At Charing-cross among the rout,

Where painted monsters are hung out;

He pulled the string and stopped his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.

Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to the chariot side,
And offered many a lame excuse;
He never meant the least abuse-
"My lord the honour you designed-
Extremely proud—but I had dined—
I'm 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 talents, 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 departs; and what is worse,
With borrowed money in his purse,

Travels at least a hundred leagues,
And suffers numberless fatigues.

Suppose him now a Dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his seat,
The 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 spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent;
The farmers spitefully combined,
Force him to take his tithes in kind;
And Parvisol1 discounts arrears
By bills for taxes and repairs.

Poor Swift, with all his losses vexed,
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 2 would hardly let him in.

Said Harley, "Welcome, Reverend 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?

1 The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.-Hawkesworth. 2 The Lord Treasurer's porter.-Hawkesworth.

Or is your money out at use?”.

"Truce, good my lord; I beg a truce" (The Doctor in a passion cried), "Your raillery is misapplied; Experience I have 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.”

A crazy prelate,1 and a royal prude; 2
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On every 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 conjuring book.

Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime;
Nay, 'tis affirmed he sometimes dealt in rhyme;
Humour and mirth had place in all he writ;
He reconciled divinity and wit;

He moved, and bowed, and talked with too much grace,
Nor showed the parson in his gait or face;

Despised luxurious wines and costly meat,
Yet still was at the tables of the great;

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; a great lady had supported the aspersion, and the Queen, upon such assurances, had given away a bishopric contrary to her Majesty's first intentions [which were in favour of Swift].-Orrery.

2 Queen Anne.-Hawkesworth.

Frequented lords, saw those that saw the Queen;
At Child's or Truby's 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 dangerous wit.
And now, the public interest 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 Finch1 alarms the Lords; he hears for certain
This dangerous priest is got behind the curtain.
Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves

That Swift oils many a spring which Harley moves.
Walpole and Aislaby,2 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

2 John Aislaby, then M. P. for Ripon. They both spoke against him in the House of Commons. -Hawkesworth.

3 "Tale of a Tub."-Hawkesworth.