That Mufic gave her leave to litter:
But mark what follow'd-faith! fhe bit her.
Whole baskets full of bits and scraps,
And broth enough to fill her paps;
For, well fhe knew, her numerous brood,
For want of milk, would fuck her blood.

But when the thought her pains were done, And now 'twas high time to be gone; In civil terms" My friend," fays fhe, "My house you 've had on courtesy; "And now I earnestly defire,

"That you would with your cubs retire: "For, fhould you stay but one week longer, "I fhall be ftarv'd with cold and hunger." "The guest reply'd" My friend, your leave "I mufl a little longer crave;

Stay till my tender cubs can find

"Their way-for now, you fee, they 're blind; "But, when we 've gather'd ftrength, I swear, "We'll to our barn again repair.'

The time pafs'd on; and Mufic camé,
Her kennel once again to claim;
But Bawty, loft to fhame and honour,
Set all her cubs at once upon her;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cry'd-" A bite! a bite!"

THE MORAL.

Thus did the Grecian wooden horfe Conceal a fatal armed force: No fooner brought within the walls, But Ilium's loft, and Príam falls.

HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREA

SURER.

Sent to him when in the Tower, 1716.

How bleft is he who for his country dies,
Since Death purfues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack,
With trembling knees and terror at his back;
Though Fear fhould lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet fwifter Fate will feize him from behind.

Virtue repuls'd, yet knows not to repine,
But fhall with unattained honour fhine;
Nor ftoops to take the ftaff*, nor lays it down,
Juft as the rabble pleafe to fmile or frown.

Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try
Some new unbeaten paffage to the sky;
Where Jove a feat among the gods will give
To thofe who die for meriting to live.

Next, faithful Silence hath a fure reward;
Within our breaft be every fecret barr'd!
He who betrays his friend, fhall never be
Under one roof, or in one fhip, with me.
For who with traitors would his fafety truft,
Left, with the wicked, heaven involve the juft?
And, though the villain 'fcape awhile, he feels
Slow vengeance, like a blood-hound, at his heels.

*The ensign of the Lord Treasurer's office.

PHYLLIS;

OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716.
DESPONDING Phyllis was endued
With every talent of a prude:
She trembled when a man drew near;
Salute her, and the turn'd her ear;
If o'er against her you were plac'd,
She durft not look above your waist:
She'd rather take you to her bed,
Than let you fee her drefs her head:
In church you hear her, through the crowd,
Repeat the abfolution loud:

In church, fecure behind her fan,
She durft behold that monster man ;
There practis'd how to place her head,
And bit her lips to make them red;
Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling,
Would lift her eyes up to the cieling,
And heave her bofom unaware,
For neighbouring beaux to fee it bare.
At length a lucky lover came,
And found admittance to the dame.
Suppofe all parties now agreed,
The writings drawn, the lawyer fee'd,
The vicar and the ring befpoke:

Guefs, how could fuch a match be broke?
See then what mortals place their bliss in!
Next morn betimes the bride was miffing:
The mother scream'd, the father chid;
Where can this idle wench be hid?
No news of Phy!! the bridegroom came,
And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame
Because her father us'd to say,
The girl bad fuch a bafbful way!

Now John the butler must be fent
To learn the road that Phyllis went.
The groom was wifh'd to faddle Crop;
For John must neither light nor ftop,
But find her, wherefoe'er fhe fled,
And bring her back, alive or dead.

See here again the devil to do!
For truly John was mifling too:
The horfe and pillion both were gone!
Phyllis, it feems, was fled with John.

Old Madam, who went up to find
What papers Phyl had left behind,
A letter on the toilet fees,

To my much-bonour'd father-thefe-
('Tis always done, romances tell us,
When daughters run away with fellows)
Fill'd with the choiceft common-places,
By others us'd in the like cafes.
"That long ago a fortune-teller

Exactly faid what now befel her; "And in a glass had made her fee "A ferving-man of low degree. "It was her fate, must be forgiven; "For marriages were made in beaven: "His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, "She'd do 't, if were to do again: "Thank'd God, 'twas neither fame nor fin ; "For John was come of boneft kin. "Love never thinks of rich and poor : "She'd beg with John from door to doorForgive her, if it be a crime; "She'll never do 't another time.

She ne'er before in all her life "Once difobey'd him, maid nor wife. * One argument the fumm'd up all in, * The thing was done, and paft recalling ; "And therefore hop'd the fhould recover His favour, when his paffion's over. "She valued not what others thought her, *And was-his weft obedient daughter." Fait maidens, all attend the Muse, Who now the wandering pair pursues: Away they rode in homely fort, Their journey long, their money short; The boring couple well bemir'd'; The horfe and both the riders tir'd: Their victuals bad, their lodging worse; Fayl cry'd, and John began to curfe: Phyl with'd that the had strain'd a limb, When firit the ventur'd out with him; John wh'd that he had broke a leg, When firft for her he quitted Peg.

