he hobbles as bad as my groom: A scollard, when just from his college broke loose,

Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose: Your + Noveds, and Blueturks, and Omurs, and stuff,

By G-, they don't signify this pinch of snuff; To give a young gentleman right education, The army's the only good school in the nation: My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool, But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school: I never could take to my book for the blood o'

me,

[o' me.

And the puppy confess'd he expected no good He caught me one morning coquetting his wife, [life:

But he maul'd me, I ne'er was so maul'd in my So I took to the road; and what's very odd, The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G-. Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to

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* Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood.

+Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.

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Never since I was born did I hear so much wit; And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split. [Dean, So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the As who should say, Now am I Skinny-and-lean? But he durst not so much as once open his lips, And the Doctor was plaguily down in the hips." Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, Till she heard the Dean call, "Will your Ladyship wa ?"

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, pow'r, and station, [down:"Tis all to 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, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use. St. John as well as Pulteney knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date,

Her Ladyship answers, "I'm just coming Then turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, Although it was plain in her heart she was glad, Cried Hussy! why sure the wench is gone mad! [brains? How could all these chimeras get into your Come hither, and take this old gown for your pains. [ears, But the Dean, if this secret should come to his Will never have done with his jibes and his jeers: [ye; For your life, not a word of the matter, I charge Give me but a barrack, a fig for the clergy."

$258. On the Death of Dr. Swift. Occasioned by reading the following Maxim in Rochefoucault : Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas."

"In the adversity of our best friends we always find something that doth not displease us.' 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 equals rais'd 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 kill'd, or trophy won:
Rather than thus be over-topt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd 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 brothers write as well as he;
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?

66

Could maul a minister of state.
And made me throw my pen aside;
If they have mortified my pride,
If with such talents heaven hath bless'd '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 may 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 din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear this 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 decay'd,
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 reckon'd,
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!")
Would please them better, than to tell
That, God be prais'd, the Dean is well."
Then he who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest:
"You know I always fear'd the worst,
And often told you so at first."
He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his predictions prove a lie.
Not one foretels I should 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,
With hearty pray'rs that I should mnend!
Inquire what regimen I kept,
What gave me ease, and how I slept;
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the sniv'lers 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-pray'r is read; "He hardly breathes-the Dean is dead!" Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run: "O 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 bequeath'd 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 Grub-street wits are all employ'd;
With elegies the town is cloy'd:
Some paragraph in every paper,

To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.
The Doctors, tender of their fame,
Wisely on me lay all the blame.
"We must confess his case was nice,
But he would never take advice.
Had he been rul'd, for aught appears,
He might have liv'd these twenty years;
For when we open'd him, we found
That all his vital parts were sound."

From Dublin soon to London spread,
'Tis told at court, "The Dean is dead."
And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen,
Runs laughing up to tell the Queen :
The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries," Is he gone? 'tis time he should.
He's dead, you say? then let him rot:
I'm glad the medals were forgot.
I promis'd him, I own; but when?
I only was the Princess then :
But now, as consort of the King,
You know, 'tis quite another thing."

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tell, with a sneer, the tidings heavy:
"Why, if he died without his shoes,"
Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news.
O were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains:
Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!"
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
"Revis'd by Tibbald, 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 lov'd 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!"
Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt?
When we are lash'd they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year,
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between:
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling:
They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (pray what is trumps?)

Mrs. Howard, at one time a favourite with the Dean.

↑ Which the Dean in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the Princess.

Then Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole)
Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend?"
"No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;
And he's engag'd to-morrow night:
My Lady Club will take it ill
If he should fail at her quadrille.
He lov'd the Dean-(I lead a heart)—
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come: he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place."

Why do we grieve that friends should die?
No loss more easy to supply:
One year is past a different scene!
No farther mention of the Dean;
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now the 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,
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-cook's.
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 show 'em :
Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem ;
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck upon the Queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend:
It clearly shows 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 honor please to buy a set?
"Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edi-
Tis read by every politician:

The country-members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down:
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart.
Those maids of honor who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed;
The reverend author's good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension*:
He doth an honor to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Glo'ster,
That Moses was a grand impostor;

[tion;

That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre !"

I

Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
grow the subject of their chat:
And while they toss my name about,
With favor some, and some without,
One, quite indifferent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:

"The Dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill receiv'd at court;
Although, ironically grave,

He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave;
To steal a hint was never known,

But what he writ was all his own."

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Sir, I have heard another story:
He was a most confounded Tory;
And grew, or he is much belied,
Extremely dull before he died."

"Can we the Drapier then forget?
Is not our nation in his debt?
'Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters!"
"He should have left them for his betters;
We had a hundred abler men,
Nor need depend upon his pen.
Say what you will about his reading,
You never can defend his breeding;
Who, in his satires running riot,
Could never leave the world in quiet;
Attacking, when he took the whim,
Court, city, camp-all one to him.
But why should he, except he slobber'd,
Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert,
Whose counsels aid the sovereign pow'r
To save the nation every hour?
What scenes of evil he unravels
In satires, libels, lying travels:
Not sparing his own clergy-cloth,
But eats into it, like a moth!"

"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 the senseless tribe
Who call it humor when they jibe.
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 confess'd
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.
Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,
Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd.
If you resent it, who's to blame?
He neither knows you, nor your name.

• Wolston is here confounded with Wollaston.

Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,
Because its owner is a duke?
His friendships, still to few confin'd,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank or mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed :
Where titles give no right or pow'r,
And peerage is a wither'd flow'r,
He would have deem'd it a disgrace
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain.
squires to market brought,
Who sell their souls and
for nought;

go joyful back,

The
To rob the church, their tenants rack,
Go snack with -justices,

And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In every job to have a share,
A gaol or turnpike to repair;
And turn- to public roads
Commodious to their own abodes.

"He never thought an honor done him
Because a peer was proud to own him;
Would rather slip aside, and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
And scorn the tools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station;
No 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 heart must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.
He kept with princes due decorum,
Yet never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just;
In princes never put his trust;
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in pow'r.
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 pow'r was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued 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 labor'd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in pow'r;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin!
But, finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.

"And, O! how short are human schemes!
Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. John's skill in state-affairs,
What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroy'd by one event.
Too soon that precious life was ended,
On which alone our weal depended:
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;
By solemn league and cov'nant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice Old England's glory,
And make her infamous in story.
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?
With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
Beheld the dire destructive scene:
His friends in exile, or the Tower,
Himself within the frown of power;
Pursued by base envenom'd pens,
Far to the land of s and fens;
A servile race in folly nurst,
Who truckle most when treated worst.
"By innocence and resolution,
He bore continual persecution;
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merit was, to be his foes:
When e'en his own particular 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 hath 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.
To save them from their evil fate,
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench;
As vile and profligate a villain
As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian;
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent.
But heaven his innocence defends,
The grateful people stand his friends:
Not strains of law, nor judge's frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,

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