Then proceeded on the common matters of the law; and concluded:
Once more, and no more, since few words are best,
I charge you all present, by way of request,
If ye honour, as I do,
Our dear royal widow,
Or have any compassion
For church or the nation;
And would live a long while
In continual smile,
And eat roast and boil,
And not be forgotten,
When ye are dead and rotten;
That ye would be quiet, and peaceably dwell,
And never fall out, but p--s all in a quill.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Offspring Blackall. He was made Bishop of Exeter in
1707, and died in 1716.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 2: Swift hated the word "mob," and insisted that the proper
word to use was "rabble." See "Letters of Swift," edit. Birkbeck Hill, p.
55; and "Prose Works," ix, p. 35, _n.--_W. E. B._]
PARODY ON THE RECORDER'S SPEECH
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, 1711
This city can omit no opportunity of expressing their hearty affection
for her majesty's person and government; and their regard for your grace,
who has the honour of representing her in this kingdom.
We retain, my lord, a grateful remembrance of the mild and just
Administration of the government of this kingdom by your noble ancestors;
and, when we consider the share your grace had in the happy Revolution,
in 1688, and the many good laws you have procured us since, particularly
that for preventing the farther growth of Popery, we are assured that
that liberty and property, that happy constitution in church and state,
to which we were restored by King William of glorious memory, will
be inviolably preserved under your grace's administration. And we are
persuaded that we cannot more effectually recommend ourselves to your
grace's favour and protection, than by assuring you that we will, to the
utmost of our power, contribute to the honour and safety of her majesty's
government, the maintenance of the succession in the illustrious house
of Hanover, and that we shall at all times oppose the secret and open
attempts of the Pretender, and all his abettors.
THE RECORDER'S SPEECH EXPLAINED BY THE TORIES
An ancient metropolis, famous of late
For opposing the Church, and for nosing the State,
For protecting sedition and rejecting order,
Made the following speech by their mouth, the Recorder:
First, to tell you the name of this place of renown,
Some still call it Dublin, but most Forster's town.
THE SPEECH
May it please your Grace,
We cannot omit this occasion to tell,
That we love the Queen's person and government well;
Then next, to your Grace we this compliment make,
That our worships regard you, but 'tis for her sake:
Though our mouth be a Whig, and our head a Dissenter,
Yet salute you we must, 'cause you represent her:
Nor can we forget, sir, that some of your line
Did with mildness and peace in this government shine.
But of all your exploits, we'll allow but one fact,
That your Grace has procured us a Popery Act.
By this you may see that the least of your actions
Does conduce still the most to our satisfactions.
And lastly, because in the year eighty-eight
You did early appear in defence of our right,
We give no other proof of your zeal to your Prince;
So we freely forget all your services since.
It's then only we hope, that whilst you rule o'er us,
You'll tread in the steps of King William the glorious,
Whom we're always adoring, tho' hand over head,
For we owe him allegiance, although he be dead;
Which shows that good zeal may be founded in spleen,
Since a dead Prince we worship, to lessen the Queen.
And as for her Majesty, we will defend her
Against our hobgoblin, the Popish Pretender.
Our valiant militia will stoutly stand by her,
Against the sly Jack, and the sturdy High-flier.
She is safe when thus guarded, if Providence bless her,
And Hanover's sure to be next her successor.
Thus ended the speech, but what heart would not pity
His Grace, almost choked with the breath of the City!
BALLAD
To the tune of "Commons and Peers."
A WONDERFUL age
Is now on the stage:
I'll sing you a song, if I can,
How modern Whigs,
Dance forty-one jigs,[1]
But God bless our gracious Queen Anne.
The kirk with applause
Is established by laws
As the orthodox church of the nation.
The bishops do own
It's as good as their own.
And this, Sir, is call'd moderation.
It's no riddle now
To let you see how
A church by oppression may speed;
Nor is't banter or jest,
That the kirk faith is best
On the other side of the Tweed.
For no soil can suit
With every fruit,
Even so, Sir, it is with religion;
The best church by far
Is what grows where you are,
Were it Mahomet's ass or his pigeon.
Another strange story
That vexes the Tory,
But sure there's no mystery in it,
That a pension and place
Give communicants grace,
Who design to turn tail the next minute.
For if it be not strange,
That religion should change,
As often as climates and fashions;
Then sure there's no harm,
That one should conform.
To serve their own private occasions.
Another new dance,
Which of late they advance,
Is to cry up the birth of Pretender,
And those that dare own
The queen heir to the crown,
Are traitors, not fit to defend her.
The subject's most loyal
That hates the blood royal,
And they for employments have merit,
Who swear queen and steeple
Were made by the people,
And neither have right to inherit.
The monarchy's fixt,
By making on't mixt,
And by non-resistance o'erthrown;
And preaching obedience
Destroys our allegiance,
And thus the Whigs prop up the throne.
That viceroy [2] is best,
That would take off the test,
And made a sham speech to attempt it;
But being true blue,
When he found 'twould not do,
Swore, damn him, if ever he meant it.
'Tis no news that Tom Double
The nation should bubble,
Nor is't any wonder or riddle,
That a parliament rump
Should play hop, step, and jump,
And dance any jig to his fiddle.
