[Footnote 1: A variation from:
"mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae."
_Epist. ad Pisones.--W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder;
still used in every part of Ireland.--_Scott_.]
TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON
TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON,
WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED.
TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN
DEAR DAN,
Here I return my trust, nor ask
One penny for remittance;
If I have well perform'd my task,
Pray send me an acquittance.
Too long I bore this weighty pack,
As Hercules the sky;
Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back,
Let me be stander-by.
Not all the witty things you speak
In compass of a day,
Not half the puns you make a-week,
Should bribe his longer stay.
With me you left him out at nurse,
Yet are you not my debtor;
For, as he hardly can be worse,
I ne'er could make him better.
He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes,
Just as he did before;
And, when he's lash'd a hundred times,
He rhymes and puns the more.
When rods are laid on school-boys' bums,
The more they frisk and skip:
The school-boys' top but louder hums
The more they use the whip.
Thus, a lean beast beneath a load
(A beast of Irish breed)
Will, in a tedious dirty road,
Outgo the prancing steed.
You knock him down and down in vain,
And lay him flat before ye,
For soon as he gets up again,
He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!
At every stroke of mine, he fell,
'Tis true he roar'd and cried;
But his impenetrable shell
Could feel no harm beside.
The tortoise thus, with motion slow,
Will clamber up a wall;
Yet, senseless to the hardest blow,
Gets nothing but a fall.
Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I,
Attack his pericrany?
And, since it is in vain to try,
We'll send him to Delany.
POSTSCRIPT
Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry,
Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery,
But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says,
He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses,
For omitting the first (where I make a comparison,
With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison)
Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is
A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.
So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul
This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal?
And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.
SHERIDAN TO SWIFT
A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate,
The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target;
Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could,
But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood;
While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him,
While t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him,
Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore,
Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!"
Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man,
Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan;
For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough,
The devil himself can't get through his buff.
Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard,
Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard;
And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar,
Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore.
Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it,
You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet;
With the din of which tube my head you so bother,
That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.
You made me in your last a goose;
I lay my life on't you are wrong,
To raise me by such foul abuse;
My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue;
And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
And like a bird do something more;
When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter,
I'll change you to a black-a-moor.
I'll write while I have half an eye in my head;
I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead.
Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave,
I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]
[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]
SHERIDAN TO SWIFT
I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean,
To see you live, so often slain.
My arrows fly and fly in vain,
But still I try and try again.
I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein;
Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain,
Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean;
I will not tell, because it's plain.
Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane;
If so, from pen and ink refrain.
Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain
For her and you; your life's a scene
Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane,
Enough to crack the strongest brain.
Now to conclude, I do remain,
Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.
SWIFT TO SHERIDAN
Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance,
Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance.
You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer;
Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer?
If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye,
And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury,
I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk;
I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk:
Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding,
I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.
MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723
Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head!
You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.
I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth;
I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth.
Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame
For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name.
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-shank hoddy doddy.
And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse,
Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose:
Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October,
And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober:
Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd 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:[1] 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
story:
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.
Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil:
I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks 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 dish-clout to his tail.
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 better.
Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from
prayers:
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,
MARY.
[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 349.--_W.E.B_.]
A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE
Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw:
In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw;
A temper the devil himself could not bridle;
Impertinent mixture of busy and idle;
As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed;
She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit;
A housewife in bed, at table a slattern;
For all an example, for no one a pattern.
Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4]
Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?
[Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]
[Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]
[Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]
[Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]
ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP
Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise
Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes,
Like ghost I glide along your floor,
And softly shut the parlour door:
For, should I break your sweet repose,
Who knows what money you might lose:
Since oftentimes it has been found,
A dream has given ten thousand pound?
Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on,
And all you get shall be your own;
Provided you to this agree,
That all you lose belongs to me.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER
So, about twelve at night, the punk
Steals from the cully when he's drunk:
Nor is contented with a treat,
Without her privilege to cheat:
Nor can I the least difference find,
But that you left no clap behind.
But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,
My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny
To eat my meat and drink my medlicot,
And then to give me such a deadly cut--
But 'tis observed, that men in gowns
Are most inclined to plunder crowns.
Could you but change a crown as easy
As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye!
I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's
Knew how to set you better patterns;
For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3]
And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.
Saturday night.
[Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.--_F._]
[Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.--_F._]
[Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin,
comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman,
for whom the Dean had a great esteem.--_Scott_.]
A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL.
SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS
AS in a silent night a lonely swain,
'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain,
To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes,
And every look finds out a new surprise;
So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view
Our lower sphere made more serene by you.
O! could such light in my dark bosom shine,
What life, what vigour, should adorn each line!
Beauty and virtue should be all my theme,
And Venus brighten my poetic flame.
The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one
Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;
Majestic light his feeble art defies,
And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.
Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
Sink far below your too exalted praise:
Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain;
No, we're sincere,--to flatter you were vain.
You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied,
And all perfections but your beauties hide.
Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind,
Nor frown on those you see so well inclined
To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then
Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.
THE EPILOGUE
Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell
Have we not play'd our parts extremely well?
We think we did, but if you do complain,
We're all content to act the play again:
'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most,
And time well spent in school cannot be lost.
But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above?
We guess'd long since you all desired to move:
But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir,
Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1]
Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play;
He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay.
Though this new method may provoke your laughter,
To act plays first, and understand them after;
We do not care, for we will have our humour,
And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more.
Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge;
How much they've read, I leave you all to judge.
[Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here
intended.--_W. E. B._]
THE SONG
A parody on the popular song beginning,
"My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."
My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent,
When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went;
For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest;
Was ever a toper so merrily blest?
But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
Because I must go to my wife back to town;
To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear,"
And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer.
My daughter I ever was pleased to see
Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee:
My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said,
Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head:
But now out of humour, I with a sour look,
Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book;
And I'll give her another; for why should she play,
Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away?
Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become,
That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum?
Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile,
While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done,
Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone.
Then since it is so, bring me here a supply;
Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.
A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S
GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY SHERIDAN
1723
How few can be of grandeur sure!
The high may fall, the rich be poor.
The only favourite at court,
To-morrow may be Fortune's sport;
For all her pleasure and her aim
Is to destroy both power and fame.
Of this the Dean is an example,
No instance is more plain and ample.
The world did never yet produce,
For courts a man of greater use.
Nor has the world supplied as yet,
With more vivacity and wit;
Merry alternately and wise,
To please the statesman, and advise.
Through all the last and glorious reign,
Was nothing done without the Dean;
The courtier's prop, the nation's pride;
But now, alas! he's thrown aside;
He's quite forgot, and so's the queen,
As if they both had never been.
To see him now a mountaineer!
Oh! what a mighty fall is here!
From settling governments and thrones,
To splitting rocks, and piling stones.
Instead of Bolingbroke and Anna,
Shane Tunnally, and Bryan Granna,
Oxford and Ormond he supplies,
In every Irish Teague he spies:
So far forgetting his old station,
He seems to like their conversation,
Conforming to the tatter'd rabble,
He learns their Irish tongue to gabble;
And, what our anger more provokes,
He's pleased with their insipid jokes;
Then turns and asks them who do lack a
Good plug, or pipefull of tobacco.
All cry they want, to every man
He gives, extravagant, a span.
Thus are they grown more fond than ever,
And he is highly in their favour.
Bright Stella, Quilca's greatest pride,
For them he scorns and lays aside;
And Sheridan is left alone
All day, to gape, and stretch, and groan;
While grumbling, poor, complaining Dingley,
Is left to care and trouble singly.
All o'er the mountains spreads the rumour,
Both of his bounty and good humour;
So that each shepherdess and swain
Comes flocking here to see the Dean.
All spread around the land, you'd swear
That every day we kept a fair.
My fields are brought to such a pass,
I have not left a blade of grass;
That all my wethers and my beeves
Are slighted by the very thieves.
At night right loath to quit the park,
His work just ended by the dark,
With all his pioneers he comes,
To make more work for whisk and brooms.
Then seated in an elbow-chair,
To take a nap he does prepare;
While two fair damsels from the lawns,
Lull him asleep with soft cronawns.
Thus are his days in delving spent,
His nights in music and content;
He seems to gain by his distress,
His friends are more, his honours less.
TO QUILCA
A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725
Let me thy properties explain:
A rotten cabin, dropping rain:
Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke;
Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
Here elements have lost their uses,
Air ripens not, nor earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil,
Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want, in triumph reigns;
And her chief officers of state,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE
1725
Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Not seen by our betters.
THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE
A companion with news; a great want of shoes;
Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews;
Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay;
December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.
A FAITHFUL INVENTORY
OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO ---- ROOM IN T. C. D.
IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725
----quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1]
This description of a scholar's room in Trinity College, Dublin, was
found among Mr. Smith's papers. It is not in the Dean's hand, but seems
to have been the production of Sheridan.
Imprimis, there's a table blotted,
A tatter'd hanging all bespotted.
A bed of flocks, as I may rank it,
Reduced to rug and half a blanket.
A tinder box without a flint,
An oaken desk with nothing in't;
A pair of tongs bought from a broker,
A fender and a rusty poker;
A penny pot and basin, this
Design'd for water, that for piss;
A broken-winded pair of bellows,
Two knives and forks, but neither fellows.
Item, a surplice, not unmeeting,
Either for table-cloth, or sheeting;
There is likewise a pair of breeches,
But patch'd, and fallen in the stitches,
Hung up in study very little,
Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle,
An airy prospect all so pleasing,
From my light window without glazing,
A trencher and a College bottle,
Piled up on Locke and Aristotle.
A prayer-book, which he seldom handles
A save-all and two farthing candles.
A smutty ballad, musty libel,
A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible.
The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses
By Overton, to save expenses.
Item, (if I am not much mistaken,)
A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon.
A candlestick without a snuffer,
Whereby his fingers often suffer.
Two odd old shoes I should not skip here,
Each strapless serves instead of slippers,
And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em,
But each of them without a bottom.
Thus I in rhyme have comprehended
His goods, and so my schedule's ended.
[Footnote 1: Virg., "Aen.," ii, 5.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of "An Argument to prove that
the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen
Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of
that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author's reply."
London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so
disliked.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in
mezzotints.--_W. E. B._]
PALINODIA[1]
HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI
Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays outshine,
Look down upon your quondam foe;
O! let me never write again,
If e'er I disoblige you, Dean,
Should you compassion show.
Take those iambics which I wrote,
When anger made me piping hot,
And give them to your cook,
To singe your fowl, or save your paste
The next time when you have a feast;
They'll save you many a book.
To burn them, you are not content;
I give you then my free consent,
To sink them in the harbour;
If not, they'll serve to set off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
So give them to your barber.
Or, when you next your physic take,
I must entreat you then to make
A proper application;
'Tis what I've done myself before,
With Dan's fine thoughts and many more,
Who gave me provocation.
What cannot mighty anger do?
It makes the weak the strong pursue,
A goose attack a swan;
It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
Her husband's hands and face assail,
While he's no longer man.
Though some, we find, are more discreet,
Before the world are wondrous sweet,
And let their husbands hector:
But when the world's asleep, they wake,
That is the time they choose to speak:
Witness the curtain lecture.
Such was the case with you, I find:
All day you could conceal your mind;
But when St. Patrick's chimes
Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse,
When I engaged for better for worse,)
You scolded with your rhymes.
Have done! have done! I quit the field,
To you as to my wife, I yield:
As she must wear the breeches:
So shall you wear the laurel crown,
Win it and wear it, 'tis your own;
The poet's only riches.
[Footnote 1: Recantation.--_W. E. B._]
A LETTER TO THE DEAN
WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN
You will excuse me, I suppose,
For sending rhyme instead of prose.
Because hot weather makes me lazy,
To write in metre is more easy.
While you are trudging London town,
I'm strolling Dublin up and down;
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease,
I choose companions as I please.
I'd rather have one single shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be said,
Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1]
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
While you are starving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butchers' meat.
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why, so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you mayn't in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.
Our weather's good, our sky is clear;
We've every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and so bright a sky
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go;
To see M'Faden's horny brothers
First suck, and after bull their mothers;
To see, alas! my wither'd trees!
To see what all the country sees!
My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves,
My servants such a pack of thieves;
My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks,
My house in common to all folks,
No cabbage for a single snail,
My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail;
My no green peas, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the pouts;
My horses rid, or gone astray;
My fish all stolen or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry starved, the corn all sold.
A man come now from Quilca says,
"_They_'ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;"
But, what must fret and vex me more,
He says, "_They_ stole the keys before.
_They_'ve stol'n the knives from all the forks;
And half the cows from half the sturks."
Nay more, the fellow swears and vows,
"_They_'ve stol'n the sturks from half the cows:"
With many more accounts of woe,
Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go:
'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear,
Because I've more vexation here.
[Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.--_Dublin
Edition._]
[Footnote 2: _They_ is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for
whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is,
"They have stolen it." _Dublin Edition._--_W. E. B._]
AN INVITATION TO DINNER
FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT
1727
I've sent to the ladies this morning to warn 'em,
To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1]
Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship
Can take up with me, and my friend Stella's leanship.[2]
I've got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding bret,
That's just disengaged from the toils of a net:
An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted,
With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted:
Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies,
Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes;
And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they died,
And now they're to lie in some crumbs that are fried.
My wine will inspire you with joy and delight,
'Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright;
An emblem of one that you love, I suppose,
Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4]
Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope,
We'll wean you from sighing for England I hope;
When we are together there's nothing that is dull,
There's nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or Tisdall.
We've sworn to make out an agreeable feast,
Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.
Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers;
you have a pencil in your pocket.
[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country
house.]
[Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health.
She died the January following.--_F._]
[Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a
fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, "Metam.,"
iii, 407.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable
women in the world.--_F._]
ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S HOLE[1]
WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD
N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR.
SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728
Fair ladies, number five,
Who in your merry freaks,
With little Tom contrive
To feast on ale and steaks;
While he sits by a-grinning,
To see you safe in Sot's Hole,
Set up with greasy linen,
And neither mugs nor pots whole;
Alas! I never thought
A priest would please your palate;
Besides, I'll hold a groat
He'll put you in a ballad;
Where I shall see your faces,
On paper daub'd so foul,
They'll be no more like graces,
Than Venus like an owl.
And we shall take you rather
To be a midnight pack
Of witches met together,
With Beelzebub in black.
It fills my heart with woe,
To think such ladies fine
Should be reduced so low,
To treat a dull divine.
Be by a parson cheated!
Had you been cunning stagers,
You might yourselves be treated
By captains and by majors.
See how corruption grows,
While mothers, daughters, aunts,
Instead of powder'd beaux,
From pulpits choose gallants.
If we, who wear our wigs
With fantail and with snake,
Are bubbled thus by prigs;
Z----ds! who would be a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,
I'd knock the Doctor down;
Or could I read or write,
Egad! I'd wear a gown.
Then leave him to his birch;[3]
And at the Rose on Sunday,
The parson safe at church,
I'll treat you with burgundy.
[Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for
beef-steaks.--_F._]
[Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.--_F._]
[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.--_F._]
THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BEAU
WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD
BY DR. SHERIDAN
You little scribbling beau,
What demon made you write?
Because to write you know
As much as you can fight.
For compliment so scurvy,
I wish we had you here;
We'd turn you topsy-turvy
Into a mug of beer.
You thought to make a farce on
The man and place we chose;
We're sure a single parson
Is worth a hundred beaux.
And you would make us vassals,
Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
To silver clocks and tassels;
You would, you Thing of Things!
Because around your cane
A ring of diamonds is set;
And you, in some by-lane,
Have gain'd a paltry grisette;
Shall we, of sense refined,
Your trifling nonsense bear,
As noisy as the wind,
As empty as the air?
We hate your empty prattle;
And vow and swear 'tis true,
There's more in one child's rattle,
Than twenty fops like you.
THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER
Why, how now, dapper black!
I smell your gown and cassock,
As strong upon your back,
As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock.
To write such scurvy stuff!
Fine ladies never do't;
I know you well enough,
And eke your cloven foot.
Fine ladies, when they write,
Nor scold, nor keep a splutter:
Their verses give delight,
As soft and sweet as butter.
But Satan never saw
Such haggard lines as these:
They stick athwart my maw,
As bad as Suffolk cheese.
[Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland,
who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned
in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall
or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the
Journal.--_W. E. B._]
DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1]
1728
All you that would refine your blood,
As pure as famed Llewellyn,
By waters clear, come every year
To drink at Ballyspellin.
Though pox or itch your skins enrich
With rubies past the telling,
'Twill clear your skin before you've been
A month at Ballyspellin.
If lady's cheek be green as leek
When she comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rose within it glows
When she's at Ballyspellin.
The sooty brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;
Then back she goes, to kill the beaux,
By dint of Ballyspellin.
Our ladies are as fresh and fair
As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling:
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyspellin.
We men submit as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling:
The reason's plain; the ladies reign,
They're queens at Ballyspellin.
By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
Their power at Ballyspellin.
Cold water turns to fire, and burns
I know, because I fell in
A stream, which came from one bright dame
Who drank at Ballyspellin.
Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
To bring their Anne or Nell in,
With so much grace, I'm sure no place
Can vie with Ballyspellin.
No politics, no subtle tricks,
No man his country selling:
We eat, we drink; we never think
Of these at Ballyspellin.
