I beg your pardon for ufing my left hand, but I was in great hafte, and the other hand was employed at the fame time in writing some letters of bufipefs-I will fend you the reft when I have leifure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.

A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD, WOOLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN,

Whofe Sign was the GOLDEN FLEECE.

JASON, the valiant prince of Greece,
From Colchos brought the Golden Fleece:
We comb the wool, refine the stuff,
For modern Jafon, that's enough.

Oh! could we tame yon watchful * Dragon,
Old Jafon would have lefs to brag on.

TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718.
WHATE'ER your predeceffors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus;

And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence.
But as to comic Ariftophanes,

The rogue too vicious and too prophane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis

Down in the Strand†, just where the New Pole is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can
(You will not find it in the Vatican).
He and Cratinus us'd, as Horace fays,
To take his greatest grandees for affes.
Poets, in those days, us'd to venture high;
But thefe are loft full many a century.
Thus you may fee dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgment of the old comedians.

Proceed to tragics: first, Euripides
(An author where I fometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly cenfured by the Stagirite,
Who fays his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author defpifes

So much, he fwears the very best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thefpis's;
And that a woman, in these tragedies,
Commonly fpeaking, but a fad jade is.
At leaft, I'm well affur'd, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles,
But, above all, I prefer Æfchylus,

Whole moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my mufe but ill able,

To hold out longer in triffylable.

I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?

So little is thy form declin'd:
Made up fo largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to fplit
Thy beauty, fize, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs fo graceful, wife, and fair;
With half the luftre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate
(That either nymph might have her swain)
To split my worship too in twain!

DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT. 1719.

DEAR Dean, fince in cruxes and puns you and I deal,

Pray why is a woman a fieve and a riddle?
'Tis a thought that came into my noddle this
morning,

In bed as I lay, Sir, a-toffing and turning.
You'll find, if you read but a few of your histories,
All women as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the fex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them;
I fwear without jeft, I an honour intend them.
In a fieve, Sir, their ancient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before: do you know what I
mean, Sir?

"Not I, by my troth, Sir."-Then read it again,

Sir.

The reason I send you thefe lines of rhymes double,
Is purely through pity, to fave you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last
When your Pegafus canter'd it triple, and rid fast.

As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnaffus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his affes,
He goes flow and fure, and he never is jaded,
While your fiery fteed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, bafi-
naded.

THE DEAN's ANSWER.

IN reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh:

And when with much labour the matter I crackt, I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

A woman's no fieve (for with that you begin), Because fhe lets out more than e'er fhe takes in. And that she's a riddle, can never be right, For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light. But, grant her a fieve, I can fay fomething archer, Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen fearcher.

Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation, What name for a maid, was the firft man's damnation?

If your worship will pleafe to explain me this rebus, Ifwear from henceforward you shall be my Phœbus., From my backney-coach, Sept. 11.2

1719, paft 12. at noon.

• Fir Gin, Man-trap.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.

ALL travellers at firft incline
Where-e'er they fee the faireft fign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel-inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd,
The houfe will never lofe its trade:

Nay, though the treacherous tapfter Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that ftrangers may miftake it,
We think it both a fhame and fin
To quit the true old Angel-inn.

Now this is Stella's cafe in fact,
An angel's face a little crack'd
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angel's look at thirty-fix):
This drew us in at first to find
In fuch a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now fupplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crowding fwains,
Whom Stella freely entertains

With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;
And puts them but to fmall expence ;
Their mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reafonable bills,
So little gets for what the gives,
We really wonder how fhe lives!
And, had her stock been lefs, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or ftop and light at Cloe's head,
With feraps and leavings to be fed?

Then, Cloe, ftill go on to prate
Of thirty-fix and thirty-cight;
Purfue your trade of fcandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken;"
Your innuendos, when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellową:
And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your foul fhould grieve;
That, fhould you live to fee the day
When Stella's locks muft all be gray,
When age muft print a furrow'd trace:
On every feature of her face;

Though you, and all your fenfelefs tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind
All men of fenfe will pafs your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourfcore.

TO STELLA,

4

Who collected and tranfcribed bis Poems.

:

1720.

So, if this pile of fcattered rhymes
Should be approv'd in after times;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praife are yours.

Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was ftrung
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts?
With Friendship and Eftcem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a guest.

