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And, madam, there's my lady Spade,

And studied Affectation came, Hath sent this letler by her maid.”

Each limb and feature out of frame ; “ Well, I remember what she won;

While Ignorance, with brain of lead, And hath she sent so soon to dun?

Flew hovering o'er each female lead. Here, carry down those ten pistoles

Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, My husband left to pay for coals :

An hundred tongues, as poets use, I thank my stars, they all are light;

When, to give every dame her due, And I may have revenge to-night.”

An hundred thousand were too few ? Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream,

Or how shall I, alas! relate She enters on her usual theme;

The sum of all their senseless prate, Her last night's ill success repeats,

Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, Calls lady Spade a hundred cheats:

Their meanings lewd, and double entendres i “ She slipt spadillo in her breast,

Now comes the general scandal-charge; Then thought to turn it to a jest :

What some invent, the rest enlarge ; There's Mrs. Cut and she combine,

And, “ Madam, if it be a lie, And to each other give the sign.”

You have the tale as cheap as I: Through every game pursues her tale,

I must conceal my author's name; Like hunters o'er their evening ale.

But now 'tis known to common fame." Now to another scene give place :

Say, foolish females, bold and blind, Enter the folks with silks and lace :

Say, by what fatal turn of mind, Fresh matter for a world of chat,

Are you on vices most severe, Right Indian this, right Mechlin that:

Wherein yourselves have greatest share ? “Observe this pattern; there's a stuff;

Thus every fool herself deludes; I can have customers enough.

The prudes condemn the absent prudes : Dear madam, you are grown so hard

Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, This lace is worth twelve pounds a yard:

Accuses Chloe's tainted breath ; Madam, if there be truth in man,

Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes I never sold so cheap a fan.”

To censure Phyllis for perfumes; This business of importance o'er,

While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says And madam almost dress'd by four;

That Florimel wears iron stays : The footman, in his usual phrase,

Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, Comes up with, “ Madam, dinner stays."

Admires how girls can talk with fellows ; She answers in her usual style,

And, full of indignation, frets, “ The cook must keep it back awhile :

That women should be such coquettes : I never can have time to dress ;

Iris, for scandal most notorious, (No woman breathing takes up less ;)

Cries, “ Lord, the world is so censorious!" I'm hurried so it makes me sick;

And Rufa, with her combs of lead, I wish the dinner at Old Nick.”

Whispers that Sappho's hair is red : Ai table now she acts her part,

Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, Has all the dinner-cant by heart:

Talks half a day in praise of silence ; “I thought we were to dine alone,

And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, My dear; for sure, if I had known

Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. This company would come to-day

Now voices over voices rise, But really 'tis my spouse's way!

While each to be the loudest vies : He's so unkind, he never sends

They contradict, affirm, dispute, To tell when he invites his friends :

No single tongue one moment mute; I wish ye may but have enough!”

All mad to speak, and none to hearken, And while with all this paltry stuff

They set the very lap-dog barking; She sits tormenting every guest,

Their chattering makes a louder din Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,

Than fish-wives o'er a cup of gin: In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,

Not school-boys at a barring-out Which modern ladies call polite ;

Rais'd ever such incessant rout; You see the booby husband sit

The jumbling particles of matter In admiration at her wit.

In chaos made not such a clatter; But let me now awhile survey

Far less the rabble roar and rail, Our madam o'er her evening-tea;

When drunk with sour election ale. Surrounded with her noisy clans

Nor do they trust their tongues alone, Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans ;

But speak a language of their own; When, frighted at the clamorous crew,

Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, Away the god of Silence flew,

Far better than a printed book ; And fair Discretion left the place,

Convey a libel in a frown, And Modesty with blushing face:

And wink a reputation down; Now enters overweening Pride,

Or, by the tossing of the fan, And Scandal ever gaping wide;

Describe the lady and the man. Hypocrisy with frown severe,

But see, the female club disbands, Scurrility with gibing air;

Each twenty visits on her hands. Rude Laughter seeming like to burst,

Now all alone poor madam sits And Malice always judging worst;

In vapors and hysteric fits : And Vanity with pocket-glass,

“And was not Tom this morning sent ? And Impndence with front of brass ;

I'd lay my life he never went :

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Past six, and not a living soul !

But, conscious that they all speak true, I might by this have won a vole."

And give each other but their due, A dreadful interval of spleen!

It never interrupts the game, How shall we pass the time between ?

Or makes them sensible of shame. Here, Betty, let me take my drops ;

The time too precious now to waste, And feel my pulse, I know it stops :

The supper gobbled up in haste ; This head of mine, Lord, how it swims!

Again afresh to cards they run, And such a pain in all my limbs!"