But now, sir, they tell,
How Sacheverell,
By bringing old doctrines in fashion,
Hath, like a damn'd rogue,
Brought religion in vogue,
And so open'd the eyes of the nation.
Then let's pray without spleen,
May God bless the queen,
And her fellow-monarchs the people;
May they prosper and thrive,
Whilst I am alive,
And so may the church with the steeple.
[Footnote 1: Alluding to the year 1641, when the great rebellion broke
out. _Scott_.]
[Footnote 2: Lord Wharton.]
ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE[1]
TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD
1710
Atlas, we read in ancient song,
Was so exceeding tall and strong,
He bore the skies upon his back,
Just as the pedler does his pack;
But, as the pedler overpress'd
Unloads upon a stall to rest,
Or, when he can no longer stand
Desires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, lest the ponderous spheres
Should sink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might sit and rest awhile.
Yet Hercules was not so strong,
Nor could have borne it half so long.
Great statesmen are in this condition;
And Atlas is a politician,
A premier minister of state;
Alcides one of second rate.
Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise;
Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his single shoulders,
Sink down he must, or find upholders.
[Footnote 1: In these free, and yet complimentary verses, Swift cautions
Oxford against his greatest political error, that affectation of mystery,
and wish of engrossing the whole management of public affairs, which
first disgusted, and then alienated, Harcourt and Bolingbroke. On this
point our author has spoken very fully in the "Free Thoughts upon. The
present State of Affairs."--_Scott_. See "Prose Works," v,
391.--_W. E. B_. ]
LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY'S BEING STABBED,
AND ADDRESSED TO HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1]
On Britain Europe's safety lies,
Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill.
[Footnote 1: For details of Guiscard's murderous attack on Harley, see
Journal to Stella, March 8, 1710-11, "Prose Works," ii.--_W. E. B._]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG
BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST PEACE. 1711
An orator _dismal_ of _Nottinghamshire,_
Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire,
Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place,
Is come up, _vi et armis_, to break the queen's peace.
He has vamp'd an old speech, and the court, to their sorrow,
Shall hear him harangue against Prior to-morrow.
When once he begins, he never will flinch,
But repeats the same note a whole day like a Finch.[1]
I have heard all the speech repeated by Hoppy,'
And, "mistakes to prevent, I've obtained a copy."
THE SPEECH
Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain,
To hear we are making a peace without Spain;
But, most noble senators, 'tis a great shame,
There should be a peace, while I'm _Not-in-game._
The duke show'd me all his fine house; and the duchess
From her closet brought out a full purse in her clutches:
I talk'd of a peace, and they both gave a start,
His grace swore by G--d, and her grace let a f--t:
My long old-fashion'd pocket was presently cramm'd;
And sooner than vote for a peace I'll be damn'd.
But some will cry turn-coat, and rip up old stories,
How I always pretended to be for the Tories:
I answer; the Tories were in my good graces,
Till all my relations were put into places.
But still I'm in principle ever the same,
And will quit my best friends, while I'm _Not-in-game._
When I and some others subscribed our names
To a plot for expelling my master King James,
I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot,
And so might discover or gain by the plot:
I had my advantage, and stood at defiance,
For Daniel[2] was got from the den of the lions:
I came in without danger, and was I to blame?
For, rather than hang, I would be _Not-in-game._
I swore to the queen, that the Prince of Hanover
During her sacred life would never come over:
I made use of a trope; that "an heir to invite,
Was like keeping her monument always in sight."
But, when I thought proper, I alter'd my note;
And in her own hearing I boldly did vote,
That her Majesty stood in great need of a tutor,
And must have an old or a young coadjutor:
For why; I would fain have put all in a flame,
Because, for some reasons, I was _Not-in-game._
Now my new benefactors have brought me about,
And I'll vote against peace, with Spain or without:
Though the court gives my nephews, and brothers, and cousins,
And all my whole family, places by dozens;
Yet, since I know where a full purse may be found,
And hardly pay eighteen-pence tax in the pound:
Since the Tories have thus disappointed my hopes,
And will neither regard my figures nor tropes,
I'll speech against peace while _Dismal's_ my name,
And be a true Whig, while I'm _Not-in-game._
[Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham's family name.]
[Footnote 2: This was the Earl's Christian name.]
THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1]
"About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in
the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small
leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The
poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some
difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put
into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St.
George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment
was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following
lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of
the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to
obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts
altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed,
is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I
suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it.
"The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old
prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their
meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader
can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion
that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the
genius of a former age, and may be an amusement to the
present."--_Swift_.
The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy,
daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in
1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish,
Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man
of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of
Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." A few months afterwards, in February
1681-2, Thynne was assassinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were
devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his
direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle's
marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the
day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the
principals as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the
murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of
Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and
friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence
Swift's "Prophecy." See "State Trials," vol. ix, and "Notes and
Queries," 1st S., v. 269.--_W. E. B._
When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,[2]
With a saint[3] at his chin and a seal at his fob,
Shall not see one[4] New-Years-day in that year,
Then let old England make good cheer:
Windsor[5] and Bristol[5] then shall be
Joined together in the Low-countree.[5]
Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird[6]
Speak against peace right many a word;
And some shall admire his coneying wit,
For many good groats his tongue shall slit.
