Should a monkey wear a crown,
Muft I tremble at his frown?

Could I not, through all his ermine ?
Soy the ftrutting, chattering vermin?
Safely write a fmart lampoon,
To expofe the brisk baboon?
When my Mufe officious ventures
On the nation's reprefenters:
Teaching by what golden rules
Into knaves they turn their fools:
How the helm is rul'd by Walpole,
At whofe oars, like flaves, 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 fage,
In a jeft 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 wife to rule the state.
Pultney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns,
Scourge the villains with a vengeance:
Let me, though the smell be noifome,
Strip their bums; let + Caleb hoise 'em;
Then apply Alecta's whip,
Till they wriggle, howl, and skip.
Deuce is in you, Mr Dean:
What can all this paffion mean?
Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet
On corruptions running riot.
End as it befits your station;
Come to use and application:
Nor with fenates keep a fuss.
I fubmit; and answer thus:

If the machinations brewing,
To complete the public ruin,
Never once could have the power
To afect me half an hour;
Sooner would I write in buskins,
Mournful elegies on Blueskins.
If I laugh at Whig and Troy,
I conclude, a fortiori,
All your eloquence will scarce
Drive me from my favourite farce,
This I muft infift on; for, as
It is well obferv'd by § Horace,
Ridicule hath greater power
To reform the world, than four.
Hories thus, let jockies judge else,
Switches better guide than cudgels.

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

+ Caleb D'Anvers was the name affumed by Amburft, the oflenfible writer of the Craftsman. This unfortunate man was negleded by his noble patrons, and died in want and obfcurity. The famous thief, who, whilft on his trial at the Old Bailey, flabbed Jonathan Wild. "Ridiculum acri, &c."

Baftings heavy, dry, obtufe,
Only dulnets can produce;
While a little gentle jerking
Sets the fpirits all a-working.

Thus, I find it by experiment,
Scolding moves you less than merriment.
I may ftorm and rage in vain;
It but ftupifies your brain..
But with raillery to nettle,
Sets your thoughts upon their mettle;
Gives imagination fcope;
Never lets the mind clope;
Drives out brangling and contention,
Brings in reafon and invention.
For your fake as well as mine,

I the lofty style decline.

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

Thought nomethod more commodious,
Than to fhow 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 ftyle?
On your faults no longer fmile;
But, to patch up all our quarrels,
Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals;
Or from Solomon produce

Maxims teaching Wifdom'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 fo great a grievance,
As the hirelings of St. Stephen's.
You are of a lower class

Than my friend Sir Robert Brass.
None of these have mercy found;
I have laugh'd, and lafh'd them round,
Have you feen a rocket fly?
You would fwear 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 fport creates ;
Singes hair, but breaks no pates.
Thus, fhould I attempt to climb,
Treat you in a style fublime,
Such a rocket is my mufe:
Should I lofty numbers choose,
Ere I reach'd Parnaffus' top,
I should burst, and bursting drop;
All my fire would fall in fcraps;
Give your head fome gentle raps;
Only make it fmart awhile:
Then could I forbear to smile,
When I found the tingling pain
Entering warm your frigid brain;
Make you able upon fight
To decide of wrong and right;

Talk with fense whate'er you please on;
Learn to relish truth and reafon?
Thus we both fhall gain our prize:
I to laugh, and you grow wife.

A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT,

For the Stay of the DEAN in ENGLAND. 1726.
BLOW, ye Zephyrs, gentle gales;
Gently fill the swelling fails.
Neptune, with thy trident long,
Trident three-fork'd, trident strong;
And ye Nereids fair and gay,
Fairer than the rofe in May,
Nereids living in deep caves,
Gently wash'd with gentle waves;
Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep
Ruffling ftorms, 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 hafte of love,
Come unto thy turtle-dove.
The ripen'd cherry on the tree
Hangs, and only hangs for thee;
Lucious peaches, mellow pears,
Ceres with her yellow ears,
And the grape, both red and white,
Grape infpiring just delight;
All are ripe, and courting fue
To be pluck'd and prefs'd by you.
Pinks have loft their blooming red,
Mourning hang their drooping head;
Every flower lauguid feems,
Wants the colour of thy beams,
Beams of wondrous force and power,
Beams reviving every flower.
Come, Cadenus, blefs once more,
Blefs again thy native shore ;
Blefs again this drooping ifle,
Make its weeping beauties fmile,
Beauties that thine abfence mourn,
Beauties withing thy return.
Come, Cadenus, come with hafte,
Come before the winter's blaft;
Swifter than the lightning fly; .
Or I, like Vaneffa, die.

A LETTER TO THE DEAN,
WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726.

You will excufe me, I fuppofe,
For fending rhyme instead of profe,
Because hot weather makes me lazy,
To write in metre is more eafy.

While you are trudging London town,
I'm ftrolling 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 fingle shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be faid,

Our best acquaintance are the dead

While you're in raptures with Faustina *;
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
While you are starving there in ftate,
I'm cramming here with butchers meat.
You fay, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the beft of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why fo can we, as well as they.
No reafon then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you may n't in Ireland hope
To find fuch folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would fhare
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 fky is clear;
We've every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and fo bright a sky
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go;
To fee M'Fayden's horny brothers
First fuck, and after bull their mothers;
To fee, alas! my wither'd trees!
To fee what all the country fees!
My ftunted quicks, my famifh'd beeves,
My fervants fuch a pack of thieves;
My fhatter'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 greeen peas, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the pouts;
My horfes rid, or gone aftray;
My fish all ftol'n, or run away;

My mutton lean, my pullets old,

My poultry starv'd, the corn all fold.