The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind,
Do all come here pell-mell in;
And they are sure to work their cure
By drinking Ballyspellin.
Though dropsy fills you to the gills,
From chin to toe though swelling,
Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Ballyspellin.
Death throws no darts through all these parts,
No sextons here are knelling;
Come, judge and try, you'll never die,
But live at Ballyspellin.
Except you feel darts tipp'd with steel,
Which here are every belle in:
When from their eyes sweet ruin flies,
We die at Ballyspellin.
Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care,
Your sight, your taste, your smelling,
Your ears, your touch, transported much
Each day at Ballyspellin.
Within this ground we all sleep sound,
No noisy dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Celia's sake,
All night at Ballyspellin.
There all you see, both he and she,
No lady keeps her cell in;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyspellin.
My rhymes are gone; I think I've none,
Unless I should bring Hell in;
But, since I'm here to Heaven so near,
I can't at Ballyspellin!
[Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, "whither Sheridan
had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady." See note to the
"Answer," _post_, p. 371.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Ross.--_Dublin Edition._]
ANSWER.[1] BY DR. SWIFT
Dare you dispute, you saucy brute,
And think there's no refelling
Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise
You give to Ballyspellin?
Howe'er you flounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;
Your water's mud, and sours the blood
When drunk at Ballyspellin.
Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,
You thither are compelling,
Will back be sent worse than they went,
From nasty Ballyspellin.
Llewellyn why? As well may I
Name honest Doctor Pellin;
So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes,
To bring in Ballyspellin.
No subject fit to try your wit,
When you went colonelling:
But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues,
You met at Ballyspellin.
Our lasses fair, say what you dare,
Who sowins[2] make with shelling,
At Market-hill more beaux can kill,
Than yours at Ballyspellin.
Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript,
To wash herself our well in,
A bum so white ne'er came in sight
At paltry Ballyspellin.
Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear;
Of Holland not an ell in,
No, not a rag, whate'er your brag,
Is found at Ballyspellin.
But Tom will prate at any rate,
All other nymphs expelling:
Because he gets a few grisettes
At lousy Ballyspellin.
There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane,
Just o'er against the Bell inn;
Where can you meet a lass so sweet,
Round all your Ballyspellin?
We have a girl deserves an earl;
She came from Enniskellin;
So fair, so young, no such among
The belles of Ballyspellin.
How would you stare, to see her there,
The foggy mists dispelling,
That cloud the brows of every blowse
Who lives at Ballyspellin!
Now, as I live, I would not give
A stiver or a skellin,
To towse and kiss the fairest miss
That leaks at Ballyspellin.
Whoe'er will raise such lies as these
Deserves a good cudgelling:
Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts
At dirty Ballyspellin.
My rhymes are gone to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as those you write,
To force in Ballyspellin.
[Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift was
on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, "in a mere jest and innocent
merriment," was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady and
himself, "against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment,
gratitude, or common manners." See "The History of the Second Solomon,"
"Prose Works," xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon passed, and the Dean
and Sheridan resumed their intimate friendship.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, and
other parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the shellings of
oats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.--_F._]
AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS[1]
TO DR. HELSHAM [2]
Nov. 23, at night, 1731.
SIR,
When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick;
I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick;
And the patientest patient ever you knew sick;
Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick.
I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick:
She mended at first, but now she's anew sick.
Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick.
Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick.
Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick?
Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew sick,
And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick.
Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick:
For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?
Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick,
Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.
Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick.
My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick,
And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick:
But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick:
And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick:
For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick,
And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.
Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick;
But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick,
And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick.
So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick;
You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick;
So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.
[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a
specimen of those _bagatelles_ for which the Dean hath perhaps been too
severely censured.--_H._]
[Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural
Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath,
Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminent
physician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literary
coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.--_W. E. B._.]
[Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's
day was usually performed.--_F._]
[Footnote 4: _Vide_ Grattan, _inter_ Belchamp and Clonshogh.--_Dublin
Edition._]
TO DR. SHERIDAN
Nov. 23, at night.
If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.
This night I came home with a very cold dew sick,
And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick;
But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick,
Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.
DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER
The Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick:
I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,
For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,
Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick:
Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick:
And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick,
The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick,
And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick.
The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew sick;
Had we two been there, it would have made me and you sick:
A lady that long'd, is by eating of glue sick;
Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick?