But spight of the Harpy[7] that crawls on all four,
There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more
But England must cry alack and well-a-day,
If the stick be taken from the dead sea.[8]
And, dear Englond, if ought I understond,
Beware of Carrots[9] from Northumberlond.
Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get,
If so be they are in Somer set:
Their Conyngs[10] mark thou; for I have been told,
They assassine when younge, and poison when old.
Root out these Carrots, O thou,[11] whose name
is backwards and forwards always the same;
And keep thee close to thee always that name
Which backwards and forwards is [12] almost the same.
And, England, wouldst thou be happy still,
Burn those Carrots under a Hill.[13]
[Footnote 1: Although Swift was advised by Mrs. Masham "not to let the
Prophecy be published," and he acted on her advice, many copies were
"printed and given about, but not sold." To Stella, Swift writes: "I
doubt not but you will have the Prophecy in Ireland although it is not
published here, only printed copies given to friends." See Journal to
Stella, 26, 27 Dec. 1711, and Jan. 4, 1711-12.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the
plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 3: He was Dean of Windsor, and lord privy seal.]
[Footnote 4: The New Style, which was not adopted in Great Britain and
Ireland till it was brought in by Lord Chesterfield in 1752, was then
Observed in most parts of Europe. The bishop set out from England the
Latter end of December, O. S.; and on his arrival at Utrecht, by the
Variation of the style, he found January somewhat advanced.]
[Footnote 5: Alluding to the deanery and bishopric being possessed by the
same person, then at Utrecht.]
[Footnote 6: Earl of Nottingham.]
[Footnote 7: Duke of Marlborough.]
[Footnote 8: The treasurer's wand, taken from Harley, whose second title
was Lord _Mortimer_.]
[Footnote 9: The Duchess of Somerset.[1]]
[Footnote 10: Count Konigsmark.[2]]
[Footnote 11: ANNA.]
[Footnote 12: MASHAM.]
[Footnote 13: Lady Masham's maiden name.]
[embedded footnote 1: She had red hair, _post_, 165. ]
[embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.]
CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD
1711-12
This day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endued her with his art.
But Cupid with a Satyr comes;
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.
Then Cupid thus: "This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write;"
"And I pronounce," the Satyr said,
"The world shall feel her scratch and bite."
Her talent she display'd betimes;
For in a few revolving moons,
She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes,
And all her gestures were lampoons.
At six years old, the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady's maid:
And you may swear the tale went round.
She made a song, how little miss
Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad:
And how, when master went to p--,
Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.
At twelve, a wit and a coquette;
Marries for love, half whore, half wife;
Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt;
Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.
Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia;
She pours it out in Atalantis
Or memoirs of the New Utopia.
[Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la
RiviГЁre Manley, a political writer, who was born about 1672, and died in
July, 1724. The work by which she became famous was "Secret memoirs and
manners of several persons of quality of both sexes, from the New
Atalantis." She was Swift's amanuensis and assistant in "The Examiner,"
and succeeded him as Editor. In his Journal to Stella, Jan. 26, 1711-12,
he writes: "Poor Mrs. Manley, the author, is very ill of a dropsy and
sore leg; the printer tells me he is afraid she cannot live long. I am
heartily sorry for her. She has very generous principles for one of her
sort; and a great deal of good sense and invention: She is about forty,
very homely and very fat." Swift's subsequent severe attack upon her in
these verses can only be accounted for, but cannot be excused by, some
change in his political views. See "The Tatler," Nos. 35, 63, _edit.
1786.--W. E. B._]
THE FABLE OF MIDAS.[1] 1711-12
Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.
Midas, we are in story told,[2]
Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold:
He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round
Glitter'd like spangles on the ground:
A codling, ere it went his lip in,
Would straight become a golden pippin.
He call'd for drink; you saw him sup
Potable gold in golden cup:
His empty paunch that he might fill,
He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill.
Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders,
Or't had been happy for gold-finders:
He cock'd his hat, you would have said
Mambrino's[3] helm adorn'd his head;
Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or hay,
Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead
Of paltry provender and bread;
Hence, we are by wise farmers told[4]
Old hay is equal to old gold:[5]
And hence a critic deep maintains
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.
This fool had got a lucky hit;
And people fancied he had wit,
Two gods their skill in music tried
And both chose Midas to decide:
He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed:
The god of wit, to show his grudge,
Clapt asses' ears upon the judge,
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild nor hide.
And now the virtue of his hands
Was lost among Pactolus' sands,
Against whose torrent while he swims
The golden scurf peels off his limbs:
Fame spreads the news, and people travel
From far, to gather golden gravel;
Midas, exposed to all their jeers,
Had lost his art, and kept his ears.
This tale inclines the gentle reader
To think upon a certain leader;
To whom, from Midas down, descends
That virtue in the fingers' ends.
What else by perquisites are meant,
By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.?
By places and commissions sold,
And turning dung itself to gold?
By starving in the midst of store,
As t'other Midas did before?