As if they had but just begun. “Dear madam, try to take a nap.”

But I shall not again repeat, But now they hear a footman's rap:

How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. “Go, run, and light the ladies up:

At last they hear the watchman knock. It must be one before we sup."

"A frosty morn—past four o'clock." The table, cards, and counters, set,

The chairmen are not to be found, And all the gamester-ladies met,

“Come, let us play the other round.” Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,

Now all in taste they huddle on Our madam can sit up all night :

Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone, “Whoever comes, I'm not within."

But, first, the winner must invite Quadrille's the word, and so begin.

The company to-morrow night. How can the Muse her aid impart,

Unlucky madam, left in tears, Unskill'd in all the terms of art?

(Who now again quadrille forswears.) Or in harmonious numbers put

With empty purse, and aching head,
The deal, the shuffle, and the cut ?

Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
The superstitious whims relate,
That fill a female gamester's pate ?
What agony of soul she feels
To see a knave's inverted heels!
She draws up card by card, to find
Good-fortune peeping from behind;

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.*
With panting heart, and earnest eyes,
In hope to see spadillo rise :

OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING In vain, alas! her hope is fed ;

MAXIM IN ROCHEFOUCAULT: She draws an ace, and sees it red ;

Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons In ready counters never pays,

toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait pas. But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys : Ever with some new fancy struck,

" In the adversity of our best friends, we always find someTries twenty charms to mend her luck.

thing that doth not displease us." “This morning, when the parson came, I said I should not win a game.

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? From nature, I believe them true: I think I never had good luck in't.

They argue no corrupted mind I'm so uneasy in my stays;

In him : the fault is in mankind. Your fan a moment, if you please.

This maxim more than all the rest Stand further, girl, or get you gone ;

Is thought too base for human breast : I always lose when you look on."

“In all distresses of our friends, “Lord! madam, you have lost codille !

We first consult our private ends; I never saw you play so ill."

While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Nay, madam, give me leave to say,

Points out some circumstance to please us." 'Twas you that threw the game away :

If this perhaps your patience move, When lady Tricksey play'd a four,

Let reason and experience prove. You took it with a mattadore ;

We all behold with envious eyes I saw you louch your wedding-ring

Our equals rais'd above our size. Before my lady callid a king;

Who would not at a crowded show You spoke a word began with H,

Stand high himself, keep others low? And I know whom you meant to teach,

I love my friend as well as you : Because you held the king of hearts ;

But why should he obstruct my view ? Fie, madam, leave these little arts.”

Then let me have the higher post ; “That's not so bad as one that rubs

Suppose it but an inch at most. Her chair, to call the king of clubs;

If in a battle you should find And makes her partner understand

One, whom you love of all mankind, A maltadore is in her hand."

Had some heroic action done, “ Madam, you have no cause to flounce,

A champion killed, or trophy won; I swear I saw you thrice renounce."

Rather than thus be over-topt, “And truly, madam, I know when,

Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Instead of five, you scor'd me ten.

Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Spadillo here has got a mark;

Lies rack'd with pain, and you without : A child may know it in the dark : I guess'd the hand : it seldom fails :

* Written in November, 1731.—There are two distinc: I wish some folks would pare their nails."

poems on this subject, one of them containing many spa. While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, rious lines. In what is here printed, the genuine parts It passes but for common form :

of both are preserved. N.

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How patiently you hear him groan!

“ For poetry, he's past his prime; How glad the case is not your own!

He takes an hour to find a rhyme : What poel would not grieve to see

His fire is out, his wit decay'd, His brother write as well as he ?

His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. But, rather than they should excel,

I'd have him throw away his pen; Would wish his rivals all in hell ?

But there's no talking to some men !" Her end when emulation misses,

And then their tenderness appears She turns to envy, stings, and hisses :

By adding largely to my years : The strongest friendship yields to pride,

“He's older than he would be reckond, Unless the odds be on our side.

And well remembers Charles the Second. Vain human-kind ! fantastic race!

He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; Thy various follies who can trace ?

And that, I doubt, is no good sign. Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,

His stomach too begins to fail ; Their empire in our heart divide.

Last year we thought him strong and hale ; Give others riches, power, and station,

But now he's quite another thing: 'Tis all to me an usurpation.

I wish he may hold out till spring !" I have no title to aspire ;

They hug themselves, and reason thus : Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.

“ It is not yet so bad with us !" In Pope I cannot read a line,

In such a case they talk in tropes, But with a sigh I wish it mine :

And by their fear express their hopes. When he can in one couplet fix

Some great misfortune to portend, More sense than I can do in six ;

No enemy can match a friend. It gives me such a jealous fit,

With all the kindness they profess, I cry, “ Pox take him and his wit !"