In all the habitudes of life,

The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we ftill purfue,"

In pleasure feck for fomething new;
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take comfort, that our own is beft;
The best we value by the worst,
(As tradefmen fhow their trash at first);
But his purfuits were at an end,
Whom Stella chooses for a friend.

A poet starving in a garret,
Conning all topics like a parrot,
Invokes his mistress and his muse,
And stays at home for want of fhoes;
Should but his mufe defcending drop
A flice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprise him with a pint of ftout;
Or patch his broken ftocking-foals,
Or fend him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,
He flies, and leaves the stars behind;
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.

Or, fhould a porter inake inquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,

The bowers that hold thofe nymphs divine,
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;

The charming Sylvia beating flax,

Her fhoulders mark'd with bloody tracks;
Bright Phyllis mending ragged fmocks,
And radiant Iris in the pox.

Thefe are the goddeffes enroll'd

In Curll's collection, new and old,

Whofe fcoundrel fathers would not know 'em If they should meet them in a poem.

True poets can deprefs and raife,
Are Lords of infamy and praise;
They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyric flatter.
Unjustly poets we afperfe;

Truth fhines the brighter clad in verfe;
And all the fictions they purfue,
Do but'infinuate what is true.

Now, fhould my praifes owe their truth
To beauty, drefs, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our power,
They could not be infur'd an hour:
"Twere grafting on an annual ftock,
That muft our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant fhoot,
Die the next year for want of root:
Before I could my veríes bring,
Perhaps you're quite another thing.

So Mævius, when he drain'd his full
To celebrate fome fuburb trull,

His fimilies in order fet,

And every crambo he could get,
Had gone through all the common-places
Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces:
Before he could his poem close,
The lovely nymph had lost her nose,
Your virtues fafely I commend ;
They on no accidents depend:
Let malice look with all her eyes,
She dares not fay the poet hies.

Stella, when you thefe lines transcribe,
Left you should take them for a bribe,
Refolv'd to mortify your pride,
I'll here expofe your weaker fide.

Your fpirits kindle to a flame,
Mov'd with the lightest touch of blame;
And, when a friend in kindness tries
To fhow you where your error lies,
Conviction does but more incense;
Perverfenefs is your whole defence;
Truth, judgment, wit, give place to fpight,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all fufpended wait
Till time hath open'd reafon's gate;
And, what is worse, your paffion bends
Its force against your nearest friends,
Which manners, decency, and pride,
Have taught you from the world to hide :
In vain; for, fee, your friend hath brought
To public light your only fault;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble generous mind;
And may compare to Etna's fire,

Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat, that makes the fummit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.
Thofe who in warmer climes complain
From Pbabus' rays they fuffer pain,
Muft own that pain is largely paid
By generous wines beneath a fhade.
Yet, when I find your paffions rife,
And anger fparkling in your eyes,
I grieve thofe fpirits fhould be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One paffion with a different turn
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn:
So the fun's heat with different powers
Ripens the grape, the liquor fours:
Thus Ajax, when with rage poffeft
By Pallas breath'd into his breast,
His valour would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But, blinded by refentment, feeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks,
You think this turbulence of flood
From ftagnating preferves the blood,
Which thus fermenting by degrees
Exalts the fpirits, finks the lees.

Stella, for once you reafon wrong;
For, fhould this ferment laft too long,
By time fubfiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind;
From paffion you may then be freed,
When peevithnefs and spleen fucceed.
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep ftrictly to the text?
are you let thefe reproaches ftand,
And to your failing fet your hand?

Or, if thefe lines your anger fire,
Shall they in bafer flames expire?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they must,
They'll prove my accufation just.

TO STELLA,

Vifiting me in my Sickness, 1720

PALLAS, obferving Stella's wit
Was more than for her sex was fit,
And that her beauty, foon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state,
In high concern for human kind,
Fix'd bonour in her infant mind.

But (not in wranglings to engage
With fuch a ftupid vicious age)
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natural life the body warms,
And, fcholars teach, the foul informs;
So honour animates the whole,
And is the spirit of the foul.

Thofe numerous virtues which the tribe
Of tedious moralists describe,
And by such various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule fupreme,
Choler prefide, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the cafe,
Nor is complexion honour's place.