None e'er did modern Midas chuse
Subject or patron of his muse,
But found him thus their merit scan,
That Phoebus must give place to Pan:
He values not the poet's praise,
Nor will exchange his plums [6] for bays.
To Pan alone rich misers call;
And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL.
Here English wits will be to seek,
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.
Besides, it plainly now appears
Our Midas, too, has ass's ears:
Where every fool his mouth applies,
And whispers in a thousand lies;
Such gross delusions could not pass
Thro' any ears but of an ass.
But gold defiles with frequent touch,
There's nothing fouls the hand so much;
And scholars give it for the cause
Of British Midas' dirty paws;
Which, while the senate strove to scour,
They wash'd away the chemic power.[7]
While he his utmost strength applied,
To swim against this popular tide,
The golden spoils flew off apace,
Here fell a pension, there a place:
The torrent merciless imbibes
Commissions, perquisites, and bribes,
By their own weight sunk to the bottom;
Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em!
And Midas now neglected stands,
With ass's ears, and dirty hands.
[Footnote 1: This cutting satire upon the Duke of Marlborough was written
about the time when he was deprived of his employments. See Journal to
Stella, Feb. 14, 1711-12, "Prose Works," ii, 337.]
[Footnote 2: Ovid, "Met.," lib. xi; Hyginus, "Fab." 191.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Almonte and Mambrino, two Saracens of great valour, had each
a golden helmet. Orlando Furioso took Almonte's, and his friend Rinaldo
that of Mambrino. "Orlando Furioso," Canto I, St. 28. And readers of "Don
Quixote" may remember how the knight argued with Sancho Panza that the
barber's bason was the helmet of Mambrino.--"Don Quixote," pt. I, book 3,
ch. 7.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: Stella.]
[Footnote 5: The Duke of Marlborough was accused of having received large
sums, as perquisites, from the contractors, who furnished bread, forage,
etc., to the army.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 6: Scott prints this word "plumes," substituting a false
meaning for the real point of the poem.--_Forster_.]
[Footnote 7: The result of the investigations of the House of Commons was
the removal of the Duke of Marlborough from his command, and all his
employments.--_Scott_.]
TOLAND'S INVITATION TO DISMAL[1] TO DINE WITH THE CALVES' HEAD CLUB
Written A.D. 1712.--_Stella._
Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5.
Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf
of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and
another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged
Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of
Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy
complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to
support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their
consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so
distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe
"The sober Earl of Nottingham,
Of sober sire descended."--HOR., _Odes_, ii, 4.
From these points of his character, we may estimate the severity of
the following satire, which represents this pillar of High-Church
principles as invited by the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th
January, by attending the Calves' Head Club.--_Scott_.
If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine
Upon a single dish, and tavern wine,
Toland to you this invitation sends,
To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends.
Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes,
Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes.
To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare,
Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share:
When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell,
How by brave hands the royal traitor fell;
The meat shall represent the tyrant's head,
The wine, his blood our predecessors shed;
Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings,
We toast, Confusion to the race of kings!
At monarchy we nobly show our spight,
And talk, what fools call treason, all the night.
Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk,
Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk?
Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face,
And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place:
By force of wine, ev'n Scarborough is brave,
Hal[2] grows more pert, and Somers not so grave:
Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense,
Montague learning, Bolton eloquence:
Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand;
And Lincoln then imagines he has land.
My province is, to see that all be right,
Glasses and linen clean, and pewter bright;
From our mysterious club to keep out spies,
And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise.
You shall be coupled as you best approve,
Seated at table next the man you love.
Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace
Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place;
Wharton, unless prevented by a whore,
Will hardly fail; and there is room for more;
But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink;
And honest Harry is too apt to stink.
Let no pretence of bus'ness make you stay;
Yet take one word of counsel[3] by the way.
If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad;
He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud,
Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers;
But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs,
Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there;
Then order Squash to call a hackney chair.
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_. See Journal to
Stella, July 1, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, 375; and ix, 256,
287.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 3: Scott prints "comfort."--_Forster_.]
PEACE AND DUNKIRK
BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER
OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL
1712
To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."
Spite of Dutch friends and English foes,
Poor Britain shall have peace at last:
Holland got towns, and we got blows;
But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast.
We have got it in a string,
And the Whigs may all go swing,
For among good friends I love to be plain;
All their false deluded hopes
Will, or ought to end in ropes;
"But the Queen shall enjoy her own again."
Sunderland's run out of his wits,
And Dismal double Dismal looks;
Wharton can only swear by fits,
And strutting Hal is off the hooks;
Old Godolphin, full of spleen,
Made false moves, and lost his Queen:
Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane:
But a Prince of high renown
Swore he'd rather lose a crown,
"Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."
Our merchant-ships may cut the line,
And not be snapt by privateers.
And commoners who love good wine
Will drink it now as well as peers:
Landed men shall have their rent,
Yet our stocks rise _cent, per cent._
The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain:
We'll bring on us no more debts,
Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes;
"And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."
The towns we took ne'er did us good:
What signified the French to beat?
We spent our money and our blood,
To make the Dutchmen proud and great:
But the Lord of Oxford swears,
Dunkirk never shall be theirs.
