Carve to all but just enough;

Let them neither starve nor stuff:
And, that you may have your due,
Let your neighbours carve for you.
This comparison will hold,
Could it well in rhymne be told
How conversing, listening, thinking,
Justly may resemble drinking;
For a friend a glass you fill,
What is this but to instill?

To conclude this long essay;
Pardon, if I disobey;

Nor, against my natural vein,
Treat you in heroic strain.
I, as all the parish knows,
Hardly can be grave in prose:
Still to lash, and lashing smile,
Ill befits a lofty style.
From the planet of my birth
I encounter vice with mirth.
Wicked ministers of state

I can easier scorn than hate:
And I find it answers right:

Scorn torments them more than spite,
All the vices of a court

Do but serve to make me sport.
Were I in some foreign realm,
Which all vices overwhelm;
Should a monkey wear a crown,
Must I tremble at his frown?
Could I not, through all his ermine,
Spy the strutting, chattering vermin
Safely write a smart lampoon,
To expose the brisk baboon ?

When my Muse officious ventures
On the nation's representers :
Teaching by what golden rules
Into knaves they turn their fools:
How the helm is rul'd by Walpole,

At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull;
Let the vessel split on shelves;
With the freight enrich themselves:
Safe within my little wherry,

All their madness makes me merry:
Like the watermen of Thames,
I row by, and call them names;
Like the ever-laughing sage,
In a jest I spend my rage
(Though it must be understood,
I would hang them, if I could):
If I can but fill my nitch,
I attempt no higher pitch;
Leave to D'Anvers and his mate
Maxims wise to rule the state.
Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johrs,
Scourge the villains with a vengeance :
Let me, though the smell be noisome,
Strip their bums; let Caleb 2 hoise 'em ;
Then apply Alecto's whip,
Till they wriggle, howl, and skip.

Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean :
What can all this passion mean?

This poem, for an obvious reason, has been mutilated in many editions. N.

2 Caleb D'Anvers was the name assumed by Amhurst, the ostensible writer of the Craftsman. This unfortunate man was neglected by his noble patrons, and died in want and obscurity. N.

Mention courts! you 'Il ne'er be quiet
On corruptions running riot.
And as it befits your station;
Come to use and application:
Nor with senates keep a fuss.

I submit, and answer thus:
If the machinations brewing,
To complete the public ruin,
Never once could have the power
To affect me half an hour;
Sooner would I write in buskins,
Mournful elegies on Blueskins 3.
If I laugh at Whig and Tory,
I conclude, à fortiori,
All your

quence will scarce

Drive me from my favourite farce.
This I must insist on: for, as
It is well observ'd by Horace 4,
Ridicule hath greater power
To reform the world, than sour.
Horses thus, let jockies judge else,
Switches better guide than cudgels,
Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse,
Only dulness can produce;
While a little gentle jerking
Sets the spirits all a-working.

Thus, I find it by experiment,
Scolding moves you less than merriment.

I may storm and rage in vain;

It but stupifies your brain.
But with raillery to nettle,

Sets your thoughts upon their mettle;
Gives imagination scope;
Never lets the mind elope;

Drives out brangling and contention,
Beings in reason and invention.
For your sake, as well as mine,

I the lofty style decline.

I should make a figure scurvy,
And your head turn topsy-turvy.
I, who love to have a fling
Both at senate-house and king;
That they might some better way tread,
To avoid the public hatred;

Thought no method more commodious,
Than to show their vices odious;
Which I chose to make appear,
Not by anger, but a sneer.

As my method of reforming
Is by laughing, not by storming
(For my friends have always thought
Tenderness my greatest fault);

Would you have me change my style?
On your faults no longer smile;
But, to patch up all our quarrels,
Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals;
Or from Solomon produce

Maxims teaching wisdom's use?

If I treat you like a crown'd-head,
You have cheap enough compounded;
Can you put-in higher claims,
Than the owners of St. James?
You are not so great a grievance,
As the hirelings of St. Stephen's,

3 The famous thief, who, whilst on his trial the Old Bailey, stabbed Jonathan Wild. N. 4 Ridiculum acri, &&

You are of a lower class
Than my friend sir Robert Brass.
None of these have mercy found;

I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round.
Have you seen a rocket fly?
You would swear it pierc'd the sky:
It but reach'd the middle air,

Bursting into pieces there :
Thousand sparkles falling down
Light on many a coxcomb's crown:
See what mirth the sport creates ;
Singes hair, but breaks no pates.
Thus, should I attempt to climb,
Treat you in a style sublime
Such a rocket is my Muse:
Should I lofty numbers choose,
Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top,
I should burst, and bursting drop;
All my fire would fall in scraps;
Give your head some gentle raps;
Only make it sinart awhile :
Then could I forbear to smile,
When I found the tingling pain
Entering warm your frigid brain;
Make you able upon sight

To decide of wrong and right;

Talk with sense whate'er you please on; Learn to relish truth and reason?

