Yet Speech, e'en there, submissively withdraws From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause: Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,
What favourites gain, and what the nation owes,
Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.
The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy o' the' gown,
Are best by thee express'd, and shine in thee alone,
The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest; all end in thee;
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally,

EARL OF DORSET.

ARTEMISIA.

THOUGH Artemisia talks by fits
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke:
Yet in some things methinks she fails:-
"Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride,
Such nastiness, and so much pride,
Are oddly join'd by Fate:

On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;

All white and black beside: Dauntless her look, her gesture proud, Her voice theatrically loud, And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpie hight,
Majestically stalk;

A stately worthless animal,

That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, All flutter, pride, and talk.

PHRYNE.

PHRYNE had talents for mankind;
Open she was and unconfined,

Like some free port of trade: Merchants unloaded here their freight, And agents from each foreign state Here first their entry made.

Her learning and good breeding such, Whether the' Italian or the Dutch,

Spaniards or French, came to her; To all obliging she'd appear; 'Twas Si Signior, 'twas Yaw Mynheer, 'Twas S'il vous plait, Monsieur. Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes, Still changing names, religions, climes, At length she turns a bride:

In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades, She shines the first of batter'd jades, And flutters in her pride.

So have I known those insects fair (Which curious Germans hold so rare)

.

Still vary shapes and dyes;

Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.

DR. SWIFT.

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.

PARSON, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop's blessing:
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there's need;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes sent gratis down and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd;
A large concordance, bound long since;
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince;
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in:
The Polyglot-three parts-my text,
Howbeit-likewise-now to my next:
Lo, here the Septuagint-and Paul,
To sum the whole-the close of all.

He that has these may pass his life, Drink with the squire, and kiss his wife; On Sundays preach, and eat his fill, And fast on Fridays-if he will; Toast church and queen, explain the news, Talk with churchwardens about pews, Pray heartily for some new gift, And shake his head at Doctor Swift.

214

EPISTLE

TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

Advertisement.

"

This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune [the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-Court'] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which, being public, the public is judge) but my person, morals, and family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment: and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend, to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

P. ‹ SHUT, shut the door, good John! (fatigued, I said)

Tie

up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.'

The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can
hide?

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
E'en Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me-just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross ?
Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.