The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
But true Englishmen may fill
A good health to General Hill:
"For the Queen now enjoys her own again."
HORACE, EPIST. I, VII
IMITATION OF HORACE
TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]
Harley, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe's business in his breast,
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And show'd some humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My lord, (who, if a man may say't,
Loves mischief better than his meat),
Was now disposed to crack a jest
And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest.
(This Lewis was a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley's favour)--
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.
Lewis his patron's humour knows;
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift,
A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes [3] to run him down:
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice;
Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought;
Not rich, but owed no man a groat;
In state opinions Г la mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad;
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell'd all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ:
His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And, since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended[4] to retire.
Said Harley, "I desire to know
From his own mouth, if this be so:
Step to the doctor straight, and say,
I'd have him dine with me to-day."
Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor could believe my lord had sent;
So never offer'd once to stir,
But coldly said, "Your servant, sir!"
"Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd:
"He does; with insolence and pride."
Some few days after, Harley spies
The doctor fasten'd by the eyes
At Charing-cross, among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out:
He pull'd the string, and stopt his[5] coach,
Beck'ning the doctor to approach.
Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side,
And offer'd many a lame excuse:
He never meant the least abuse--
"My lord--the honour you design'd--
Extremely proud--but I had dined--
I am sure I never should neglect--
No man alive has more respect"--
Well, I shall think of that no more,
If you'll be sure to come at four."
The doctor now obeys the summons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talent, sits till ten;
Next day invited, comes again;
Soon grows domestic, seldom fails,
Either at morning or at meals;
Came early, and departed late;
In short, the gudgeon took the bait.
My lord would carry on the jest,
And down to Windsor takes his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a Canon there;
In summer round the Park to ride,
In winter--never to reside.
A Canon!--that's a place too mean:
No, doctor, you shall be a Dean;
Two dozen canons round your stall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all:
You need but cross the Irish seas,
To live in plenty, power, and ease.
Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse,
Travels at least a hundred leagues,
And suffers numberless fatigues.
Suppose him now a dean complete,
Demurely[8] lolling in his seat,
And silver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cushion side.
Suppose him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,
First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats.
(The wicked laity's contriving
To hinder clergymen from thriving.)
Now all the doctor's money's spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent,
The farmers spitefully combine,
Force him to take his tithes in kine,
And Parvisol[9] discounts arrears
By bills, for taxes and repairs.
Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd,
Not knowing where to turn him next,
Above a thousand pounds in debt,
Takes horse, and in a mighty fret
Rides day and night at such a rate,
He soon arrives at Harley's gate;
But was so dirty, pale, and thin,
Old Read[10] would hardly let him in.
Said Harley, "Welcome, rev'rend dean!
What makes your worship look so lean?
Why, sure you won't appear in town
In that old wig and rusty gown?
I doubt your heart is set on pelf
So much that you neglect yourself.
What! I suppose, now stocks are high,
You've some good purchase in your eye?
Or is your money out at use?"--
"Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!"
The doctor in a passion cry'd,
"Your raillery is misapply'd;
Experience I have[11] dearly bought;
You know I am not worth a groat:
But you resolved to have your jest,
And 'twas a folly to contest;
Then, since you now have done your worst,
Pray leave me where you found me first."
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.]
[Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer's secretary.]
[Footnote 3: By time.--_Stella_.]
[Footnote 4: Is now contented,--_Stella._]
[Footnote 5: The.--_Stella._]
[Footnote 6: Would.--_Stella._]
[Footnote 7: By.--_Stella._]
[Footnote 8: "Devoutly" is the word in Stella's transcript: but it must
be admitted that "demurely" is more in keeping.--_Forster_.]
[Footnote 9: The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.]
[Footnote 10: The lord treasurer's porter.]
[Footnote 11: I have experience.--_Stella_.]
THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF
1713
A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of
the Author's from London.--_Dublin Edition_.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * By an old ---- pursued,
A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2]
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise;
And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod,
Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God.
So clowns on scholars as on wizards look,
And take a folio for a conj'ring book.
Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime:
Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme;
Humour and mirth had place in all he writ;
He reconcil'd divinity and wit:
He moved and bow'd, and talk'd with too much grace;
Nor show'd the parson in his gait or face;
Despised luxurious wines and costly meat;
Yet still was at the tables of the great;
Frequented lords; saw those that saw the queen;
At Child's or Truby's,[3] never once had been;
Where town and country vicars flock in tribes,
Secured by numbers from the laymen's gibes;
And deal in vices of the graver sort,
Tobacco, censure, coffee, pride, and port.
But, after sage monitions from his friends,
His talents to employ for nobler ends;
To better judgments willing to submit,
He turns to politics his dang'rous wit.
And now, the public Int'rest to support,
By Harley Swift invited, comes to court;
In favour grows with ministers of state;
Admitted private, when superiors wait:
And Harley, not ashamed his choice to own,
Takes him to Windsor in his coach alone.
At Windsor Swift no sooner can appear,
But St. John comes, and whispers in his ear:
The waiters stand in ranks: the yeomen cry,
_Make room_, as if a duke were passing by.