Thus we both shall gain our prize: to laugh, and you grow wise.

BLOW, ye Zephyrs, gentle gales;

Gently fill the swelling sails. Neptune, with thy trident long, Trident three-fork'd, trident strong; And ye Nereids fair and gay, Fairer than the rose in May, Nereids living in deep caves, Gently wash'd with gentle waves : Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep! All around in pompous state, On this richer Argo wait: Argo, bring my Golden Fleece; Argo, bring him to his Greece. Will Cadenus longer stay? Come, Cadenus, come away; Come with all the haste of love, Come unto thy turtle-dove. The ipen'd cherry on the tree Hangs, and only hangs for thee; Luscious peaches, mellow pears, Cores with her yellow ears, And the grape, both red and white, Grape inspiring just delight; All are ripe, and courting sue To be luck'd and press'd by you. Pinks have lost their blooming red, Mourning hang their drooping head; Every flower languid seems; Wants the colour of thy beams,

You will excuse me, I suppose,
For sending rhyme instead of prose,
Because hot weather makes me lazy;
To write in metre is more easy.

While you are trudging London town, I'm strolling Dublin up and down; While you converse with lords and dukes, I have their betters here, my books: Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease,

I choose companions as I please.
I'd rather have one single shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For after all that can be said,

Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you 're in raptures with Faustina 1;
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
While you are starving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butchers meat.
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you may n't in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.

Our weather 's good, our sky is clear;
We 've every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and so bright a sky
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week Is all to Quilca go;

To see M Fayden's horny brothers
First suck, and after bull their mothers;
To see, alas! my wither'd trees!
To see what all the country sees!
My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves,
My servants such a pack of thieves;
My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks,
My house in common to all folks;
No cabbage for a single snail,
My turnips, carrots, parsnips, fail;
My no green peas, my few green sprouts ;
My mother always in the pouts;

1 Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.

Have done! have done! I quit the field;

To you, as to my wife, I yield:

As she must wear the breeches; So shall you wear the laurel crown, Win it, and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

PALINODIA.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE xvi.

GREAT sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays out-shine,

Look down upon your quondam foe;
Oh! let me never write again.
If I e'er disoblige you, dean,

Should you compassion show.
Take those Iambics which I wrote,
When anger made me piping hot,

And give them to your cook,
To singe your fowl, or save your paste,
The next time when you have a feast;
They'll save you many a book.
To burn them, you are not content;
I give you then my free consent,

To sink them in the harbour;
If not they'll serve to set off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
So give them to your barber,

Or, when you next your physic take,
I must entreat you then to make

A proper application;

'Tis what I've done myself before,

With Dan's fine thoughts, and many more, Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do?

It makes the weak the strong pursue,

A goose attack a swan;

It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
Her husband's hands and face assail,
While he's no longer man.

Though some, we find, are more discreet,
Before the world are wondrous sweet,

And let their husbands hector:
But, when the world 's asleep they wake,
That is the time they choose to speak;
Witness the curtain-lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find:
All day you could conceal your mind;

But when St. Patrick's chimes
Awak'd Muse (my midnight curse,
When I engag'd for better for worse),

your

You scolded with your rhymes.

2 They is the grand thief of the county of Cavan; for whatever is stolen, if you inquire of a servant about it, the answer is, "They have stolen it."

FAULKNER.

BEC'S BIRTH-DAY.

NOVEMBER 8, 1726.

THIS day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;
Had Fate a luckier one, she 'd give it ye:
She chose a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for strength;
Nor will be able with her shears
To cut it off these forty years.
Then who says care will kill a cat?
Rebecca shows they 're out in that.
For she, though over-run with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair.

As, if the gout should seize the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to th' extremest parts,
They give the sick man joy, and praise
The gout, that will prolong his days;
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,

Who drives her cares to hands and feet:
For, though philosophers maintain

The limbs are guided by the brain,

Quite contrary Rebecca 's led,

Her hands and feet conduct her head,

By arbitrary power convey her;

She ne'er considers why, or where:

Her hands may meddle, feet may wander,

Her head is but a mere by-stander;
And all her bustling but supplies
The part of wholsome exercise.
Thus nature hath resolv'd to pay her
The cat's nine lives, and eke the care.
Long may she live, and help her friends
Whene'er it suits her private ends;
Domestic business never mind
Till coffee has her stomach lin'd;
Bat, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stel as chicken-porridge;

I mean when Tiger has been serv'd,

Or else poor Stella may be starv'd.

