ON THE SAME PICTURE.

WHILST you three merry poets traffic
To give us a description graphic

Of Dan's large nose in modern sapphic ;

I spend my time in making sermons,
Or writing libels on the Germans,
Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments.

But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort, And look in English, French, and Scotch for't, At last I'm fairly forced to botch for't.

Bid Lady Betty recollect her,

And tell, who was it could direct her
To draw the face of such a spectre ?

I must confess, that as to me, sirs,
Though I ne'er saw her hold the scissars,
I now could safely swear it is hers.

'Tis true, no nose could come in better; 'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter, Which all may handle, none can flatter.

Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows,
That not the wisest mortal knows
What fortune may befall his nose.

Show me the brightest Irish toast,

Who from her lover e'er could boast

Above a song or two at most:

For thee three poets now are drudging all,
To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all,
Both of the picture and original.

Thy nose's length and fame extend
So far, dear Dan, that every friend
Tries who shall have it by the end.

And future poets, as they rise,
Shall read with envy and surprise
Thy nose outshining Celia's eyes.

JON. SWIFT.

DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE.

My verse little better you'll find than my face is;
A word to the wise-ut pictura poesis.

THREE merry lads, with envy stung,
Because Dan's face is better hung,
Combined in verse to rhyme it down,
And in its place set up their own;
As if they'd run it down much better
By number of their feet in metre.
Or that its red did cause their spite,

Which made them draw in black and white.
Be that as 'twill, this is most true,

They were inspired by what they drew.
Let then such critics know, my face
Gives them their comeliness and grace:
While every line of face does bring
A line of grace to what they sing.
But yet, methinks, though with disgrace
Both to the picture and the face,

I should name them who do rehearse
The story of the picture farce;

The squire, in French as hard as stone,
Or strong as rock, that's all as one,
On face on cards is very brisk, sirs,
Because on them you play at whisk, sirs.
But much I wonder, why my crany
Should envied be by De-el-any:

And yet much more, that half-namesake
Should join a party in the freak.
For sure I am it was not safe
Thus to abuse his better half,
As I shall prove you, Dan, to be,
Divisim and conjunctively.

For if Dan love not Sherry, can
Sherry be anything to Dan?

This is the case whene'er you see
Dan makes nothing of Sherry;
Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en,
Then Dan would be poor Sherridane;
'Tis hard then he should be decried

By Dan, with Sherry by his side.
But, if the case must be so hard,
That faces suffer by a card,
Let critics censure, what care I?
Backbiters only we defy,
Faces are free from injury.

MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY.

You say your face is better hung
Than ours-by what? by nose or tongue?
In not explaining you are wrong

to us, sir.

Because we thus must state the case,
That you have got a hanging face,
Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace

of noose, sir.

But yet be not cast down: I see
A weaver will your hangman be:
You'll only hang in tapestry

with many;

And then the ladies, I suppose,
Will praise your longitude of nose,
For latent charms within your clothes,
dear Danny.

Thus will the fair of every age

From all parts make their pilgrimage,
Worship thy nose with pious rage

All their religion will be spent

About thy woven monument,

And not one orison be sent

of love, sir:

to Jove, sir.

You the famed idol will become,
As gardens graced in ancient Rome,
By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom
of night.

O happy Dan! thrice happy sure!
Thy fame for ever shall endure,
Who after death can love secure

at sight.

So far I thought it was my duty
To dwell upon thy boasted beauty;
Now I'll proceed: a word or two t'
in answer

To that part where you carry on
This paradox, that rock and stone,
In your opinion, are all one:

ye

How can, sir,

A man of reasoning so profound
So stupidly be run a-ground,
As things so different to confound

t' our senses?