lon,

With a fort of allufion to Putland or Harrison)
Yet, by my defcription, you'll find he in short is
A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoife.
So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will afk,
can I maul

This trazing, conceited, rude, infolent animal?
And, this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(Far I pity the man) I thould be glad then of it.

TO DR. SHERIDAN,

ON HIS" ART OF PUNNING."

Hip I ten thousand mouths and tongues,
Hel I ten thousand pair of lungs,
Ten thousand feulls with brains to think,
Tea toouland flandijbes of ink,
Ten thousand bands and pens, to write
Thy praile I'd ftudy day and night.
Oh may thy Work for ever live!
(Dear Tom, a friendly zeal forgive)
May no vile mifcreant faucy Cook
Prefame to tear thy learned Book,
ofage bis fowl for nicer guest,
Or pin it on the turkey's breaft.
Keep it from pafty bak'd or flying,
From broiling flake, or fritters frying,
From lighting pipe, or making fnuff,
On caping up a feather muff;

From all the feveral ways the Grocer
(Who to the learned world's a foe, Sir)
Has found in twisting, folding, packing,
Ha brains and ours at once a racking.
And may it never curl the head,
Of either living block or dead!
Thus, when all dangers they have paft,
Your leaves, like leaves of brass, shall last.
No bad thall from a critic's breath,
By ile iafedion, caufe their death,
Il they in flames at last expire,
And help to fet the world on fire.

STELLA TO DR. SWIFT,

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30. 1721.

St. Patrick's Dean, your country's pride,
My early and my only guide,
Let me among the reft attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,
To celebrate in female ftrains

The day that paid your mother's pains;
Dekend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you.

When men began to call me fair,
You interpos'd your timely care;
You early taught me to despise
The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes;

Show'd where my judgment was mifplac'd ;
Ren'd my fancy and my tafte.
Behold that beauty just decay'd,

Invoking art to nature's aid:
Forlook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain:

Went smoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, the wanted art,
As the icene chang'd, to change her part:
She, whom no lover could refift,
Before the fecond act was hits'd.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.

Stella to you, her tutor, owes
That he has ne'er refembled those;
Nor was a burden to mankind
With haif her courfe of years behind,
You taught how I might youth prolong,
By knowing what was right and wrong;
How from my heart to bring fupplies
Of luttre to my fading eyes;

How foon a beauteous mind repairs
The lots of chang'd or falling hairs;
How wit and virtue from within
Send out a fmoothness o'er the skin:
Your lectures could my fancy fix,
And I can pleafe at thirty-fix.
The fight of Chloe at fifteen
Coquetting, gives me not the spleen;
The idol now of every fool,

Till time fhall make their paffions cool;
Then tumbling down time's steepy hill,
While Stella holds her ftation ftill.
Oh! turn your precepts into laws,
Redeem the women's ruin'd caufe;
Retrieve loft empire to our fex,
That men may bow their rebel necks.
Long be the day that gave you birth,.
Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth!
Late dying may you cast a shred
Of your rich mantle o'er my head;
To bear with dignity my forrow,
One day alone, then die to-morrow!

I

WHILE, Stella, to your lafting praise,
The Muse her annual tribute pays,
While I affign myself a task
Which you expect, but fcorn to afk;
If I perform this task with pain,
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
grow leis equal to the charge:
In you each virtue brighter fhines,
But my poetic vein declines;
My harp will foon in vain be ftrung,
And all your virtues left unfung:
For none among the upftart race
Of poets dare affume my place;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stella's of their own;
And thus, my ftock of wit decay'd,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir,
Will anfwer for the whole arrear.

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE.

BY DR. DELANY.

AMPHORA, quæ mæstum linquis, lætumque revifes Arentem dominum, fit tibi terra levis. [mor; Tu quoque depofitum ferves, neve opprime, marAmphora non meruit tam pretiofa mori.

EPITAPH, BY THE SAME.

Hoc tumulato jacet proles Lenæa fepulchro,
Immortale genus, nec peritura jacet;
Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo;
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY:

A great Bottle of Wine, long buried, being that
Day dug up. 1722-3.

