BE GENTLE. In vain you tell your parting lover, You wish fair winds may waft him over: That bear me far from what I love? Alas! what dangers on the main Be gentle, and in pity choose To wish the wildest tempest loose; PRIOR. POETASTERS. A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage; The cage, as either side turned up, Striking a ring of bells at top? Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But, here or there, turn wood or wire, So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. THE time is not remote when I 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; PRIOR. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit? But he takes up with younger folks, * In such a case they talk in tropes, 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, Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over. 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: 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!" He gave Now Grub-street wits are all employed; With elegies, the town is cloyed; To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, Revive the libels born to die: Which Pope must bear as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent St. John himself will scarce forbear All fortitude of mind supplies: When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, 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 missed, Than if he never did exist. Where's now the favourite of Apollo? His kind of wit is out of date. A MODERN LADY. THE modern dame is waked by noon (Some authors say not quite so soon), SWIFT. |