Since hope, his last and greatest foe, is fled,
Despair and he lodge ever in its stead;
March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow,
Still scatt'ring desolation where they go.
To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind,
Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined;
To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide,
That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride;
From thee whatever virtue takes its rise,
Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice;
Such were thy rules to be poetically great:
"Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit;
Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid;
Learn to disdain their mercenary aid;
Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall,
Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale:
And since unhappy distance thus denies
T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise;
Since thy few ill-presented graces seem

To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem-"
Madness like this no fancy ever seized,
Still to be cheated, never to be pleased;
Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds
Is all the poor content delusion finds.

There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour

I here renounce thy visionary power;

And since thy essence on my breath depends,
Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY
TABLE-BOOK, 1698.

PERUSE my leaves through every part,
And think thou seest my owner's heart,
Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light;
Exposed to every coxcomb's eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise.
Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;"
Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:"
Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth ;"
There, in her own, "For an el breth :"
Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!"
There, "A safe way to use perfume:"
Here, a page fill'd with billet-doux;
On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"
"Madam, I die without your grace'
"Item, for half a yard of lace."
Who that had wit would place it here,
For every peeping fop to jeer?
To think that your brain's issue is
Exposed to th' excrement of his,
In power of spittle and a clout,
Whene'er he please to blot it out;
And then, to heighten the disgrace,
Clap his own nonsense in the place.
Whoe'er expects to hold his part
In such a book and such a heart,
If he be wealthy and a fool,

Is in all points the fittest tool;

Of whom it may be justly said,

He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.

So because I had been buying things for my lady last night,

I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,

Therefore all the money I have, which God knows is a very small stock,

I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock.

So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was unripp'd,

And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipp'd;

Then the bell rung and I went down to put my lady to bed;

And God knows I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead.

So when I came up again I found my pocket feel very light;

But when I search'd and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have sunk outright. "Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do!"— "Indeed," says I, "never worse:

But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse ?"

"Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!"

66

Nay," said I, "I had it in lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case."

So Mary got me to bed, and covered me up warm: However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think,

But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. So I was a-dream'd, methought that I went and searched the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes's box, tied in a rag, the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a swearing:

Then my dame Wadgar came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing.

"Dame,” said I, as loud as I could bawl, “do you know what a loss I have had ?"

"Nay," says she, "my lord Colway'sd folks are all very sad;

For my lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without

fail."

"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail."

Says Cary,' says he, "I have been a servant this five-and-twenty years come spring,

And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing."

"Yes," says the steward, “I remember when I was at my lord Shrewsbury's,

Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time of gooseberries."

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief:

(Now you must know of all things in the world I hate a thief:)

To their excellencies the lords justices of Ireland,

The humble petition of Frances Harris,
Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries;
Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in
lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold;
And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings,
and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold;
The earls of Berkeley and of Galway.
Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germain.

about:

"Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident

has happened out:

Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse; a

But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole in my wages:

Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.

Now Mrs. Dukes you know, and everybody understands,

That, though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."

"The devil take me!" said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!"

So she roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to naught.

So you know, what could I say to her any more!
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was

before.

"Parson," said I, "can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?"

(Now you must know he hates to be called parson, like the devil!)

"Truly," says he, " Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;

If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see,

You are no text for my handling; so take that from me:

I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know."

"Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;

You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife;

I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life."

With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.

Well I thought I should have swoon'd.

said I, "what shall I do!

"Lord!"

I have lost my money and shall lose my true love

too!"

Then my lord call'd me: "Harry," said my lord, "don't cry;

I'll give you something toward thy loss:" "And," says my lady, "so will I."

"Oh! but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to ?"

For that, he said (an't please your excellencies), I must petition you,

The premises tenderly considered, I desire your excellencies' protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection;

And over and above, that I may have your excellencies' letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.

A BALLAD ON THE GAME OF TRAFFIC.
Written at the castle of Dublin, 1699.

My lord,a to find out who must deal,
Delivers cards about,

But the first knave does seldom fail
To find the doctor out.

But then his honour cried, Gadzooks!
And seem'd to knit his brow:
For on a knave he never looks

But h' thinks upon Jack How.b
My lady, though she is no player,
Some bungling partner takes,
And, wedged in corner of a chair,

Takes snuff and holds the stakes.
Dame Floyd looks out in grave suspense
For pair royals and sequents;
But wisely cautious of her pence,
The castle seldom frequents.
Quoth Herries, fairly putting cases,
I'd won it on my word,
If I had but a pair of aces,

And could pick up a third.
But Weston has a new-cast gown
On Sundays to be fine in,
And if she can but win a crown,
"Twill just new dye the lining.
"With these is parson Swift,

Not knowing how to spend his time,

Does make a wretched shift,

To deafen them with puns and rhyme."