I'm told that my wife is by winding a clew sick;
The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick.
There's a gamester in town, for a throw that he threw sick,
And yet the whole trade of his dice he'll pursue sick;
I've known an old miser for paying his due sick;
At present I'm grown by a pinch of my shoe sick,
And what would you have me with verses to do sick?
Send rhymes, and I'll send you some others in lieu sick.
Of rhymes I have plenty,
And therefore send twenty.
Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23.
I desire you will carry both these to the Doctor together with his own;
and let him know we are not persons to be insulted.
I was at Howth to-day, and staid abroad a-visiting till just now.
Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731.
"Can you match with me,
Who send thirty-three?
You must get fourteen more,
To make up thirty-four:
But, if me you can conquer,
I'll own you a strong cur."[2]
This morning I'm growing, by smelling of yew, sick;
My brother's come over with gold from Peru sick;
Last night I came home in a storm that then blew sick;
This moment my dog at a cat I halloo sick;
I hear from good hands, that my poor cousin Hugh's sick;
By quaffing a bottle, and pulling a screw sick:
And now there's no more I can write (you'll excuse) sick;
You see that I scorn to mention word music.
I'll do my best,
To send the rest;
Without a jest,
I'll stand the test.
These lines that I send you, I hope you'll peruse sick;
I'll make you with writing a little more news sick;
Last night I came home with drinking of booze sick;
My carpenter swears that he'll hack and he'll hew sick.
An officer's lady, I'm told, is tattoo sick;
I'm afraid that the line thirty-four you will view sick.
Lord! I could write a dozen more;
You see I've mounted thirty-four.
[Footnote 1: Time.--_Dublin Edition._]
[Footnote 2: The lines "thus marked" were written by Dr. Swift, at the
bottom of Dr. Helsham's twenty lines; and the following fourteen were
afterwards added on the same paper.--_N._]
A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY
OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR.
UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH,
UNTIL HIS OWN WAS BUILT[1]
An oaken broken elbow-chair;
A caudle cup without an ear;
A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that's crack'd across, around,
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;
A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;
A pair of bellows, without pipe;
A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter
One is for meal, and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all,
And thus his household goods you have all.
These, to your lordship, as a friend,
'Till you have built, I freely lend:
They'll serve your lordship for a shift;
Why not as well as Doctor Swift?
[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to
the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift's great
surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the
time.--_Scott._]
A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES
WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1]
1733
To make a writer miss his end,
You've nothing else to do but mend.
I often tried in vain to find
A simile[2] for womankind,
A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,
In every circumstance to hit 'em.[3]
Through every beast and bird I went,
I ransack'd every element;
And, after peeping through all nature,
To find so whimsical a creature,
A cloud[4] presented to my view,
And straight this parallel I drew:
Clouds turn with every wind about,
They keep us in suspense and doubt,
Yet, oft perverse, like womankind,
Are seen to scud against the wind:
And are not women just the same?
For who can tell at what they aim?[5]
Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under,
When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder:
So, when the alarum-bell is rung,
Of Xanti's[7] everlasting tongue,
The husband dreads its loudness more
Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar.
Clouds weep, as they do, without pain;
And what are tears but women's rain?
The clouds about the welkin roam:[8]
And ladies never stay at home.
The clouds build castles in the air,
A thing peculiar to the fair:
For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9]
Are not more solid nor more lasting.
A cloud is light by turns, and dark,
Such is a lady with her spark;
Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,[11]
And all is clear when she has smiled.
In this they're wondrously alike,
(I hope the simile will strike,)[12]
Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them,
Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.
The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14]
And frequently produce infection;
So Celia, with small provocation,
Blasts every neighbour's reputation.
The clouds delight in gaudy show,
(For they, like ladies, have their bow;)
The gravest matron[15] will confess,
That she herself is fond of dress.
Observe the clouds in pomp array'd,
What various colours are display'd;
The pink, the rose, the violet's dye,
In that great drawing-room the sky;
How do these differ from our Graces,[16]
In garden-silks, brocades, and laces?
Are they not such another sight,
When met upon a birth-day night?
The clouds delight to change their fashion:
(Dear ladies, be not in a passion!)
Nor let this whim to you seem strange,
Who every hour delight in change.
In them and you alike are seen
The sullen symptoms of the spleen;
The moment that your vapours rise,
We see them dropping from your eyes.
In evening fair you may behold
The clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold;
And this is many a lady's case,
Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.[17]
Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow;
While brisk coquettes,[18] like rattling hail,
Our ears on every side assail.
