While he, at eafe, fecure and light,
Walks boldly home at dead of night;
When term is ended, leaves the town,
Trots to his country-manfion down;
And, difencumber'd of his load,
No danger dreads upon the road ;
Defpifes rapparees, and rides
Safe through the Newry mountains fides.
Lindsay, 'tis have fet me on,
To state this question pro and con.
My fatire may offend, 'tis true;
However, it concerns not you.
I own, there may, in
every clan,
Perhaps, be found one honest man;
Yet link them clofe, in this they jump,
To be but rafcals in the lump.
Imagine Lindfay at the bar,
He's much the fame his brethren are;
Well taught by practice to imbibe
The fundamentals of his tribe:
And, in his client's juft defence,
Muft deviate oft' from common sense;
And make his ignorance difcerned,
To get the name of Council Learned
(As lucus comes à non lucendo),
And wifely do as other men do:
But shift him to a better scene,
Among his crew of rogues in grain;
Surrounded with companions fit,
To tafte his humour, fenfe, and wit
You'd fwear he never took a fee,
Nor knew in law his A, B, C.
'Tis hard, where dullness over-rules,
To keep good fenfe in crowds of fools.
And we admire the man, who faves
His honefty in crowds of knaves;
Nor yields up virtue, at discretion,
To villains of his own profeffion.
Lindfay, you know what pains you
In both, yet hardly fave your stake;
And will you venture both anew,
To fit among that venal crew,
That pack of mimic legiflators,
Abandon'd, ftupid, flavish praters!
For, as the rabble daub and rifle
The fool who fcrambles for a trifle;
Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd,
Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd;
You must expect the like difgrace,
Scrambling with rogues to get a place;
Muft lose the honour you have gain'd,
Your numerous virtues foully ftain'd;
Disclaim for ever all pretence
To-common honesty and sense;
And join in friendship with a strict tye,
To M-1, C---y, and Dick T-:
DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D. S. P. D.
In ALLUSION to HORACE, Book II. Sat. 1.
"Sunt quibus in Satira, &c."
SINCE there are perfons who complain
There's too much fatire in my vein;
That I am often found exceeding
The rules of raillery and breeding;
With too much freedom treat my betters,
Not fparing even men of letters:
You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore,
What's your advice? Shall I give o'er?
Nor ever fools or knaves expose
Either in verfe or humorous profe;
And, to avoid all future ill,
In fcrutoire lock up my quill?
Since you are pleas'd to condefcend
To afk the judgment of a friend,
Your cafe confider'd, I must think
You should withdraw from pen and ink,
Forbear your poetry and jokes,
And live like other Chriftian folks ;
Or, if the Mufes must inspire
Your fancy with their pleafing fire,
Take fubjects fafer for
Than those on which you lately writ.
Commend the times, your thoughts correct,
And follow the prevailing fect;
Affert that Hyde, in writing story,
Shews all the malice of a Tory;
While Burnet, in his deathlefs page,
Difcovers freedom without rage.
To Woolfton recommend our youth,
For learning, probity, and truth
That noble genius, who unbinds
The chains which fetter free-born minds;
Redeems us from the flavish fears
Which lafted near two thousand years;
He can alone the priesthood humble,
Make gilded spires and altars tumble.
Muft I commend againft my confcience
Such ftupid blafphemy and nonsense?
To fuch a fubject tune my lyre,
And fing like one of Milton's choir,
Where devils to a vale retreat,
And call the laws of Wifdom Fate,
Lament upon their hapless fall,
That Force free Virtue fhould enthrall?
Or fhall the charms of Wealth and Power
Make me pollute the Mufes' bower?
As from the tripod of Apollo,
Hear from my defk the words that follow: "Some, by philofophers mifled,
"Muft honour you alive and dead;
"And fuch as know what Greece has writ,
"Muft tafte your irony and wit;
"While moft that are, or would be great,
"Muft dread your pen, your person hate;
"And you on Drapier's hill muft lie,
"And there without a mitre die."
ON BURNING A DULL POEM. 1729:
AN afs's hoof alone can hold
That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought, when I this poem read,
No veffel but an afs's head
Such frigid fuftian could contain ;
I mean, the head without the brain.
The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,
Went down like ftupifying draughts:
I found my head began to fwim,
A numbnefs crept through every limb,
In hafte, with imprecations dire,
I threw the volume in the fire:
When (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to afhes in a trice.
How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in fnow, it dy'd in flame,
|