Now Finch[4] alarms the lords: he hears for certain
This dang'rous priest is got behind the curtain.
Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves
That Swift oils many a spring which Harley moves.
Walpole and Aislaby,[5] to clear the doubt,
Inform the Commons, that the secret's out:
"A certain doctor is observed of late
To haunt a certain minister of state:
From whence with half an eye we may discover
The peace is made, and Perkin must come over."
York is from Lambeth sent, to show the queen
A dang'rous treatise[6] writ against the spleen;
Which, by the style, the matter, and the drift,
'Tis thought could be the work of none but Swift.
Poor York! the harmless tool of others' hate;
He sues for pardon,[7] and repents too late.
Now angry Somerset her vengeance vows
On Swift's reproaches for her ******* spouse:[8]
From her red locks her mouth with venom fills,
And thence into the royal ear instils.
The queen incensed, his services forgot,
Leaves him a victim to the vengeful Scot.[9]
Now through the realm a proclamation spread,
To fix a price on his devoted head.[10]
While innocent, he scorns ignoble flight;
His watchful friends preserve him by a sleight.
By Harley's favour once again he shines;
Is now caress'd by candidate divines,
Who change opinions with the changing scene:
Lord! how were they mistaken in the dean!
Now Delawar[11] again familiar grows;
And in Swift's ear thrusts half his powder'd nose.
The Scottish nation, whom he durst offend,
Again apply that Swift would be their friend.[12]
By faction tired, with grief he waits awhile,
His great contending friends to reconcile;
Performs what friendship, justice, truth require:
What could he more, but decently retire?
[Footnote 1: Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his
sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the Deanery of
Canterbury, to the Archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February
2, 1712-13. According to Dr. Swift's account, the archbishop had
represented him to the queen as a person that was not a Christian; the
great lady [the Duchess of Somerset] had supported the aspersion; and the
queen, upon such assurances, had given away the bishopric contrary to her
majesty's first intentions [which were in favour of Swift]. See Orrery's
"Remarks on the Life of Swift," p. 48.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Queen Anne.]
[Footnote 3: Coffeehouses frequented by the clergy. In the preceding
poem, Swift gives the same trait of his own character:
"A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat."
His feeling towards his order was exactly the reverse of his celebrated
misanthropical expression of hating mankind, but loving individuals. On
the contrary, he loved the church, but disliked associating with
individual clergymen.--_Scott._ See his letter to Pope, Sept. 29, 1725,
in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 53, and the unjust
remarks of the commentators.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: Daniel Finch, Earl of Nottingham, who made a speech in the
House of Lords against the author.]
[Footnote 5: John Aislaby, then M.P. for Ripon. They both spoke against
him in the House of Commons.--_Scott._]
[Footnote 6: The Tale of a Tub.]
[Footnote 7: He sent a message to the author to desire his pardon, and
that he was very sorry for what he had said and done.]
[Footnote 8: Insert _murder'd_. The duchess's first husband, Thomas
Thynne, Esq., was assassinated in Pall Mall by banditti, the emissaries
of Count Königsmark. As the motive of this crime was the count's love to
the lady, with whom Thynne had never cohabited, Swift seems to throw upon
her the imputation of being privy to the crime. See the "Windsor
Prophecy," _ante_, p. 150.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 9: The Duke of Argyle.]
[Footnote 10: For writing "The Public Spirit of the Whigs."]
[Footnote 11: Then lord-treasurer of the household, who cautiously
avoided Swift while the proclamation was impending.]
[Footnote 12: He was visited by the Scots lords more than ever.]
THE FAGOT[1]
Written in the year 1713, when the Queen's ministers were quarrelling
among themselves.
Observe the dying father speak:
Try, lads, can you this bundle break?
Then bids the youngest of the six
Take up a well-bound heap of sticks.
They thought it was an old man's maggot;
And strove, by turns, to break the fagot:
In vain: the complicated wands
Were much too strong for all their hands.
See, said the sire, how soon 'tis done:
Then took and broke them one by one.
So strong you'll be, in friendship ty'd;
So quickly broke, if you divide.
Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel:
Here ends the fable, and the moral.
This tale may be applied in few words,
To treasurers, comptrollers, stewards;
And others, who, in solemn sort,
Appear with slender wands at court;
Not firmly join'd to keep their ground,
But lashing one another round:
While wise men think they ought to fight
With quarterstaffs instead of white;
Or constable, with staff of peace,
Should come and make the clatt'ring cease;
Which now disturbs the queen and court,
And gives the Whigs and rabble sport.
In history we never found
The consul's fasces[2] were unbound:
Those Romans were too wise to think on't,
Except to lash some grand delinquent,
How would they blush to hear it said,
The praetor broke the consul's head!
Or consul in his purple gown,
Came up and knock'd the praetor down!
Come, courtiers: every man his stick!
Lord treasurer,[3] for once be quick:
And that they may the closer cling,
Take your blue ribbon for a string.
Come, trimming Harcourt,[4] bring your mace;
And squeeze it in, or quit your place:
Dispatch, or else that rascal Northey[5]
Will undertake to do it for thee:
And be assured, the court will find him
Prepared to leap o'er sticks, or bind them.