Clouds, when they intercept our sight,
Deprive us of celestial light:
So when my Chloe I pursue,
No heaven besides I have in view.
Thus, on comparison,[19] you see,
In every instance they agree;
So like, so very much the same,
That one may go by t'other's name.
Let me proclaim[20] it then aloud,
That every woman is a cloud.
[Footnote 1: The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's,
are replaced from the Irish edition:]
[Footnote 2: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a _smile_; but they
are to note, it consists of three syllables, si-mi-le. In English, a
likeness.]
[Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.]
[Footnote 4: Not like a gun or pistol.]
[Footnote 5: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]
[Footnote 6: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a
cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.]
[Footnote 7: Xanti, a nick-name for Xantippe, that scold of glorious
memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet
with unexampled patience, he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg
the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her; and at the
same time I assure them, it is not to lessen those of the present age,
who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that
I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that
they have not as great men to work upon.
When a friend asked Socrates, how he could bear the scolding of his
wife Xantippe? he retorted, and asked him, how he could bear the
gaggling of his geese? Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replied his
friend; so doth my wife bear children, said Socrates.--_Diog. Laert._
Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue?
he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the
impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad.--_Plat. De
Capiend. ex host. utilit._
Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great
rage, went in to them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in a
passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do
the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any
resentment?--_Plat. de ira cohibenda._
I could give many more instances of her termagancy, and his philosophy,
if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity
to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I
declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour
to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great
esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honourable
station of matrimony.]
[Footnote 8: Ramble.]
[Footnote 9: Not vomiting.]
[Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.]
[Footnote 11: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when
brewers put yeast or harm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or
cheated.]
[Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.]
[Footnote 13: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig, called Dumpty-Deary,
invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.]
[Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.]
[Footnote 15: Motherly woman.]
[Footnote 16: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the
duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.]
[Footnote 17: Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I
mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not
able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last
birth-day.--Vid. the shopkeepers' books.]
[Footnote 18: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a
number of monkey-airs to catch men.]
[Footnote 19: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to
think these comparisons are odious.]
[Footnote 20: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and
rapparees.]
AN ANSWER TO A SCANDALOUS POEM
Wherein the Author most audaciously presumes to cast an indignity upon
their highnesses the Clouds, by comparing them to a woman.
Written by DERMOT O'NEPHELY, Chief Cape of Howth.[1]
BY DR. SWIFT
ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE CLOUDS
N.B. The following answer to that scurrilous libel against us, should
have been published long ago in our own justification: But it was
advised, that, considering the high importance of the subject, it should
be deferred until the meeting of the General Assembly of the Nation.
[Two passages within crotchets are added to this poem, from a copy
found amongst Swift's papers. It is indorsed, "Quære, should it go."
And a little lower, "More, but of no use."]
Presumptuous bard! how could you dare
A woman with a cloud compare?
Strange pride and insolence you show
Inferior mortals there below.
And is our thunder in your ears
So frequent or so loud as theirs?
Alas! our thunder soon goes out;
And only makes you more devout.
Then is not female clatter worse,
That drives you not to pray, but curse?
We hardly thunder thrice a-year;
The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear;
But every sublunary dowdy,
The more she scolds, the more she's cloudy.
[How useful were a woman's thunder,
If she, like us, would burst asunder!
Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her,
And, whisp'ring, wish'd the devil burst her:
For hourly thund'ring in his face,
She ne'er was known to burst a lace.]
Some critic may object, perhaps,
That clouds are blamed for giving claps;
But what, alas! are claps ethereal,
Compared for mischief to venereal?
Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches,
Or from your noses dig out notches?
We leave the body sweet and sound;
We kill, 'tis true, but never wound.
You know a cloudy sky bespeaks
Fair weather when the morning breaks;
But women in a cloudy plight,
Foretell a storm to last till night.
A cloud in proper season pours
His blessings down in fruitful showers;
But woman was by fate design'd
To pour down curses on mankind.
When Sirius[2] o'er the welkin rages,
Our kindly help his fire assuages;
But woman is a cursed inflamer,
No parish ducking-stool can tame her:
To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her;
Like fireworks, she can burn in water.
For fickleness how durst you blame us,
Who for our constancy are famous?
You'll see a cloud in gentle weather
Keep the same face an hour together;
While women, if it could be reckon'd,
Change every feature every second.