But, left we should for honour take
The drunken quarrels of a rake;
Or think it feated in a scar,
Or on a proud triumphal car,
Or in the payment of a debt
We lofe with fharpers at picquet;
Or when a whore in her vocation
Keeps punctual to her affignation;
Or that on which his Lordship fwears,
When vulgar knaves would lofe their cars
Let Stella's fair example preach
A leffon fhe alone can teach.

In points of honour to be try'd,
All paffions must be laid afide:
Afk no advice, but think alone;
Suppofe the question not your own.
How fhall I act? is not the cafe ;
But how would Brutus in my place?
In fuch a cafe would Cato bleed?
And how would Socrates proceed?

Drive all objections from your mind,
Elfe you relapfe to human kind :
Ambition, avarice, and luft,
And factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flattery tipt with nauseous fleer,
And guilty fhame, and fervile fear,
Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart prefide.
Heroes and heroines of old
By honour only were inroll'd
Among their brethren in the skies,
To which (though late) fhall Stella rife
Ten thousand oaths upon record
Are not fo facred as her word:
The world fhall in its atoms end,
Ere Stella can deceive a friend.

By honour feated in her breaft
She still determines what is beft:
What indignation in her mind
Against enflavers of mankind!
Bafe kings, and minifters of state,
Eternal objects of her hate!

She thinks that nature ne'er defign'd
Courage to man alone confin'd.
Can cowardice her fex adorn,
Which most expofes ours to fcorn?
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel's affected fears;
For Stella never learn'd the art

At proper times to fcream and ftart;
Nor calls up all the house at night,
And fwears the faw a thing in white.
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because fhe heard a fudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum.

Her bearers are amaz'd from whence
Proceeds that fund of wit and fenfe;
Which, though her modefty would shroud,
Breaks like the fun behind a cloud;
While gracefulness its art conceals,
And yet through every motion steals.

Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And, forming you, mistook your kind?
No; 'twas for you alone he ftole
The fire that forms a manly foul;
Then, to complete it every way,
He moulded it with female clay;
To that you owe the nobler flame,
To this the beauty of your frame.

How would ingratitude delight,
And how would cenfure glut her fpight,
If I fhould Stella's kindness hide
In filence, or forget with pride!
When on my fickly couch I lay,
Impatient both of night and day,
Lamenting in unmanly ftrains,
Call'd every power to eafe my pains;
Then Stella ran to my relief
With cheerful face and inward grief:
And, though by Heaven's fevere decree
She fuffers hourly more than me,
No cruel mafter could require,
From flaves employed for daily hire,
What Stella, by her friendship warm'd,
With vigour and delight perform'd:
My finking fpirits now fupplies
With cordials in her hands and eyes;
Now with a foft and filent tread
Unheard the moves about my bed.
I fee her tafte each naufeous draught;
And fo obligingly am caught,

I blefs the hand from whence they came, Nor dare distort my face for fhame.

Beft pattern of true friends! beware: You pay too dearly for your care, If, while your tenderness fecures My life, it must endanger your's; For fuch a fool was never found, Who pull'd a palace to the ground, Only to have the ruins made Materials for a houfe decay'd.

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER.
Who died the 6th of July 1720.

KNOW all men by thefe prefents, Death the tamer,
By mortgage, hath fecur'd the corpfe of Demar:
Nor can four hundred thousand flerling pound
Redeem him from his prifon under ground.
His heirs might well, of all his wealth poffefs'd,
Bestow to bury him one iron cheft.

Plutns the god of wealth will joy to know
His faithful fteward in the fhades below,
He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak;
He din'd and fupp'd at charge of other folk:
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms.
So, to the poor, if he refus'd his pelf,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never faw his betters; Lords, knights, and fquires, were all his humble And under band and feal the Irish nation [debtors; Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.

He that could once have half a kingdom bought, In half a minute is not worth a groat. His coffers from the coffin could not save, Nor all his intereft keep him from the grave.' A golden monument would not be right, Because we wish the earth upon him light.

Oh London tavern *! thou haft loft a friend, Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend: He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot; The hand that fign'd the mortgage paid the fhot. Old as he was, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boaft a power to seize; "But, as he weigh'd his gold, grim Death in 66 fpight

"Caft in his dart, which made three moidores light; "And, as he faw his darling money fail,

"Blew his laft breath, to fink the lighter fcale."
He who fo long was current, 'twould be ftrange
If he should now be cry'd down fince his change.
The fexton fhall green fods on thee bestow;
Alas, the fexton is thy banker now!
A difmal banker must that banker be,
Who gives no bills but of mortality.