But what adventures more befel them,
The Mule hath now no time to tell them,
How Johnny wheeddled, threaten'd, fawn'd,
Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn'd:
How oft' fhe broke her marriage vows
In kindness to maintain her spouse,

Till fwains unwhole fome fpoil'd the trade;
For now the furgeons must be paid,
To whom thofe perquifites are gone,
La Chriftian juftice due to John,

When food and raiment now grew scarce,
Fate put a period to the farce,
And with exact poetic justice;

For John was landlord, Phyllis hoftefs;
They kept, at Staines, the Old Blue Boar,
Art cat and dog, and rogue and whore,

AD AMICUM ERUDITUM THOMAM SHERIDAN, 1717.

DILICIE Sheridan Mufarum, dulcis amice,
Si tibi propitius Permefli ad flumen Apollo
Occurrat, feu te mimum convivia rident,
Aquivocofque fales fpargis, feu ludere verfu
Males; dic, Sheridan, quifnam fuit ille deorum,
Que melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem
Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri
Scrutandi? Tibi nafcenti ad cunabula Pallas
Aftitit; & dixit, mentis præfaga futuræ,
He, puer infelix! noftro fub fidere natus;
Nam tu pectus eris fine corpore, corporis umbra;
Sed levitate umbram fuperabis, voce cicadam:
Mufca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura,
Corpore fed tenui tibi quod natura negavit,
Hoc animi dotes fupplebunt; teque docente,
Net longum tempus, furget tibi docta juventus,
Artibus egregiis animas inftructa novellas.
Grex hinc Paonius venit, ecce, falutifer orbi.
Aft, ili caufas orant; his infula vifa eft
Divinam capiti nodo conftringere mitram.
Natalis te horæ non fallunt figna, fed ufque
Confcius, expedias puero feu lætus Apollo
Nafcenti arrifit; five illum frigidus horror
Saturni premit, aut feptem inflavere triones.
Quin tu aitè penitulque latentia femina cernis,
Cerque diu ebtundende olim fub luminis auras

VIRTUE Conceal'd within our breast,

Is inactivity at best:

But never fhall the mufe endure
To let your virtues lie obfcure,
Or fuffer Envy to conceal
Your labours for the public weal.
Within your breast all wisdom lies,
Either to govern or advise;
Your fleady foul preferves her frame
In good and evil times the fame.
Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud
Stand in your facred prefence aw'd;
Your hand alone from gold abftains,
Which drags the flavish world in chains.
Him for a happy man I own,
Whofe fortune is not overgrown;
And happy he, who wifely knows
To ufe the gifts that Heaven bestows;
Or, if it please the Powers Divine,
Can fuffer want, and not repine.
The man who, infamy to fhun,
Into the arms of death would run,
That man is ready to defend
With life his country, or his friend.

TO MR. DELANY, Nov. 10. 1718.

To you, whofe virtues, I must own With fhame, I have too lately known; To you, by art and nature taught To be the man I long have fought, Had not ill fate, perverfe and blind, Plac'd you in life too far behind; Or, what I fhould repine at more, Plac'd me in life too far before:

Το

you the mufe this verse bestows, Which might as well have been in profe No thought, no fancy, no fublime, But fimple topics told in rhyme.

Talents for converfation fit, Are humour, breeding, fenfe, and wit: The laft, as boundless as the wind, Is well conceiv'd, though not defin'd: For, fure, by wit is chiefly meant Applying well what we invent. What humour is, not all the tribe Of logic-mongers can defcribe; Here nature only acts her part, Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: For wit and humour differ quite; That gives furprife, and this delight. Humour is odd, grotefque, and wild, Only by affectation fpol'd

'Tis never by invention got,
Men have it when they know it not.

Our converfation to refine,
Humour and wit muft both combine:
From both we learn to railly well,
Wherein fometimes the French excel.
Voiture, in various lights, difplays
That irony which turns to praise :
His genius firft found out the rule
For an obliging ridicule :
He flatters with peculiar air

The brave, the witty, and the fair;
And fools would fancy he intends
A fatire, where he moft commends.
But, as a poor pretending beau,
Because he fain would make a show,
Nor can arrive at filver lace,

Takes up with copper in the place :
So the pert dunces of mankind,
Whene'er they would be thought refin'd,
As if the difference lay abftrufe
"Twixt raillery and grofs abufe;

To fhow their parts, will fcold and rail,
Like porters o'er a pot of ale.
Such is that clan of boisterous bears,
Always together by the ears;

Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe
'That meet for nothing but a gibe;
Who first run one another down,
And then fall foul on all the town;
Skill'd in the horfe-laugh and dry rub,
And call'd by excellence The Club.
I mean your Butler, Dawfon, Car,
All fpecial friends, and always jar.