To make the bundle strong and safe,
Great Ormond, lend thy general's staff:
And, if the crosier could be cramm'd in
A fig for Lechmere, King, and Hambden!
You'll then defy the strongest Whig
With both his hands to bend a twig;
Though with united strength they all pull,
From Somers,[6] down to Craggs[7] and Walpole.
[Footnote 1: This fable is one of the vain remonstrances by which Swift
strove to close the breach between Oxford and Bolingbroke, in the last
period of their administration, which, to use Swift's own words, was
"nothing else but a scene of murmuring and discontent, quarrel and
misunderstanding, animosity and hatred;" so that these two great men had
scarcely a common friend left, except the author himself, who laboured
with unavailing zeal to reconcile their dissensions.--_Scott._ With this
exception, the notes are from the Dublin Edition.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: The bundle of rods carried before the Consuls at Rome.]
[Footnote 3: The dilatory Earl of Oxford.]
[Footnote 4: Lord Chancellor.]
[Footnote 5: Sir Edward Northey, attorney-general, brought in by Lord
Harcourt; yet very desirous of the Great Seal.]
[Footnote 6: Who had been at different times Lord Chancellor and
President of the Council.]
[Footnote 7: Afterwards Secretary of State].
IMITATION
OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] 1714
I often wish'd that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.
Well, now I have all this and more,
I ask not to increase my store;[2]
But should be perfectly content,
Could I but live on this side Trent;[3]
Nor cross the channel twice a-year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
I must by all means come to town,
'Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse."
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost a hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er consider'd yet.
"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown,
Let my lord know you're come to town."
I hurry me in haste away,
Not thinking it is levee-day;
And find his honour in a pound,
Hemm'd by a triple circle round,
Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green:
How should I thrust myself between?
Some wag observes me thus perplex'd,
And, smiling, whispers to the next,
"I thought the Dean had been too proud,
To justle here among a crowd!"
Another, in a surly fit,
Tells me I have more zeal than wit.
"So eager to express your love,
You ne'er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a duke."
I own I'm pleased with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant, to show
What I desire the world should know.
I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Desiring I would stand their friend.
This humbly offers me his case;
That begs my interest for a place;
A hundred other men's affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears.
"To-morrow my appeal comes on;
Without your help, the cause is gone--"
"The duke expects my lord and you,
About some great affair, at two--"
"Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,
To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
Consider, 'tis my first request."--
Be satisfied I'll do my best:
Then presently he falls to tease,
"You may for certain, if you please;
I doubt not if his lordship knew---
And Mr. Dean, one word from you[4]----"
'Tis (let me see) three years and more,
(October next it will be four,)
Since Harley bid me first attend,[5]
And chose me for an humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;
As "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the wind?"
"Whose chariot's that we left behind?"
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country signs;[6]
And mark at Brentford how they spell
Hear is good Eal and Bear to cell.
Or, "Have you nothing new to-day
To shew from Parnell, Pope and Gay?"
Such tattle often entertains
My lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a-week we travel down
To Windsor, and again to town;
Where all that passes _inter nos_
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.
Yet some I know with envy swell,
Because they see me used so well:
"How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean!
My lord and he are grown so great,
Always together, _tГЄte-Г -tГЄte_;
What! they admire him for his jokes?--
See but the fortune of some folks!"
There flies about a strange report
Of mighty news arrived at court:
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechised in every street.
"You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great:
Inform us, will the emperor treat?
Or do the prints and papers lie?"
Faith, sir, you know as much as I.
"Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
'Tis now no secret"--I protest
It's one to me--"Then tell us, pray,
When are the troops to have their pay?"
And, though I solemnly declare
I know no more than my lord mayor,
They stand amazed, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known.
Thus in a sea of folly toss'd,
My choicest[7] hours of life are lost:
Yet always wishing to retreat,
O, could I see my country-seat!
There leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or peruse some ancient book;
And there in sweet oblivion drown
Those cares that haunt the court and town.[8]
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's
volume.--_Forster._]
[Footnote 2: Here followed twenty lines inserted by Pope when he
published the Miscellanies. The version is here printed as written by
Swift.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Swift was perpetually expressing his deep discontent at his
Irish preferment, and forming schemes for exchanging it for a smaller in
England, and courted Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole to effect such
a change. A negotiation had nearly taken place between the Dean and Mr.
Talbot for the living of Burfield, in Berkshire. Mr. Talbot himself
informed me of this negotiation. Burfield is in the neighbourhood of
Bucklebury, Lord Bolingbroke's seat.--_Warton._]
[Footnote 4: Very happily turned from "Si vis, potes----."--_Warton._]
[Footnote 5: The rise and progress of Swift's intimacy with Lord Oxford
is minutely detailed in his Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man,
that served the ministry so effectually, was so tardily, and so
difficultly, and so poorly rewarded, are explained in Sheridan's Life of
Swift. See also Coxe's "Memoirs of Walpole." Both Gay and Swift conceived
every thing was to be gained by the interest of Mrs. Howard, to whom they
paid incessant court.--_Bowles._]
[Footnote 6: Another of their amusements in these excursions consisted in
Lord Oxford and Swift's counting the poultry on the road, and whichever
reckoned thirty-one first, or saw a cat, or an old woman, won the game.
