As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues :
He smoked his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamped-in the preface and the text;
At christ'nings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wished women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrowed last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head filled with many a system :-
But classic authors-he ne'er missed 'em.
Thus having furbished up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they played their farce on
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edged with colberteen;
Her petticoat, transformed apace,
Became black satin flounced with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amazed to see her look so prim;
And she admired as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life
Were several years this man and wife;
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cried out,
My dear, I see your forehead sprout!" "Sprout!" quoth the man;
"what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous.
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really yours is budding too-
Nay, -now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root."
Description would but tire my Muse;
In short, they both were turned to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen.
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight.
On Sundays, after evening-prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
"Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,-
Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it."
A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING.
Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach
Appearing showed the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own:
The slipshod prentice from his master's door
Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirled her mop with dextrous airs,
Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep:
Duns at his Lordship's gate began to meet;
And brick-dust Moll had screamed through half the street. The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands;
And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.
STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718.
STELLA this day is thirty-four
(We shan't dispute a year or more).
However, Stella, be not troubled ;
Although thy size and years are doubled
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green,
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
Oh would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit:
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair,
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate
(That either nymph might have her swain)
To split my worship too in twain!
MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN
WELL, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound my
You a gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred ! I am sure such words do not become a man of your cloth;
I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth.
Yes, you called my master a knave: fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame
For a parson, who should know better things, to come out with such
Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin ; And the Dean my master is an honester man than you and all your kin.
He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole body:
My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shanked hoddydoddy.
And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse,
Because my master one day, in anger, called you goose;
Which and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October,
And he never called me worse than sweetheart, drunk or sober. Not that I know his Reverence was ever concerned, to my knowledge,
Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college.
You say you will eat grass on his grave: A Christian eat grass! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass.
But that's as much as to say that my master should die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true
And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I?
And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary.
Every body knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil.
I am but a poor servant; but I think gentle-folks should be civil.
Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was
here;
I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year.
And Saunders the man says you are always jesting and mocking: "Mary," said he one day, as I was mending my master's stocking, 'My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school:
I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool." 'Saunders," said I, "I would rather than a quart of ale
He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dishclout to
And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter;
For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes
Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes
And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs. Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand :
And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to command,
DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE, WHILE HE WAS WRITING
THE DUNCIAD.
POPE has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.
Awhile they on each other look,
Then different studies choose.
The Dean sits plodding on a book;
Pope walks, and courts the muse.
Now backs of letters, though designed
For those who more will need 'em,
Are filled with hints, and interlined,—
Himself can hardly read 'em.
Each atom, by some other struck,
All turns and motions tries:
Till, in a lump together stuck,
Behold a poem rise!
Yet to the Dean his share allot;
He claims it by a canon;
"That without which a thing is not
Is causa sine quâ non."
Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
For, had our deaf divine
Been for your conversation fit,
You had not writ a line.
Of prelate thus for preaching famed
The sexton reasoned well;
And justly half the merit claimed,
Because he rang the bell.
TO DR. DELANY, ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM,
As some raw youth in country bred,
To arms by thirst of honour led,
When at a skirmish first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head aside, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart;
Till scaping oft without a wound
Lessens the terror of the sound;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops:
An author thus who pants for fame
Begins the world with fear and shame.
When first in print, you see him dread
Each pop-gun levelled at his head:
The lead yon critic's quill contains
Is destined to beat out his brains.
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries Lord have mercy on his soul !
Concluding that another shot
Will strike him dead upon the spot.
But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot see one creature dropping;
That, missing fire or missing aim,
His life is safe (I mean his fame);
The danger past, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.
Though splendour gives the fairest mark
To poisoned arrows from the dark,
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,1
They glance aside without a wound.
'Tis said the gods tried all their art
How Pain they might from Pleasure part;
But little could their strength avail,—
Both still are fastened by the tail.
Thus Fame and Censure with a tether
By fate are always linked together.
Why will you aim to be preferred
In wit before the common herd,
And yet grow mortified and vexed
To pay the penalty annexed?
'Tis eminence makes envy rise,
As fairest fruits attract the flies.
Should stupid libels grieve your mind,
You soon a remedy may find;
1 In seipso fotus teres atque rotundus.
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