The mettled and the vicious steed
Differ as little in their breed;
Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh
As rudeness is to repartee.

If what you faid I wish unfpoke,
"Twill not fuffice it was a joke:
Reproach not, though in jeft, a friend
For thofe defects he cannot mend;
His lineage, calling, fhape, or fenfe,
If nam'd with fcorn, gives just offence.
What use in life to make men fret,
Part in worfe humour than they met ?
Thus all fociety is loft,

Men laugh at one another's coft;
And half the company is teaz'd,
That came together to be pleas'd;
For all buffoons have moft in view
To please themselves by vexing you.
You wonder now to fee me write
So gravely on a fubject light:
Some part of what I here defign,
Regards a friend of yours and mine;
Who, neither void of fenfe nor wit,
Yet feldom judges what is fit,
But fallies oft' beyond his bounds,
And takes unmeafurable rounds.

When jets are carried on too far,
And the loud laugh begins the war,
You keep your countenance for shame,
Yet ftill you think your friend to blame :
For, though men cry they love a jest,
"Tis but when others ftand the teft;

Dr. Sheridan.

And (would you have their meaning known) They love a jeft that is their own.

You must, although the point be nice,
Beftow your friend fome good advice:
One hint from you will fet him right,
And teach him how to be polite.

Bid him, like you, obferve with care,
Whom to be hard on, whom to spare;
Nor indiftinctly to fuppofe

All fubjects like Dan Jackson's nose".
To study the obliging jeft,

By reading those who teach it beft;
For profe I recommend Voiture's,
For verfe (1 fpeak my judgment) yours.
He'll find the fecret ont from thence,
To rhyme all day without offence;
And I no more fhall then accuse
The flirts of his ill-manner'd mufe.

If he be guilty, you must mend him;
If he be innocent, defend him.

dung;

[bul

We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready
Yet ftill are no wifer than we were at first.
Pudet hæc opprobria, I freely must tell ye,
Et dici potuiffe, et non potuiffe refelli.
Though Delany advis'd you to plague me no long
You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor.
I must now, at one fitting, pay off my old fcor
How many to answer? One, two, three, four.
But, because the three former are long ago paft
I fhall, for method fake, begin with the laft.
You treat me like a boy that knocks down his
Who, 'ere t'other gets up, demands the rifing bl
Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat
the field,

Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yiek
So the French, when our Generals foundly

pay 'em,

[D

Went triumphant to church, and fang ftoutly
So the famous Tom Leigh, when quite runagrou
Comes off by out-laughing the company round
In every vile pamphlet you'll read the fame fand
Having thus overthrown all our further advan
My offers of peace you ill understood: [go
Friend Sheridan, when will you know your
"Twas to teach you in modefter language y

duty;

For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye
As a good quiet foul, who no mifchief intends
To a quarrelfome fellow, cries, Let us be frien
But we like Antæus and Hercules fight;
The oftener you fall, the oftener you write:
And I'll ufe you as he did that overgrown clo
I'll first take you up, and then take you down
And, 'tis your own cafe, for you never can wo
The worst dunce in your fchool, till he's he
from the ground.

• Which was afterwards the subject of feveral f by Dr. Sreift and others.

+ The bumour of this poem is partly left, by the poffibility of printing it left-handed as it was writt

I beg your pardon for ufing my left hand, but I was in great halte, and the other hand was employ. ed at the fame time in writing fome letters of bufinels.-I will fend you the rest when I have leifare: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.

A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD, WOOLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN,

Whofe Sign was the GOLDEN FLEECE.

JASON, the valiant prince of Greece,
From Colchos brought the Golden Fleece:
We comb the wool, refine the stuff,
For modern Jafon, that's enough.

Oh! could we tame you watchful * Dragon,
Old Jafon would have lefs to brag on.

TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718.

WHATE'ER your predeceffors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus;
And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence.
But as to comic Aristophanes,

The rogue too vicious and too prophane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis

Down in the Strand†, just where the New Pole is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can
(You will not find it in the Vatican).
He and Cratinus us'd, as Horace fays,
To take his greatest grandees for affes.
Poets, in thofe days, us'd to venture high;
But thefe are loft full many a century.
Thus you may fee dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgment of the old comedians.

Proceed to tragics: first, Euripides
(An author where I fometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly cenfured by the Stagirite,
Who fays his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author defpifes
So much, he fwears the very beft piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's;
And that a woman, in these tragedies,
Commonly fpeaking, but a fad jade is.
At least, I'm well affur'd, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer Æfchylus,

Whole moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my mufe but ill able,

To hold out longer in triffylable.