The merit of a lucky guess I grieve to be outdone by Gay

(When daily how-d'ye 's come of course, In my own humorous biting way.

And servants answer, “ Worse and worse !") Arbuthnot is no more my friend,

Would please them better, than to tell, Who dares to irony pretend,

That, “ God be prais'd, the Dean is well.” Which I was born to introduce,

Then he who prophesied the best, Refin'd at first, and show'd its use.

Approves his foresight to the rest : St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows

“You know I always fear'd the worst, That I had some repute for prose;

And often told you so at first.” And, till they drove me out of date,

He'd rather choose that I should die, Could maul a minister of state.

Than his predictions prove a lie. If they have mortified my pride,

Not one foretells I shall recover; And made me throw my pen aside ;

But, all agree to give me over. If with such talents Heaven hath bless'd 'em, Yet should some neighbor feel a pain Have I not reason to detest 'em ?

Just in the parts where I complain; To all my foes, dear Fortune, send

How many a message would he send ! Thy gifts; but never to my friend :

What hearty prayers that I should mend ! I tamely can endure the first;

Inquire what regimen I kept ? But this with envy makes me burst.

What gave me ease, and how I slept ? Thus much may serve by way of proem; And more lament, when I was dead, Proceed we therefore to our poem.

Than all the snivellers round my bed. The time is not remote when I

My good companions, never fear; Must by the course of nature die ;

For, though you may mistake a year, When, I foresee, my special friends

Though your prognostics run too fast, Will try to find their private ends :

They must be verified at last. And, though 'tis hardly understood

Behold the fatal day arrive! Which way my death can do them good,

“How is the Dean ?”—“He's just alive." Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak:

Now the departing prayer is read; “ See how the Dean begins to break !

He hardly breathes—the Dean is dead. Poor gentleman, he droops apace!

Before the passing-bell begun, You plainly find it in his face.

The news through half the town is run. That old vertigo in his head

“Oh! may we all for death prepare ! Will never leave him till he's dead.

What has he left? and who's his heir ?". Besides, his memory decays :

“I know no more than what the news is; He recollects not what he says ;

'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses." He cannot call his friends to mind ;

To public uses ! there's a whim! Forgets the place where last he din'd;

What had the public done for him? Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;

Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He told them fifty times before.

He gave it all—but first he died. How does he fancy we can sit

And had the Dean, in all the nation, To hear his out-of-fashion wit?

No worthy friend, no poor relation ? But he takes up with younger folks,

So ready to do strangers good, Who for his wine will bear his jokes.

Forgetting his own flesh and blood !" Faith! he must make his stories shorter,

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd ; Or change his comrades once a quarter ;

With elegies the town is cloy'd : In half the time he talks them round,

Some paragraph in every paper, There must another set be found.

To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.

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The doctors, tender of their fame,
Wisely on me lay all the blame.
“We must confess, his case was nice;
But he would never take advice.
Flad he been rul'd, for aught appears,
He might have liv'd these twenty years :
For, when we open'd him, we found
That all his vital parts were sound."

From Dublin soon to London spread,
"Tis told at court, “ the Dean is dead."
And lady Suffolk,* in the spleen,
Runs laughing up to tell the queen.
The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries, “ Is he gone! 'tis time he should.
He's dead, you say; then let him rot:
I'm glad the medalst were forgot.
I promis'd him, I own; but when?
I only was the princess then :
But now, as consort of the king,
You know, 'tis quite another thing."

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:

Why, if he died without his shoes,”
Cries Bob, “ I'm sorry for the news :
Oh, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Boling broke were dead!"

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains :
Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains !
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters;
Revive the libels born to die:
Which Pope must bear as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St. John himself will scarce forbear
so bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
“I'm sorry—but we all must die!"

Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt!
When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year,
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between:
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learn'd to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps :
The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall :
(I wish I knew what king to call.)

Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend ?
No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;
And he's engag'd to-morrow night:
My lady Club will take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He lov'd the Dean—(I lead a heart :)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come; he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place."

Why do we grieve that friends should die ?
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene !
No farther mention of the Dean,
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now the favorite of Apollo ?
Departed and his works must follow ;
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose.
Says Lintot, “I have heard the name;
He died a year ago."-" The same."
He searches all the shop in vain.
“Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane :
I sent them, with a load of books,
Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's.
To fancy they could live a year!
I find you 're but a stranger here.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
His way of writing now is past :
The town has got a better taste.
I keep no antiquated stuff;
But spick and span I have enough.
Pray, do but give me leave to show 'ena :
Here 's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend :
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
And Mr. Henley's last oration.
The hawkers have not got them yet :
Your honor, please to buy a set ?

“Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition :
'Tis read by every politician:
The country-members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down;
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honor who can read,
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The reverend author's good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension :*
He doth an honor to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down :
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
That Moses was a grand impostor;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats :
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre!"

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* Mrs. Howard, at one time a favorite with the Dean. N.

Which the Dean in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the princess. N.

* Wolston is here confounded with Woolaston. N.

402

Suppose me dead; and then suppose

He would have deem'd it à disgrace, A club assembled at the Rose ;

If such a wretch had known his face. Where, from discourse of this and that,

On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, grow the snbject of their chat.

He vented oft his wrath in vain : And while they toss my name about,

******* squires to market brought, With favor sume, and some without;

Who sell their souls and **** for nought: One, quite indifferent in the cause,

The **** ****

go joyful back. My character iinpartial draws.

To rob the church, their tenants rack ; The Dean, if we believe report,

Go snacks with ***** justices, Was nerer ill receiv'd at court,

And keep the peace to pick up fees; Although, ironically grave,

In every job to have a share, He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave;

A gaol or turnpike to repair; To steal a hint was never known,

And turn ******* to public roads But what he writ was all his own."

Commodious to their own abodes. “Sir, I have heard another story;

“He never thought an honor done him,
He was a most confounded Tory,

Because a peer was proud to own him;
And grew, or he is much belied,

Would rather slip aside, and choose
Extreraely dull, before he died.”

To talk with wits in dirty shoes ;
“Can we the Drapier then forget?

And scorn the tools with stars and garters,
Is not our nation in his debt ?

So often seen caressing Chartres.
'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters !".

He never courted men in station,
“He should have left them for his betters: Nor persons held in admiration ;
We had a hundred abler men,

Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Nor need depend upon his pen.

Because he sought for no man's aid.
Say what you will about his reading,

Though trusled long in great affairs,
You never can defend his breeding ;

He gave himself no haughty airs :
Who, in his satires running rioi,

Without regarding private ends,
Could never leave the world in quiet;

Spent all his credit for his friends;
Attacking, when he took the whim,

And only chose the wise and good ;
Court, city, camp-all one to him.-

No flatterers; no allies in blood :
But why would he, except he slobber'd,

But succord virtue in distress,
Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert,

And seldom failid of good success;
Whose counsels aid the sovereign power

As numbers in their hearts must own,
To save the nation every hour!

Who, but for him, had been unknown.
What scenes of evil he unravels,

“He kept with princes due decorum;
In satires, libels, lying travels ;

Yet never stood in awe before 'em,
Not sparing his own clergy cloth,

He follow'd David's lesson just;
But eats into it, like a moth!"

In princes never put his trust;
“ Perhaps I may allow the Dean

And, would you make him truly sour,
Had too much satire in his vein,

Provoke him with a slave in power.
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,

The Irish senate if you nam'd,
Because no age could more deserve it.

With what impatience he declaim'd!
Yet inalice never was his aim;

Fair LIBERTY was all his cry;
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name.

For her he stood prepar'd to die;
No individual could resent,

For her he boldly stood alone ;
Where thousands equally were meant:

For her he oft expos'd his own.
His satire points at no defect,

Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
But what all mortals may correct;

Had set a price upon his head ;
For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe

But not a traitor could be found,
Who call it humor when they gibe :

To sell him for six hundred pound.
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,

“Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen, Whose owners set not up for beaux.

He might have rose like other men:
True genuine dullness mov'd his pily,

But power was never in his thought,
Unless it offer'd to be witly.

And wealth he valued not a groat:
Those who their ignorance confest,

Ingratitude he often found,
He ne'er offended with a jest;

And pitied those who meant the wound;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote

But kept the tenor of his mind,
A verse from Horace learn d by rote.

To merit well of human-kind;
Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,

Nor made a sacrifice of those
Must be or ridiculd or lash'd.

Who still were true, to please his foes.
If you resent it, who's to blame?

He labor'd many a fruitless hour,
He neither knows you, nor your name.

To reconcile his friends in power;
Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,

Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
Because its owner is a duke ?

While they pursued each other's ruin.
His friendships, still to sew confin'd,

But, finding vain was all his care,
Were always of the middling kind;

He left the court in mere despair.
No fools of rank, or mongrel breed,

“ And, oh! how short are human schemes! Who fain would pass for lords indeed :

Here ended all our golden dreams.
Where titles give no right or power,

What St. John's skill in state affairs,
And peerage is a wither'd flower;

What Ormond's valor, Oxford's cares,

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