EPITAPH ON A MISER.

BENEATH this verdant hillock lies
Demar, the wealthy and the wife.
His beirs, that he might fafely rest,
Have put his carcafe in a cheft;
The very chef in which, they fay,
His other felf, his money, lay.
And, if his beirs continue kind
To that dear felf he left behind,

I dare believe, that four in five
Will think his better half alive.

TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BORMOUNT, Upon praifing ber Hufband to Dr. Swift. You always are making a god of your fpoufe; But this neither reafon nor confcience allows :

* A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept bis office. + Thefe four lines were written by Stella.

Pehaps you will fay, 'tis in gratitude due,
And you adore him, because he adores you.
Your argument's weak, and fo you will find;
For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, At the Deanry House, St. Patrick's.

cheated?

ARE the guests of this houfe ftill doom'd to be [be treated. Sure the fates have decreed they by halves fhould In the days of good John *, if you came here to dine, [wine. You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good in Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat.

O Jove! then how fully might all fides be bleft, Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request; Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble,

Instead of the deans, make the deanry double.

APOLLO TO THE DEAN, 1720. RIGHT trufty, and so forth-we let you to know, We are very ill us'd by you mortals below. For first, I have often by chemists been told, Though I know nothing on 't, it is I that make gold, [it,

Which when you have got, you fo carefully hide
That, fince I was born, I hardly have spy'd it.
Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I thine,
I forward the grafs, and I ripen the vine;
To me the good fellows apply for relief, [beef:
Without whom they could neither get claret nor
Yet their wine and their victuals thefe curmud-

This every pretender to rhyme will admit,
Without troubling his head about judgment or wit.
These gentlemen ufe me with kindness and free-
dom;
['em:

And as for their works, when I please I may read
They lie open on purpofe on counters and stalls;
And the titles I view, when I fhine on the walls.
But a comrade of yours, that traitor Delany,
Whom I for your fake love better than any,
And, of my mere motion and special good grace,
Intended in time to fucceed in your place,
On Tuesday the tenth feditioufly came
With a certain falfe traitrefs, one Stella by name,
To the deanry houfe, and on the north glass,
Where, for fear of the cold, I never can pass,
Then and there, vi et armis, with a certain utenfil,
Of value five shillings, in English a pencil,
Did maliciously, falfely, and traiterously write,
Whilft Stella aforefaid ftood by with a light.
My fifter had lately depos'd upon oath,
That the flopt in her courfe to look at them both:
That Stella was helping, abetting, and aiding:
And still as he writ, ftood fmiling and reading:
That her eyes were as bright as myfelf at noon-
day,
[with gray;
But her graceful black locks were all mingled
And by the defcription I certainly know,
"Tis the nymph that I courted fome ten years ago;
Whom when I with the best of my talents endued
On her promife of yielding, fhe acted the prude
That fome verfes were writ with felonious intent,
Direct to the north, where I never yet went :
That the letters appeared revers'd through the
pane,
fagain;
But in Stella's bright eyes they were plac'd right
Wherein the diftinctly could read every line,
And prefently guefs that the fancy was mine.
She can fwear to the perfon whom oft fhe has feen
At night between Cavan Street and College Green.
Now you fee why his verfes fo feldom are shown;
The reafon is plain, they are none of his own:
And obferve while you live, that no man is fhy
To difcover the goods he came honeftly by.
If I light on a thought, he will certainly steal it,
And, when he has got it, find ways to conceal it :
Of all the fine things he keeps in the dark,
There's fcarce one in ten but what has my mark;
And let them be feen by the world if he dare,
I'll make it appear that they're all stolen ware.
But as for the poem he writ on your fash,
I think I have now got him under my lash;
My fifter tranfcrib'd it last night to his forrow,
And the public fhall fee't, if I live till to-morrow.
Through the zodiac around, it shall quickly be
fpread

In all parts of the globe where your language is read.
He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refuial,
When he afk'd for my aid in the forms that are
But the fecret is this, I did lately intend [ufual:
To write a few verfes on you, as my friend:
I ftudied a fortnight, before I could find,
As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind,
When the days are at fhorteft) to get it in rhyme;
And refolv'd the next winter (for that is my time,
Till then it was lock'd in my box at Parnaffus;
When that fubtle compaion, in hopes to furpaís us,
Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick, [Nick),
(For I think in my confcience he deals with Old