RESOLV'D my annual verfe to pay,
By beauty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think :
I bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
Bat found my wit and fancy fied:
Or, if with more than ufual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To fhape it into fenfe and rhyme :
And, what was yet a greater curse.
Long thinking made my fancy worse.
Forfaken by th' inspiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's fhrine:
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unfung to-day;
How I fhould hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;

How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer;
How Sheridan the rogue would fneer,
And fwear it does not always follow,
That femel 'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus infpir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And, when a brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I ask for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake:
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a ftander-by.

Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittle.

Though you should live like old Methufalem, I furnith hints, and you shall ufe all 'em, You yearly fing as the grows old, You'd leave her virtue's half untold. But, to fay truth, fuch dullness reigns Through the whole fet of Irish deans, I'm daily ftann'd with such a medley, Dean W, Dean D, and Dean Smedley, That, let what Dean foever come, My orders are, I'm not at home; And, if your voice had not been loud, You must have pass'd among the crowd

But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For the, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights,
Firft, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her defcribe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar, on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould;
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the skies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Baechus, for the poet's use,
Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A fovereign medicine for the brains.

You'll find it foon, if fate consents; If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents, Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades, May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the Mule (But first let Robert, on his knees, With caution drain it from thee lees): The Mufe will at your call appear, With Stella's praise to crown the year.

A SATIRICAL ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL.

His Grace! impoffible! what dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And fo inglorious, after all!

Well, fince he's gone, no matter how,
The laft loud trump muft wake him now:
And, truft me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to fleep a little tonger.
And could he be indeed fo old
As by the news-papers we 're told?
Threefcore, I think is pretty high;
'Twas time in confcience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the fnuff;
And that's the reafon fome folks think,
He left behind fo great a f―k.
Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widow's fighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at fuch times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progrefs of his herfe.
But what of that? his friends may fay,
He had thofe honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy'd.

Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate;
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing's a Duke;

From all his ill-got honour's flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he fprung.

DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON.

HOR.

"Non domus aut fundus-" It was, my lord, the dextrous fhift Of other Jonathan, viz. Swift; But now St. Ftrick's faucy dean, With filver verge and surplice clean, Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, In oder rhyme to beg a place. A place he got, yclept a fall, And eke a thousand pounds withal; And, were he a lefs witty writer, He might as well have got a mitre. Thus I the Jonathan of Clogher, In humble lays my thanks to offer, Approach your grace with grateful heart, My thanks and verse both void of art, Content with what your bounty gave, No larger income do I crave; Rejoicing that, in better times, Grafton requires my loyal lines. Proud! while my patron is polite, I likewife to the patriot write! Proud! that at once I can commend King George's and the Mufes' friend! Endear'd to Britain; and to thee (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) Endear'd by twice three anxious years, Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; By love, by wisdom, and by skill; For he has fav'd thee 'gainst thy will. But where thall Smedley make his neft, And lay his wandering head to reft? Where fhall be find a decent house, To treat his friends and cheer his spouse? Oh! tack, my lord, fome pretty cure; in wholefome foil, and æther pure; The garden ftor'd with artless flowers, In either angle fhady bowers.

No

gay parterre, with coûtly green,
Within the ambient hedge be seen:
Let Nature freely take her course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful force;

No theers fhall check her sprouting vigour,}
Nor shape the yews to antic figure:
A limpid brook fhall trout fupply,
In May, to take the mimic fly;
Round a fmall orchard may it run,
Whole apples redden to the fun.
Let all be fnug and warm, and neat ;
For fifty turn'd a fafe retreat.
A little Eufton may it be,
Eaton I'll crave on every tree.
But then, to keep it in repair,

My lord-twice fifty pounds a year
Will barely do; but if your grace

Could make them bundreds-charming place!
The then would'st show another face.

Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,

Midt inowy hills, inclement skies;
One hivers with the arctic wind;
One hears the polar axis grind.

Good John indeed, with beef and claret,
Makes the place warm that one may bear it,
He has a purse to keep a table,
And eke a foul as hospitable.

My heart is good; but affets fail,
To fight with ftorms of fnow and hail.
Befides the country's thin of people,
Who seldom meet but at the steeple:
The strapping dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the thing without a frown;
When, much fatigu'd with fermon-ftudy,
He felt his brain grow dull and muddy;
No fit companion could be found,
To push the lazy bottle round;
Sure then, for want of better folks
To pledge, bis clerk was orthodox.