A BALLAD.

To the tune of the Cutpurse. Written in August, 1702.
I.

ONCE on a time, as old stories rehearse,

A friar would need show his talent in Latin; But was sorely put to't in the midst of a verse, Because he could find no word to come pat in; Then all in the place

He left a void space,

And so went to bed in a desperate case: When behold, the next morning, a wonderful riddle! He found it was strangely filled up in the middle. CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't; [ant? Who would not write verses with such an assistII.

This put me the friar into an amazement; For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite; That he came through the keyhole, or in at the casement; [and write;

And it needs must be one that could both read

THE following lines probably had some share in determining the earl to get rid of so untractable a dependent, by gratifying him with a living.

WHEN wise lord Berkeley first came here,

Statesmen and mob expected wonders,

Nor thought to find so great a peer

Ere a week past committing blunders.

Till on a day cut out by fate,

When folks came thick to make their court,

Out slipp'd a mystery of state,

To give the town and country sport.
Now enters Bushb with new state airs,
His lordship's premier minister;
And who in all profound affairs

Is held as needful as his clyster.c
With head reclining on his shoulder
He deals and hears mysterious chat,
While every ignorant beholder

Asks of his neighbour, who is that? With this he put up to my lord,

The courtiers kept their distance due,
He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word;
Then to a corner both withdrew.
Imagine now my lord and Bush

Whispering in junto most profound,
Like good king Phyz and good king Ush,
While all the rest stood gaping round.
At length a spark, not too well bred,
Of forward face and ear acute,
Advanced on tiptoe, lean'd his head,
To overhear the grand dispute:
To learn what northern kings design,
Or from Whitehall some new express,
Papists disarm'd or fall of coin;

For sure (thought he) it can't be less.
My lord, said Bush, a friend and I,

Disguised in two old threadbare coats, Ere morning's dawn, stole out to spy

How markets went for hay and oats. With that he draws two handfuls out, The one was oats, the other hay; Puts this to's excellency's snout,

And begs he would the other weigh. My lord seems pleased, but still directs

By all means to bring down the rates; Then, with a congee circumflex,

Bush, smiling round on all, retreats. Our listener stood awhile confused,

But gathering spirits, wisely ran for't, Enraged to see the world abused,

By two such whispering kings of Brentford.

Love's fire, it seems, like inward hest,
Works in my lord by stool and swent,
Which brings a stink from every pore,
And from behind and from before;
Yet, what is wonderful to tell it,
None but the favourite nymph can smell it
But now, to solve the natural cause
By sober philosophic laws;

Whether all passions, when in ferment,
Work out as anger does in vermin;

So, when a weasel you torment,
You find his passion by his scent.
We read of kings who in a fright,
Though on a throne, would fall to sh-
Beside all this, deep scholars know
That the main string of Cupid's bow
Once on a time was an a-gut;

Now to a nobler office put,

By favour or desert preferr'd
From giving passage to a t-;

But still, though fix'd among the stars,
Does sympathise with human a—.

Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech,
Conclude love's bowstring at full stretch,
Till the kind looseness comes, and then
Conclude the bow relax'd again.

And now, the ladies all are bent
To try the great experiment,
Ambitious of a regent's heart,
Spread all their charms to catch a f―.
Watching the first unsavoury wind,
Some ply before and some behind.
My lord, on fire amid the dames,
F-ts like a laurel in the flames.
The fair approach the speaking part,
To try the back way to his heart.
For, as when we a gun discharge,
Although the bore be ne'er so large,
Before the flame from muzzle burst,
Just at the breech it flashes first;
So from my lord his passion broke,
He f-d first, and then he spoke.

The ladies vanish in the smother,
To confer notes with one another;
And now they all agreed to name
Whom each one thought the happy daine.
Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think,
I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink.
You smell the stink! by G-d, you lie,
Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I.
Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear;
Let's not fall out; we all had share;
And by the most I can discover,
My lord's a universal lover.

THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER.

1705.