Observe our figure in a morning,
Of foul or fair we give you warning;
But can you guess from women's air
One minute, whether foul or fair?
Go read in ancient books enroll'd
What honours we possess'd of old.
To disappoint Ixion's[3] rape
Jove dress'd a cloud in Juno's shape;
Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore,
No goddess could have pleased him more;
No difference could he find between
His cloud and Jove's imperial queen;
His cloud produced a race of Centaurs,
Famed for a thousand bold adventures;
From us descended _ab origine_,
By learned authors, called _nubigenae_;
But say, what earthly nymph do you know,
So beautiful to pass for Juno?
Before Г†neas durst aspire
To court her majesty of Tyre,
His mother begg'd of us to dress him,
That Dido might the more caress him:
A coat we gave him, dyed in grain,
A flaxen wig, and clouded cane,
(The wig was powder'd round with sleet,
Which fell in clouds beneath his feet)
With which he made a tearing show;
And Dido quickly smoked the beau.
Among your females make inquiries,
What nymph on earth so fair as Iris?
With heavenly beauty so endow'd?
And yet her father is a cloud.
We dress'd her in a gold brocade,
Befitting Juno's favourite maid.
'Tis known that Socrates the wise
Adored us clouds as deities:
To us he made his daily prayers,
As Aristophanes declares;
From Jupiter took all dominion,
And died defending his opinion.
By his authority 'tis plain
You worship other gods in vain;
And from your own experience know
We govern all things there below.
You follow where we please to guide;
O'er all your passions we preside,
Can raise them up, or sink them down,
As we think fit to smile or frown:
And, just as we dispose your brain,
Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain.
Compare us then to female race!
We, to whom all the gods give place!
Who better challenge your allegiance
Because we dwell in higher regions.
You find the gods in Homer dwell
In seas and streams, or low as Hell:
Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp,
No higher climb than mount Olymp.
Who makes you think the clouds he pierces?
He pierce the clouds! he kiss their a--es;
While we, o'er Teneriffa placed,
Are loftier by a mile at least:
And, when Apollo struts on Pindus,
We see him from our kitchen windows;
Or, to Parnassus looking down,
Can piss upon his laurel crown.
Fate never form'd the gods to fly;
In vehicles they mount the sky:
When Jove would some fair nymph inveigle,
He comes full gallop on his eagle;
Though Venus be as light as air,
She must have doves to draw her chair;
Apollo stirs not out of door,
Without his lacquer'd coach and four;
And jealous Juno, ever snarling,
Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin:
But we can fly where'er we please,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas:
From east to west the world we roam,
And in all climates are at home;
With care provide you as we go
With sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow.
You, when it rains, like fools, believe
Jove pisses on you through a sieve:
An idle tale, 'tis no such matter;
We only dip a sponge in water,
Then squeeze it close between our thumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes;
As you shall to your sorrow know;
We'll watch your steps where'er you go;
And, since we find you walk a-foot,
We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout.
'Tis but by our peculiar grace,
That Phoebus ever shows his face;
For, when we please, we open wide
Our curtains blue from side to side;
And then how saucily he shows
His brazen face and fiery nose;
And gives himself a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!
'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads,
The violets ope their purple heads;
The roses blow, the cowslip springs;
'Tis sung; but we know better things.
'Tis true, a woman on her mettle
Will often piss upon a nettle;
But though we own she makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we, by soft prolific showers,
Can every spring produce you flowers.
Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning,
Compare her radiant eyes to lightning;
And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd,
That lightning comes but from a cloud.
But gods like us have too much sense
At poets' flights to take offence;
Nor can hyperboles demean us;
Each drab has been compared to Venus.
We own your verses are melodious;
But such comparisons are odious.
[Observe the case--I state it thus:
Though you compare your trull to us,
But think how damnably you err
When you compare us clouds to her;
From whence you draw such bold conclusions;
But poets love profuse allusions.
And, if you now so little spare us,
Who knows how soon you may compare us
To Chartres, Walpole, or a king,
If once we let you have your swing.
Such wicked insolence appears
Offensive to all pious ears.
To flatter women by a metaphor!
What profit could you hope to get of her?
And, for her sake, turn base detractor
Against your greatest benefactor.
But we shall keep revenge in store
If ever you provoke us more:
For, since we know you walk a-foot,
We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout;
Or may we never thunder throw,
Nor souse to death a birth-day beau.
We own your verses are melodious;
But such comparisons are odious.]
