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With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteem'd for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise:
For sure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent.

I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great:
As much as I could moderately spend;
A little more, sometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine
Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine ;
And all that objects of true pity were,
Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare ;
For that our Maker has too largely given,
Should be return’d in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread;
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread;
Enough to satisfy, and something more,
To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and, as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.

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Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose
(For who would so much satisfaction lose,
As witty nymphs, in conversation, give)
Near some obliging modest fair to live:
For there's that sweetness in a female mind,
Which in a man's we cannot hope to find;
That, by a secret, but a powerful art,
Winds up the spring of life, and does impart
Fresh vital heat to the transported heart.

I'd have her reason all her passion sway:
Easy in company, in private gay:
Coy to a fop, to the deserving free;
Still constant to herself, and just to me.
A soul she should have for great actions fit ;
Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit:
Courage to look bold danger in the face;

Quick to advise, by an emergence prest,
To give good counsel, or to take the best.
I'd have th' expression of her thoughts be such,
She might not seem reserv’d, nor talk too much :
That shews a want of judgment, and of sense;
More than enough is but impertinence.
Her conduct regular, her mirth refin'd;
Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind;
Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride ;
In all the methods of deceit untried :
So faithful to her friend, and good to all,
No censure might upon her actions fall :
Then would ev'n envy be compell’d to say,
She goes the least of womankind astray.

To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire;
Her conversation would new joys inspire ;
Give life an edge so keen, no surly care
Would venture to assault my soul, or dare,
Near my retreat, to hide one secret snare.
But so divine, so noble a repast
I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste:
For highest cordials all their virtue lose,
By a too frequent and too bold a use;
And what would cheer the spirits in distress,
Ruins our health, when taken to excess.

I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar;
Belov'd by all, not vainly popular.
Whate'er assistance I had power to bring,
T'oblige my country, or to serve my king,
Whene'er they call, I'd readily afford
My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword.
Law-suits I'd shun, with as much studious care,
As I would dens where hungry lions are;
And rather put up injuries, than be
A plague to him, who'd be a plague to me.
I value quiet at a price too great,
To give for my revenge so dear a rate :
For what do we by all our bustle gain,
But counterfeit delight for real pain ?

If Heaven a date of many years would give, Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. And as I near approach'd the verge of life,

Should take upon him all my worldly care,
Whilst I did for a better state prepare.
Then I'd not be with any trouble vex'd,
Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd ;
But by a silent and a peaceful death,
Without a sigh, resign my aged breath.
And, when committed to the dust, I'd have
Few tears, but friendly, dropt into my grave;
Then would my exit so propitious be,
All men would wish to live and die like me.


I would not have you, Strephon, choose a mate,
From too exalted, or too mean a state;
For in both these we may expect to find
A creeping spirit, or a haughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region, shares
The least disquiets, and the smallest cares.
Let her extraction with true lustre shine;
If something brighter, not too bright for thine :
Her education liberal, not great ;
Neither inferior nor above her state.
Let her have wit; but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, or pedantry:
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too much.
But chiefly let her humour close with thine,
Unless where your's does to a fault incline;
The least disparity in this destroys,
Like sulphurous blasts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, straight, and free
From natural, or chance deformity.
Let not her years exceed, if equal thine;
For women past their vigour, soon decline:
Her fortune competent; and, if thy sight
Can reach so far, take care 'tis gather'd right.
If thine's enough, then her’s may be the less :
Do not aspire to riches in excess.
For that which makes our lives delightful prove,

JONATHAN Swift, a kinsman of John Dryden, was born on the 30th of November, 1667. He was of an English family. The place of his birth has not been correctly ascertained, but he was educated in Ireland. He passed his youth in poverty and dependance, under the care of a rich relation. This is a hard school, and of the many bitter lessons which are taught in it, Jonathan Swift was fated by temperament to learn one more deeply than the rest, -the habit of severe indignation. This should be the commentary to his history. Up to the period when he had passed his fortieth year, Swift, in the possession of extraordinary talents, saw himself at every turn thrust down beneath the most ordinary men. His life was simply the alternation of patient and impatient suffering. Wearied with playing the humble companion to his relative, Sir William Temple, he entered the church, where hard-won patronage procured him an Irish living of a hundred a year. Soon wearied equally with this, he returned to England, to wait again upon the infirmities of Temple, on the faith of his offered influence for a better living in England. Temple died, and Swift was left, in 1699, after many years of galling expectation, with the worthless legacy of a king's promise. The disappointments which now crowded upon him would form a long and painful catalogue. He found himself, at last, settled as a poor and hardworking parson, in the county of Meath. His melancholy and his spleen had vented themselves before this in various witty and severe verses, but nothing was yet published in his name. His literary life, however, now began. He published a work on Athens and Rome, which was instantly attributed to Bishop Burnet. Exertion made him still more conscious of his ill-rewarded strength, and in a fit of restless impatience he went to London. He returned to his poor parishioners precisely as he had left them.

It was not until nine years after this,-years which had given some immortal writings to the world, (the Tale of a Tub, the Battle of the Books, the Essays of Isaac Bickerstaff, among them,) but which had seen the best portion of their author's life wear away in poverty, in mortified ambition, and disappointed hopes,-years which had irredeemably soured his temper, and during which a painful and lasting sickness had fixed itself upon him; - it was not until their lapse that an entrusted mission from the Irish Lord Primate to the celebrated Harley, opened to Dr. Jonathan Swift the avenues to distinction and public fame. He speedily mastered them, and his extraordinary talents became the subject of conversation and curiosity wherever he went. Beyond this we cannot follow the details of his life. From the honourable exile of his deanery, where the remainder of it was chiefly spent, most formidable thunderbolts continued to be cast at the Whigs; the immortal Travels of Gulliver, and his best poems appeared; and the publication of the Drapier's Letters won for him the adoration of an entire people ;-while these public glories were darkened by strange private afflictions. Ultimately, the still surviving restlessness of his life was vexed by impatient fits of anger, till it rose to madness. In this miserable state the great Dean Swift died, in October 1744, " a driveller and a show!"

The poems of Swift form only the smallest item in the account of his wonderful genius. They are remarkable, however, in a high degree, for their power of versification. Their ease and vivacity have never been excelled. We think them also, in conversational humour, in homely but powerful satire, and in a witty accuracy and exactness of description, unquestionably first rate. Nor are they wanting, as the poems to Stella and Vanessa prove, in tender and graceful poetical fancies. It is impossible to pass, however, without the strongest terms of reprobation and shame, certain descriptions, which frequently and shockingly disfigure these poems of Swift. It is but a poor excuse to say, that they were not written with a view to publication. We may suggest, with perhaps as slight an available ground of defence, that they were the product of his moments of spleen and indignation, when he desired to exhibit humanity at a level below itself, correspondent with that to which, from the higher aspirations of his genius, its treatment had reduced him. One thing, at least, is certain and consolatory: Swift could not degrade, as he assisted, humanity. As, while he was doing wonderful services to Ireland, he protested he did not love her; so upon that human nature which he would have us believe he loved as little,

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In a glad hour Lucina's aid
Produc'd on Earth a wondrous maid,
On whom the queen of love was bent
To try a new experiment.
She threw her law-books on the shelf,
And thus debated with herself:

“ Since men allege, they ne'er can find
Those beauties in a female mind,
Which raise a flame that will endure
For ever uncorrupt and pure;
If 'tis with reason they complain,
This infant shall restore my reign.

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