[From Pliny, Nat. Hist. lib. x. c. 67, lib. xxix. c. 4.] AT the siege of Namur lord Cutts commanded and headed a storming party, and displayed such cool intrepidity that he was complimented with the name of the Salamander, as if the scene of flame and terror had been his proper element.

As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are
Call'd Pompey, Scipio, and Cæsar;
As pies and daws are often styled
With christian nicknames, like a child;
As we say Monsieur to an ape,
Without offence to human shape;

So men have got from bird and brute

Names that would best their nature suit.

The Lion, Eagle, Fox, and Boar,
Were heroes' titles heretofore,
Bestow'd as hieroglyphics fit

To show their valour, strength, or wit:

L

For what is understood by fame,

Besides the getting of a name?
But e'er since men invented guns,
A different way their fancy runs :
To paint a hero, we inquire

For something that will conquer fire.
Would you describe Turenne or Trump?
Think of a bucket or a pump.

Are these too low-then find out grander,
Call my LORD CUTTS a Salamander.
'Tis well;-but since we live among
Detractors with an evil tongue,
Who may object against the term,
Pliny shall prove what we affirm:
Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply,
And I'll be judged by standers-by.

First, then, our author has defined
This reptile of the serpent kind,
With gaudy coat, and shining train;
But loathsome spots his body stain:
Out from some hole obscure he flies,
When rains descend and tempests rise,
Till the sun clears the air; and then
Crawls back neglected to his den.

So, when the war has raised a storm,
I've seen a snake in human form,
All stain'd with infamy and vice,
Leap from the dunghill in a trice,
Burnish and make a gaudy show,
Become a general, peer, and beau,
Till peace has made the sky serene,
Then shrink into its hole again.

"All this we grant-why then, look yonder,
Sure that must be a Salamander!"

Further, we are by Pliny told,
This serpent is extremely cold;
So cold, that, put it in the fire,
"Twill make the very flames expire:
Besides, it spews a filthy froth
(Whether through rage or love, or both)
Of matter purulent and white,
Which, happening on the skin to light,
And there corrupting to a wound,
Spreads leprosy and baldness round.

So have I seen a batter'd beau,
By age and claps grown cold as snow,
Whose breath or touch, where'er he came,
Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame:
And should some nymph who ne'er was cruel,
Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel,
Receive the filth which he ejects,
She soon would find the same effects,
Her tainted carcase to pursue,
As from the salamander's spew;
A dismal shedding of her locks,
And, if no leprosy, a pox.
"Then I'll appeal to each bystander,
If this be not a Salamander?"

TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.
Who commanded the British forces in Spain.
MORDANTO fills the trump of fame,
The christian worlds his deeds proclaim,
And prints are crowded with his name.
In journeys he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast.

Knows every prince in Europe's face,
Flies like a squib from place to place,
And travels not, but runs a race.

From Paris gazette a-la-main,
This day's arrived, without his train,
Mordanto in a week from Spain.

A messenger comes all a-reek Mordanto at Madrid to seek; He left the town above a week.

Next day the postboy winds his horn, And rides through Dover in the morn Mordanto's landed from Leghorn.

Mordanto gallops on alone,

The roads are with his followers strewn, This breaks a girth, and that a bone;

His body active as his mind, Returning sound in limb and wind, Except some leather lost behind.

A skeleton in outward figure,

His meagre corpse, though full of vigour, Would halt behind him were it bigger.

So wonderful his expedition, When you have not the least suspicion, He's with you like an apparition.

Shines in all climates like a star; In senates bold, and fierce in war; A land commander and a tar:

Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his namesake Charles of Sweden.

ON THE UNION.

THE queen has lately lost a part
Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISHa heart,
For want of which, by way of botch,
She pieced it up again with SCOTCH
Bless'd revolution! which creates
Divided hearts, united states!
See how the double nation lies,
Like a rich coat with skirts of frize:
As if a man, in making posies,
Should bundle thistles up with roses.
Who ever yet a union saw

Of kingdoms without faith or law?
Henceforward let no statesman dare
A kingdom to a ship compare ;
Lest he should call our commonweal,
A vessel with a double keel:

Which just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd
And got about a league from land,
By change of wind to leeward side,
The pilot knew not how to guide.
So tossing faction will o'erwhelm
Our crazy double-bottom'd realm.

TO MRS. BIDDY FLOYD;
Or, the receipt to form a beauty, 1708.
WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat
To form some beauty by a new receipt,
Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene
Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene :
From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy
Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy.
The Graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
These Venus cleans from every spurious grain
Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain.
Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd;
Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD.