May Bee have many an evening nap,
With Tiger Jabbering in her lap;
But always take a special care
She does not overset the chair!
Still be she curious, never hearken
To any speech but Tiger's barking!

And when she 's in another scene,
Stella long dead, but first the dean,
May fortune and her coffee get her
Companions that may please her better!
Whole afternoons will sit beside her,
Nor for neglects or blunders chide her,
A goodly set as can be found
Of hearty gossips prating round;
Fresh from a wedding or a christening,
To teach her ears the art of listening.
And please her more to hear them tattle,
Than the dean storm, or Stella rattle.

1 Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog.

EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS.
MOST OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726,
I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN.

WE fly from luxury and wealth,
To hardships, in pursuit of health;
From generous wines and costly fare,
And dosing in an easy chair;
Pursue the goddess Health in vain,
To find her in a country scene,
And every where her footsteps trace,
And see her marks in every face;
And still her favourites we meet,
Crowding the roads with naked feet.
But, oh! so faintly we pursue,
We ne'er can have her in full view.

II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND, THE glass, by lovers nonsense blurr'd, Dims and obscures our sight:

So when our passions love hath stirr'd,
It darkens reason's light.

III. ANOTHER.

THE church and clergy here, no doubt,
Are very near a-kin;

Both weather-beaten are without,
And empty both within.

IV. AT CHESTER.

My landlord is civil,

But dear as the d-1:
Your pockets grow empty,
With nothing to tempt ye:
The wine is so sour,
"Twill give you a scour;
The beer and the ale,
Are mingled with stale;
The veal is such carrion,

A dog would be weary on
All this I have felt,

For I live on a smelt.

V. ANOTHER, IN CHESTER.

THE walls of this town
Are full of renown,

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE, WRITTEN AFTER THE NEWS OF THE KING's death 2. RICHMOND-LODGE is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years, The duke of Ormond was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the prince of Wales by the king. The prince and princess usually passed their summer there. It is within a mile of Richmond. MARBLE-HILL is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bed-chamber, now countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the queen. It is on the Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Mr. Pope lived, and about two miles from Richmondlodge. Mr. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, lord Herbert the architect, the dean of St. Patrick's chief butler and keeper of the icehouse. Upon king George's death, these two houses met, and had the following dialogue.

In spite of Pope, in spite of Gay,
And all that he or they can say,
Sing on I must, and sing I will
Of Richmond-lodge and Marble-hill,
Last Friday night, as neighbours use,
This couple met to talk of news:
For by old proverbs it appears,

That walls have tongues, and hedges ears

MARBLE-HILL.

Quoth Marble-hill, right well I ween, Your mistress now is grown a queen:

1 Ireland.

2 George I. who died after a short sickness by eating a melon, at Osnaburg, in his way to Hanover, June 11, 1727.-The poem was carried to court, and read to king George II. and queen Caroline,

You'll find it soon by woeful proof; She'll come no more beneath your roof,

RICHMOND-LODGE.

The kingly prophet well evinces, That we should put no trust in princes: My royal master promis'd me To raise me to a high degree;

But he 's now grown a king, God wot,

I fear I shall be soon forgot.

You see, when folks have got their ends,
How quickly they neglect their friends;
Yet I may say, 'twixt me and you,
Pray God, they now may find as true!

MARBLE-HILL.

My house was built but for a show, My lady's empty pockets know; And now she will not have a shilling, To raise the stairs, or build the cieling; For all the courtly madams round Now pay four shillings in the pound: 'Tis come to what I always thought: My dame is hardly worth a groat. Had you and I been courtiers born, We should not thus have lain forlorn: For those we dextrous courtiers call, Can rise upon their masters' fall; But we, unlucky and unwise, Must fall because our masters rise.

Here wont the dean, when he 's to seek To spunge a breakfast once a week; To cry the bread was stale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be said, No butter sticks upon his bread. We soon shall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen ; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highness walking? Whilst lady Charlotte 3, like a stroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller. A goodly sight to see her ride With ancient Mirmont at her side. In velvet cap his head lies warm; His hat for show beneath his arm.

3 Lady Charlotte de Roussy, a French lady, 4 Marquis de Mirmont, a French man of quality.