I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY,
MARCH 13. 1718-19.

STELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We fha'n't difpute a year or more):
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy fize and years are doubled,
Since firft 1 faw thee at fixteen,

The brightest virgin on the green:

So little is thy form declin'd:
Made up fo largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, fize, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs fo graceful, wife, and fair;
With half the luftre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and fize.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate
(That either nymph might have her fwain)
To split my worship too in twain!

DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT. 1719.

DEAR Dean, fince in cruxes and puns you and f deal,

Pray why is a woman a fieve and a riddle?
"Tis a thought that came into my noddle this
morning,

In bed as I lay, Sir, a-toffing and turning.
You'll find, if you read but a few of your hiftories,
All women as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the fex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them;
I fwear without jeft, I an honour intend them.
In a fieve, Sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before: do you know what I
mean, Sir?

"Not I, by my troth, Sir."-Then read it again,

Sir.

The reafon I fend you thefe lines of rhymes double,
Is purely through pity, to fave you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did laft
When your Pegasus canter'd it triple, and rid fast.

As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnaffus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his affes,
He goes flow and fure, and he never is jaded,
While your fiery fteed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, bafti-
naded.

THE DEAN's ANSWER.

IN reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh:

And when with much labour the matter I crackt, I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

A woman's no fieve (for with that you begin), Because fhe lets out more than e'er fhe takes in. And that fhe's a riddle, can never be right, For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light. But, grant her a fieve, I can fay fomething archer, Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen fearcher.

Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation, What name for a maid, was the firft man's damnation?

If your worship will please to explain me this rebus, Ifwear from henceforward you fhall be my Phoebus.

From my backney-coach, Sept. 11.2 . II. }

1719, past 12. at noon.

* Vir Gin, Man-trap.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.

ALL travellers at first incline
Where-e'er they fee the fairest fign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel-inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd,
'The houfe will never lofe its trade:
Nay, though the treacherous tapfter Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that ftrangers may miftake it,
We think it both a fhame and fin
To quit the true old Angel-inn."

Now this is Stella's cale in fact,
An angel's face a little crack'd
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-fix):
'This drew us in at first to find
In fuch a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now fupplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crowding fwains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;
And puts them but to fmall expence ;
Their mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reafonable bills,
So little gets for what the gives,
We really wonder how the lives!
And, had her stock been lefs, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or ftop and light at Cloe's head,
With fcraps and leavings to be fed?
Then, Cloe, ftill go on to prate
Of thirty-fix and thirty-eight;
Purfue your trade of fcandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendos, when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellows:
And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your foul should grieve;
That, fhould you live to fee the day
When Stella's locks must all be
gray,
When age must print a furrow'd trace:
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your fenfeless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind
All men of fenfe will pafs your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourfcore.

TO STELLA,

1

Who collected and tranfcribed bis Poems. 1720.

As, when a lofty pile is rais'd, We never hear the workmen prais'd, Who bring the lime, or place the ftones; But all admire Inigo Jones;

So, if this pile of scattered rhymes
Should be approv'd in after times;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours.

Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was ftrung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts?
With Friendship and Eftcem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a gueft.

In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we ftill pursue,

In pleasure seek for fomething new;
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take comfort, that our own is beft;
The best we value by the worst,
(As tradesmon fhow their trash at first)
But his pursuits were at an end,
Whom Stella chooses for a friend.

A poet ftarving in a garret,
Conning all topics like a parrot,
Invokes his mistress and his muse,
And stays at home for want of fhoes:
Should but his mufe defcending drop
A flice of bread and inutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprife him with a pint of ftout;
Or patch his broken ftocking-foals,
Or fend him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,

He flies, and leaves the ftars behind;
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.

Or, fhould a porter make inquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,
The bowers that hold thofe nymphs divine
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,

Her fhoulders mark'd with bloody tracks;
Bright Phyllis mending ragged fmocks,
And radiant Iris in the pox.

Thefe are the goddeffes enroll'd
In Curll's collection, new and old,
Whofe fcoundrel fathers would not know 'em
If they should meet them in a poem,

True poets can deprefs and raise,
Are Lords of infamy and praife;
They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyric flatter.
Unjustly poets we afperfe;

Truth fhines the brighter clad in verfe
And all the fictions they pursue,
Do but infinuate what is true.

Now, fhould my praifes owe their truth
To beauty, drefs, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our power,
They could not be infur'd an hour:
"Twere grafting on an annual ftock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant fhoot,
Die the next year for want of root:
Before I could my verfes bring,
Perhaps you're quite another thing,

So Mævius, when he drain'd his fkull To celebrate fome fuburb trull