THE REVERSE

(TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR MRS. CLUDD.

VENUS one day, as story goes,
But for what reason no man knows,

The motto on queen Anne's coronation medal.

In sullen mood and grave deport,
Trudged it away to Jove's high court;
And there his godship did entreat
To look out for his best receipt:
And make a monster strange and odd,
Abhorr'd by man and every god.
Jove, ever kind to all the fair,
Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer,
Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took
A neatly bound and well-gilt book;
Sure sign that nothing enter'd there
But what was very choice and rare.
Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,-
It might be more, for aught I knew;
But, be the matter more or less,

'Mong friends 'twill break no squares, I guess ;—
Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he,
Here's one will fit you to a T.
But, as the writing doth prescribe,
'Tis fit the ingredients we provide.
Away he went, and search'd the stews,
And every street about the Mews;
Diseases, impudence, and lies,
Are found and brought him in a trice.
From Hackney then he did provide
A clumsy air and awkward pride;
From lady's toilet next he brought
Noise, scandal, and malicious thought.
These Jove put in an old close-stool,
And with them mix'd the vain, the fool.
But now came on his greatest care,
Of what he should his paste prepare;
For common clay or finer mould
Was much too good such stuff to hold.
At last he wisely thought on mud;
So raised it up, and call'd it-Cludd.
With this, the lady, well content,
Low curtsied, and away she went.

APOLLO OUTWITTED.

TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,a
Under her name of Ardelia.
PHOEBUS, now shortening every shade,
Up to the northern tropic came,
And thence beheld a lovely maid
Attending on a royal dame.

The god laid down his feeble rays,

Then lighted from his glittering coach; But fenced his head with his own bays Before he durst the nymph approach. Under those sacred leaves, secure

From common lightning of the skies, He fondly thought he might endure

The flashes of Ardelia's eyes. The nymph, who oft had read in books Of that bright god whom bards invoke, Soon knew Apollo by his looks,

And guess'd his business ere he spoke. He, in the old celestial cant,

Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, Whate'er she would desire, to grantBut wise Ardelia knew his tricks. Ovid had warn'd her to beware

Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is,
Under pretence of taking air,
To pick up sublunary ladies.
Howe'er, she gave no flat denial,
As having malice in her heart;
And was resolved upon a trial,

To cheat the god in his own art.
Afterwards countess of Winchelsea.

"Hear my request," the virgin said;

"Let which I please of all the Nine Attend whene'er I want their aid,

Obey my call, and only mine."
By vow obliged, by passion led,

The god could not refuse her prayer:
He waved his wreath thrice o'er her head,
Thrice mutter'd something to the air.
And now he thought to seize his due ;
But she the charm already tried:
Thalia heard the call, and flew

To wait at bright Ardelia's side.
On sight of this celestial prude,

Apollo thought vain to stay; Nor in her presence durst be rude,

But made his leg and went away. He hoped to find some lucky hour,

When on their queen the Muses wait; But Pallas owns Ardelia's power:

For vows divine are kept by Fate.
Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke :
"Deceitful nymph! I see thy art;
And though I can't my gift revoke,
I'll disappoint its nobler part.
"Let stubborn pride possess thee long,
And be thou negligent of fame;
With every Muse to grace thy song,
May'st thou despise a poet's name!
"Of modest poets be thou first;

To silent shades repeat thy verse,
Till Fame and Echo almost burst,
Yet hardly dare one line rehearse.
"And last, my vengeance to complete,
May'st thou descend to take renown,
Prevail'd on by the thing you hate,

A Whig! and one that wears a gown!”

VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,

Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt, 1703.
In times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verses sung,
A verse would draw a stone or beam,
That now would overload a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its different power;
Heroic strains could build a tower;
Sonnets or elegies to Chloris
Might raise a house about two stories;
A lyric ode would slate; a catch
Would tile; an epigram would thatch.

But, to their own or landlord's cost,
Now poets feel this art is lost.
Not one of all our tuneful throng
Can raise a lodging for a song.
For Jove consider'd well the case,
Observed they grew a numerous race;
And should they build as fast as write,
'Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil, therefore, to prevent,
He wisely changed their element:
On earth the god of wealth was made
Sole patron of the building trade;
Leaving the wits the spacious air,
With licence to build castles there :
And 'tis conceived their old pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.
Premising thus, in modern way,
The better half we have to say;
Sing, Muse, the house of poet Van
In higher strains than we began.