A man, come now from Quilca, fays,

They'vet ftol'n the locks from all your keys:" But, what must fret and vex me more,

He fays, "They stole the keys before.

"They've ftol'n the knives from all the forks; "And half the cows from half the fturks."

Nay more, the fellow fwears and vows,

66

They've ftol'n the sturks from half the cows With many more accounts of woe.

Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go : 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

PALINO DIA.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XVI.
GREAT Sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays out-fhine,

Look down upon your quondam foe;
Oh let me never write again,
If e'er I difoblige you, Dean,

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

*Signora Fauftina, a famous Italian finger.

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

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

To fink them in the harbour:
If not, they'll ferve to set off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twift in locks;
So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your phyfic take,
I muft 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 ftrong pursue,
A goofe attack a swan;

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

Though fome, we find, are more difcreet,
Before the world are wondrous sweet,

And let their husbands hector:
But, when the world's afleep, 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 your mufe (my midnight curse,
When I engag'd for better for worse),
You fcolded with your rhymes.
Have done! have done! I quit the field;
To you, as to my wife, I yield:

As the muft wear the breeches;
So fhall you wear the laurel-crown,
Win it, and wear it, 'tis your own;
The poet's only riches.

BEC'S BIRTH-DAY,
NOVEMBER 8. 1726.

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

As, if the gout should fieze the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to th' extremeft parts,
They give the fick 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 confiders 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 wholesome exercise.
Thus nature hath resolv'd to pay her
The cat's nine lives, and eke the care.
Long may the live, and help her friends
Whene'er it fuits her private ends;
Dometic business never mind

Till coffee has her ftomach lin'd;
But, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stella's chicken-porridge;"
I mean when Tiger * has been serv❜d,
Or elfe poor Stella may be ftarv'd.

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

And when the'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 fit befide her,
Nor for neglects or blunders chide her,
A goodly let as can be found
Of hearty goffips 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 ftorm, or Stella rattle.

Late be her death, one gentle nod,
When Hermes waiting with his rod,
Shall to Elysian fields invite her,
Where there fhall be no cares to fright her!

ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER,

MRS. DINGLEY'S LAP-DOG. PRAY steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's, Whofe heart in this four-footed thing lies.

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 coftly fare,
And dofing in an easy chair;
Purfue the Goddefs Health in vain,
To find her in a country scene,
And every where her footsteps trace,
And fee her marks in every face;
And still her favourites we meet,
Crowding the roads with naked feet.
But, oh! fo faintly we pursue,
We ne'er can have her in full view,

* Mr. Dingley's favourite lap-dog.

II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND.

THE glafs, by lovers nonfenfe blurr'd,
Dims and obfcures our fight:

So when our paffions Love hath stirr'd,
It darkens Reafon'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---l:
Your pockets grow empty,
With nothing to tempt ye:
The wine is fo four,
Twill give you a fcour;
The beer and the ale,
Are mingled with ftale;
The veal is fuch carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I've felt,

For I live on a smelt.

V. ANOTHER, IN CHESTER.

THE walls of this town
Are full of renown,

And ftrangers delight to walk round 'em :
But as for the dwellers,
Both buyers and fellers,

For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.

VI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD*.
O NEPTUNE! Neptune! muft I still
Be here detain'd against my will?
Is this your justice when I'm come
Above two hundred miles from home?
O'er mountains fteep, o'er dufty plains,

Half chok'd with duft, haif drown'd with rains;
Only your godfhip to implore,

To let me kifs your other shore?
A boon fo fmall! but 1 may weep,
While you're, like Raal, faft afleep.

VII. ANOTHER, written upon a window where there was no writing before.

THANKS to my ftars, I once can fee
A window here from fcribbling free;
Here no conceited coxcombs país,
To fcratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party-fool is calling names,

Or dealing crowns to George and James.

VIII. On feeing verfes written upon windows

at inns.

THE fage who faid he should be proud

Of windows in his breaft,

Because he ne'er a thought allow'd

That might not be confeft;

His window fcrawl'd by every rake,
His breaft again would cover;

And fairly bid the devil take
The diamond and the lover.

IX. ANOTHER.

By Satan taught, all conjurers know Your mistress in a glass to show,

And you can do as much :

In this the devil and you agree:
None e'er made verfes worse than he,
And thine I swear are fuch.

X. ANOTHER.

THAT love is the devil, I'll prove when requir'd
Those rhymers abundantly how it :

They fwear that they all by love are inspir'd,
And the devil's a damnable poet.

TO JANUS, ON THE NEW-YEAR'S-DAY
Two-fac'd Janus, god of Time!

Be my Phoebus while I rhyme;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new-year's-gift:
She has got but half a face:
Janus, fince thou haft a brace,
To my lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.

God of Time, if you be wife,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward tight
Well, if you could lofe it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor *ifle's approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vaft
Sees the glorious ages paft?
Happy nation, were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind!

Drown your morals, madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back.
Give me Time when coming on:
Who regards him when he's gone?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New-years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new-year's lace
Burnishes an old year's face:
Give me velvet and quadrille.
I'll have youth and beauty still.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. WRITTEN AFTER THE NEWS OF THE † KING'S

DEATH.

RICHMOND-LODGE is a house with a small park belonging to the crown. It was usually granted by the Crown for a leafe of two years. The Duke of Ormond was the laft who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of

*Ireland.

Careline.