Bolingbroke, overtaking them one day in their road to Windsor, got into
Lord Oxford's coach, and began some political conversation; Lord Oxford
said, "Swift, I am up; there is a cat." Bolingbroke was disgusted with
this levity, and went again into his own carriage. This was
"Nugari et discincti ludere," [HORAT., _Sat._, ii, I, 73]
with a witness.--_Warton._]
[Footnote 7: Stella's transcript, "sweetest."--_Forster._]
[Footnote 8: Thus far was translated by Dr. Swift in 1714. The remaining
part of the satire was afterwards added by Pope, in whose works the whole
is printed. See Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope.--_W. E. B._]
HORACE, BOOK II, ODE I, PARAPHRASED
ADDRESSED TO RICHARD STEELE, ESQ. 1714
Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told,
Some strange arcana to unfold,
And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen,
To vamp the good old cause again:
Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is)
Must furbish up, and nickname Crisis.
Thou pompously wilt let us know
What all the world knew long ago,
(E'er since Sir William Gore was mayor,
And Harley fill'd the commons' chair,)
That we a German prince must own,
When Anne for Heaven resigns her throne.
But, more than that, thou'lt keep a rout,
With--who is in--and who is out;
Thou'lt rail devoutly at the peace,
And all its secret causes trace,
The bucket-play 'twixt Whigs and Tories,
Their ups and downs, with fifty stories
Of tricks the Lord of Oxford knows,
And errors of our plenipoes.
Thou'lt tell of leagues among the great,
Portending ruin to our state:
And of that dreadful _coup d'Г©clat_,
Which has afforded thee much chat.
The queen, forsooth! (despotic,) gave
Twelve coronets without thy leave!
A breach of liberty, 'tis own'd,
For which no heads have yet atoned!
Believe me, what thou'st undertaken
May bring in jeopardy thy bacon;
For madmen, children, wits, and fools,
Should never meddle with edged tools.
But, since thou'st got into the fire,
And canst not easily retire,
Thou must no longer deal in farce,
Nor pump to cobble wicked verse;
Until thou shall have eased thy conscience,
Of spleen, of politics, and nonsense;
And, when thou'st bid adieu to cares,
And settled Europe's grand affairs,
'Twill then, perhaps, be worth thy while
For Drury Lane to shape thy style:
"To make a pair of jolly fellows,
The son and father, join to tell us,
How sons may safely disobey,
And fathers never should say nay;
By which wise conduct they grow friends
At last--and so the story ends."[2]
When first I knew thee, Dick, thou wert
Renown'd for skill in Faustus' art;[3]
Which made thy closet much frequented
By buxom lasses--some repented
Their luckless choice of husbands--others
Impatient to be like their mothers,
Received from thee profound directions
How best to settle their affections.
Thus thou, a friend to the distress'd,
Didst in thy calling do thy best.
But now the senate (if things hit,
And thou at Stockbridge[4] wert not bit)
Must feel thy eloquence and fire,
Approve thy schemes, thy wit admire,
Thee with immortal honours crown,
While, patriot-like, thou'lt strut and frown.
What though by enemies 'tis said,
The laurel, which adorns thy head,
Must one day come in competition,
By virtue of some sly petition:
Yet mum for that; hope still the best,
Nor let such cares disturb thy rest.
Methinks I hear thee loud as trumpet,
As bagpipe shrill or oyster-strumpet;
Methinks I see thee, spruce and fine,
With coat embroider'd richly shine,
And dazzle all the idol faces,
As through the hall thy worship paces;
(Though this I speak but at a venture,
Supposing thou hast tick with Hunter,)
Methinks I see a blackguard rout
Attend thy coach, and hear them shout
In approbation of thy tongue,
Which (in their style) is purely hung.
Now! now you carry all before you!
Nor dares one Jacobite or Tory
Pretend to answer one syl-lable,
Except the matchless hero Abel.[5]
What though her highness and her spouse,
In Antwerp[6] keep a frugal house,
Yet, not forgetful of a friend,
They'll soon enable thee to spend,
If to Macartney[7] thou wilt toast,
And to his pious patron's ghost.
Now, manfully thou'lt run a tilt
"On popes, for all the blood they've spilt,
For massacres, and racks, and flames,
For lands enrich'd by crimson streams,
For inquisitions taught by Spain,
Of which the Christian world complain."
Dick, we agree--all's true thou'st said,
As that my Muse is yet a maid.
But, if I may with freedom talk,
All this is foreign to thy walk:
Thy genius has perhaps a knack
At trudging in a beaten track,
But is for state affairs as fit
As mine for politics and wit.
Then let us both in time grow wise,
Nor higher than our talents rise;
To some snug cellar let's repair,
From duns and debts, and drown our care;
Now quaff of honest ale a quart,
Now venture at a pint of port;
With which inspired, we'll club each night
Some tender sonnet to indite,
And with Tom D'Urfey, Phillips, Dennis,
Immortalize our Dolls and Jennys.