Ah! how unlike to Gerard-street,
Where beaux and belles in parties meet;
Where gilded chairs and coaches throng,
And jostle as they trowl along:
Where tea and coffee hourly flow,
And gape-feed does in plenty grow;
And Griz (no clock more certain) cries,
Exact at leven, "Hot mutton-pies!"
There lady Luna in her sphere

Once fhone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now the wanes, and, as 'tis said,
Keeps fober hours, and goes to bed.
There-but 'tis endless to write down
All the amusements of the town;
And spouse will think herself quite undone,
To trudge to Connor † from (weet London;
And care we muft our wives to please,
Or elfe-we shall be ill at eafe.

You fee, my lord, what 'tis I lack;
'Tis only fome convenient tack,
Some parfonage-house, with garden sweet,
To be my late, my last retreat;
A decent church close by its fide,
There preaching, praying, to reside;
And, as my time fecurely rolls,
To fave my own, and other fouls.

THE DUKE'S ANSWER.
BY DR. SWIFT.

DEAR Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory fhines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope to make you yet as clean
As that fame Viz. St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee furplice, verge, and fall,
And may be fomething else withal;
And, were you not fo good a writer,
I should prefent you with a mitre.
Write worse then, if you can---Be wife---
Believe me, 'tis the way to rife.
Talk not of making of thy neft:
Ah never lay thy head to reft!

That head fo well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought!

While others rack their bufy brains,
You are not in the leaft at pains.
Down to your deanry now repair,
And build a castle in the air.
I'm fure a man of your fine fenfe
Can do it with a fmall expence.

There your dear Spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ather.
When lady Luna is your neighbour,
She'll help your wife when the's in labour;
Well fkill'd in midwife artifices,
For the herself oft' falls in pieces.
There you fhall fee a raree how
Will make you fcorn this world below,
When you behold the milky way,
As white as fnow, as bright as day;
The glittering conftellations roll
About the grinding Arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,
Wrought by the mufic of the fpheres---
Your fpoufe fhall then no longer hector,
You need not fear a curtain-lecture;
Nor fhall the think that she is undone
For quitting her belov'd London.
When he's exalted in the skies,
She'll never think of mutton-pies;
When you're advanc'd above dean Viz,
You'll never think of goody Griz.
But ever, ever, live at ease,

And strive, and strive, your wife to please ;
In her you'll centre all your joys,
And get ten thoufand girls and boys:
Ten thoufand girls and boys you'll get,
And they like ftars fhall rife and fet ;
While you and Spouse, transform'd, shall foon
Be a new fun and a new moon:
Nor fhall you ftrive your horns to hide,
For then your horns fhall be your pride.

VERSES BY STELLA.

If it be true, celeftial Powers,
That you have form'd me fair,
And yet, in all my vaineft hours,
My mind has been my care;
Then, in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind,

What envious Time takes from my face,
Bestow upon my mind!

JEALOUSY. BY THE SAME *.

O SHIELD me from his rage, celestial Powers;
This tyrant that imbitters all my hours!
Ah, Love! you've poorly play'd the hero's part:
You conquer'd, but you can't defend my heart.
When firit I bent beneath your gentle reign,
I thought this monfter banish'd from your train:
But you would raife him to support your throne;
And now he claims your empire as his own.
Or tell me, tyrants! have you both agreed,
That where one reigns, the other fhall fucceed?

*On the publication of "Cadenus and Va"neja."

DR. DELANY'S VILLA.

WOULD you that Delville I defcribe?
Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe:
For who would be fatirical
Upon a thing fo very small?

You fcarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A fingle crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm fhe takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Obferve a vaft variety;

Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and ftairs,
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and grafs, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought fo cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, though to fay't I'm loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Though fmall's the farm, yet here's a house
Full large to entertain a mouse,
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than favage Caledonian boar;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.

A little rivulet feems to steal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek;
And this you call your fweet meander,
Which might be fuck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To fcoop the channel of the rill:
For fure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city-gutter.

Next come 1 to your kitchen-garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in ;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a tailor's chalk :
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A fnail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a fhift to squeeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees;
And, once a year, a fingle role
Peeps from the bud, but never blows
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow for want of room.

In short, in all your boasted seat,
There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT.