MARBLE-HILL. Kind Richmond-lodge, the fame to you.

DESIRE AND POSSESSION. 1727.
Tis ftrange, what different thoughts inspire
In men, Poffeffion and Defire;
Think what they with fo great a bleffing;
So difappointed when poffeffing!

A moralift profoundly fage
(I know not in what book or page,
Or whether o'er a pot of ale)
Related thus the following tale.

Poffeffion, and Defire his brother,
But ftill at variance with each other,
Were feen contending in a race;
And kept at firft an equal pace:
'Tis faid their courfe continued long;
For this was active, that was strong:
Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt,
Milled them many a league about.
Seduc'd by fome deceiving light,
They take the wrong way for the right;
Through flippery by-roads dark and deep;
They often climb, and often creep.

Defire, the fwifter of the two,
Along the plain like lightning flew;
Till, entering on a broad highway,
Where power and titles scatter'd lay,
He ftrove to pick up all he found,
And by excurfions loft his ground:
No fooner got, than with difdain
He threw them on the ground again;
And hafted forward to purfue
Fresh objects fairer to his view,
In hope to fpring fome nobler game;
But all he took was just the fame :
Too fcornful now to ftop his pace,
He fpurn'd them in his rival's face.

Poffeffion kept the beaten road,
And gather'd all his brother ftrow'd;
But overcharg'd, and out of wind,
Though strong in limbs, he lagg'd behind.
Defire had now the goal in fight:
It was a tower of monstrous height,
the fummit Fortune ftands,
Where on
A crown and fceptre in her hands;
Beneath, a chafm as deep as hell,
bold adventurer fell.
Where many a

Defire in rapture gaz’d a while,
And faw the treacherous goddess fmile;
But, as he climb'd to graip the crown,
She knock'd him with the fceptre down.
He tumbled in the gulph profound,
whirl an endless round.
There doom'd to
fo
great,
Poffeffion's load was grown
He funk beneath the cumberous weight:
And, as he now expiring lay,
Flocks every ominous bird of prey;
The raven, vulture, owl, and kite,
At once upon his carcafe light,
And trip his hide, and pick his bones,
Regardless of his dying groans.

ON CENSURE. 1727.
YE wife, inftruct me to endure
An evil which admits no cure ;

Or how this evil can be borne,

Which breeds at once both hate and scorn.
Bare innocence is no fupport,

When you are try'd in Scandal's court.
Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit:
All others who inferior fit,

Conceive themselves in confcience bound
To join, and drag you to the ground.
Your altitude offends the eyes

Of those who want the power to rise.
The world, a willing ftander-by,
Inclines to aid a specious lye;
Alas! they would not do you wrong;
But all appearances are strong!

Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay
On what detracting people say?
For let mankind difcharge their tongues
In venom, till they burft their lungs,
Their utmoft malice cannot make
Your head, or tooth, or finger ake;
Nor spoil your shape, distort your face,
Or put one feature out of place;
Nor will you find your fortune fink
By what they speak or what they think;
Nor can ten hundred thousand lies
Make you lefs virtuous, learn'd, or wife.

The most effectual way to baulk Their malice, is---to let them talk.

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND:

1727.

A SET of phrafes learnt by rote;
A paffion for a scarlet coat?
When at a play, to laugh, or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute
While all the prates has nothing in it;
Whole hours can with a coxcomb fit,
And take his nonfenfe all for it;
Her learning mounts to read a fong,
But half the words pronouncing wrong;
Hath every repartee in ftore

She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments supply
On all occafions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parfon's gown,
The fight will put her in a fwoon;
For converfation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a fcruple to expofe
Your bandy leg, or crooked nofe;
Can at her morning tea run o'er
The fcandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.

In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs difpute,
What linen beft the filk will fuit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her fight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;

So fweetly fcreams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dextrously her husband teaze,
By taking fits whene'er the please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At proper feasons to be fick;

Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless,

And but neglects to warm her hair lace,
She gets a cold as fure as death,

And vows the scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modeft women can
Be fo robuftious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power;
A bitter Whig, or Tory four;
Her arguments directly tend
Against the fide fhe would defend;
Will prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintains;
And to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.
Oyes! if any man can find
More virtues in a woman's mind,
Let them be fent to Mrs Harding*
She'll pay the charges to a farthing;
Take notice, the has my commiffion
To add them in the next edition;
They may out-fell a better thing:
So, halloo, boys; God fave the king!

CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE
HANGED. 1727.

As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling,

[calling, Rode ftately through Holbourn to die in his He flopt at the George for a bottle of fack, And promis'd to pay for it when he came back. His waiftcoat, and tockings, and breeches, were white;

His cap had a new cherry riband to tie't.

The maids to the doors and the balconies ran,
And faid, "Lack-a-day! he's a proper young
man!"

But, as from the windows the ladies he spy'd,
Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each

fide; [cry, And when his laft fpeech the loud hawkers did He fwore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd

"lie!"

The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee;
Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee:
Then faid, I muft fpeak to the people a little;
But I'll fee you all damn'd before i will whittlet.
My honeft friend Wild ‡ may he long hold his
place,

He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace.
Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid,
Nor flip this occafion to follow your trade;

My confcience is clear, and my fpirits are calm, And thus I go off without prayer-book or pfalm; Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE,

WHILE HE WAS WRITING THE DUNCIAD.

POPE has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.
Awhile they on each other look,
Then different ftudies choose :
The Dean fits plodding on a book;
Pope walks, and courts the mufe.
Now backs of letters, though defign'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by fome other struck

All turns and motions tries:
Till, in a lump together stuck,
Behold a Poem rife!

Yet to the Dean his share allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
Is, caufa fine quâ non.

Thus Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
For, had our deaf Divine

Been for your converfation fit,

You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock† thus, for preaching fam'd,
The Sexton reason'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.

A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

WRITTEN AT LONDON IN THE YEAR 1727.

By poets we are well affur'd
That love, alas! can ne'er be cur'd:
A complicated heap of ills,
Defpifing bolufes and pills.
Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
Since first I gave my heart to you.
Now, by your cruelty hard bound,
I ftrain my guts, my colon wound.
Now jealoufy my grumbling tv ipes
Affaults with grating, grinding gripes.
When pity in thofe eyes I view,
My bowels wambling make me fpew.
Chen I an amorous kifs defign'd,
I belch'd a hurricane of wind.
Once you a gentle figh let fall;
Remember how I fuck'd it all:
What colic pangs from thence I felt,
Had you but known, your heart would melt,

• An allufion to the fingularity mentioned in Advice to the Grub-Street Verje riters, 1726. t The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the bishop.

Like ruffling winds in caverns pent,
Till Nature pointed out a vent.

How have you torn my heart to pieces
With maggots, humours, and caprices!
By which I got the hæmorrhoids;
And loathfome worms my anus voids.
Whene'er I hear a rival nam'd,
I feel my body all inflam'd;

Which, breaking out in boils and blanes,
With yellow filth my linen ftains;
Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst,
Small beer I guzzle till 1 burft:
And then I drag a bloated corpus,
Swell'd with a dropfy, like a porpoise;
When, if I cannot purge or ftale,

I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

Must I be every moment chid

With Skinny bonia, Snipe, and Lean? Oh! that I could but once be rid

Of this infulting Tyrant Dean!

ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL.

FRAIL glafs! thou bear'ft that name as well as I; Though none can tell, which of us first shall die.

ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT. ME only chance can kill; thou, frailer creature, May'ft die, like me, by chance; but must by na

ture.

IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND.

THE Dean would vifit Market-hill;

Our invitation was but flight :

I faid---Why let him, if he will
And fo I bade Sir Arthur write.
His manners would not let him wait,
Left we should think ourselves neglected;
And fo we saw him at our gate

Three days before he was expected.
After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day fucceeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
Though not a foul would have him stay.
I've faid enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,

Nor for my life will take the hint.
But yo, my dear, may let him know,

In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaife.
Or you may fay---My wife intends,

Though I fhould be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite fome friends;

And, Sir, I know, you hate a crowd. Or, Mr. Dean---I should with joy

Beg you would here continue ftill; But we must go to Aghnacloy*,

Or Mr. Moore will take it ill. The house accounts are daily rifing;

So much his ftay doth fwell the bills; My dearest life, it is surprising

How much he eats, how much he fwills. His brace of puppies how they stuff!

And they must have three meals a day, Yet never think they get enough;

His horfes too eat all our hay.
Oh! if I could, how I would maul

His tallow face, and wainscot-paws,
His beetle-brows, and eyes of wall,
And make him foon give up the cause!

"The feat of Achefon Moore, Efq.

By chronicle of ancient date, There ftood for many hundred years

A fpacious thorn before the gate. Hither came every village maid,

And on the boughs her garland hung;
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from fatyrs fat and fung.

Sir Archibald, that valorous knight,
The lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come and liften with delight;
For he was fond of rural train.
(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
Shall ftand for ages on record,
By Scottish bards of higheft fame, '
Wife Hawthorden and Stirling's lord §.)
But time with iron teeth, I ween,
Has canker'd all its branches round;
No fruit or bloffom to be feen,

Its head reclining towards the ground.
This aged, fickly, fapless thorn,

Which muft, alas! no longer stand, Behold the cruel Dean in fcorn

Cuts down with facrilegious hand. Dame Nature, when fhe faw the blow, Aftonish'd, gave a dreadful fhriek; And mother Tellus trembled fo,

She scarce recover'd in a week.

A village near the feat of Sir Arthur Achefon, where the Dean fometimes made a long vift. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was mach admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of bis unaccountable humours, gave directions for cutting it down in the abfence of Sir Arthur, who was of courfe highly incenfed, nor would fee Swift for fome time after. By way of making his pence, the Dean wrote this poem; which had the defired effea.

Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of State for Scotland.

§ Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander Earl of Stirling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry.

The fylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,
In prudence and compaffion, fent
(For none could tell whose turn was next)
Sad omens of the dire event.
The magpie, lighting on the ftock,

Stood chattering with inceffant din; And with her beak gave many a knock, To rouse and warn the nymph within. The owl forefaw, in penfive mood,

The ruin of her ancient feat;
And fled in hafte, with all her brood,
To feek a more fecure retreat.
Laft trolled forth the gentle swine,
To ease her itch against the stump,
And difmally was heard to whine,

All as the scrubb'd her measly rump.
The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant)
Condemn'd by Fate's fupreme decree,
Muft die with her expiring plant.
Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care
Receiv'd its laft and deadly wound,
She filed, and vanish'd into air.
Eat from the root a dismal groan

Firit iffuing ftruck the murderer's ears; And, in a thrill revengeful tone,

This prophecy he trembling hears: "Thou chief contriver of my fall, "Relentless Dean, to mischief born; My kindred oft' thine hide fhall gall, Thy gown and caffock oft' be torn. And thy confederate dame, who brags That the condemn'd me to the fire, Shall rend her petticoats to rags,

And wound her legs with every brier. "Nor thou, lord Arthur *, shalt escape; "To thee I often call'd in vain, Agauft that affaffin in crape;

"Yet thou couldft tamely see me slain.

"Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,

Orchid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse ;

Since you could fee me treated fo

(An old retainer to your houfe):

May that fell Dean, by whofe command "Was form'd this Machiavilian plot, "Not leave a thistle on thy land;

"Then who will own thee for a Scot?

Pigs and fanatics, cows, and teagues, "Through all thy empire I forefee, "To tear thy hedges, join in leagues, "Sworn to revenge my thorn and me. "And now, the wretch ordain'd by fate, *Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown, "With hatchet blunter than thy pate, "To hack my hallow'd timber down; When thou, fufpended high in air, "Dy'ft on a more ignoble tree

(For thou shalt fteal thy landlord's mare), Then, bloody caitif! think on me.

Sir Arthur Achefon.

VOL. IX.

CANTATA.

In harmony would you excel,
Suit your words to your mufic well;
For Pegasus runs every race

By galloping high, or level pace,
Or ambling, or fweet Canterbury,
Or with a down, a high down derry.
No victory he ever got

By joggling, joggling, joggling trot;
No Mule harmonious entertains
Rough, roiftering, ruftic, roaring ftrains.
Nor fhall you twine the crackling bays
By sneaking, fniveling roundelays.

Now flowly move your fiddle-stick;
Now, tantan, tantantivi, quick;

Now trembling, fhivering, quivering, quaking,
Set hoping hearts of lovers aching.
Fly, fly, above the sky,

Rambling, gambling, trolloping, lolloping, galloping.

Now sweep, fweep the deep.
See Celia, Celia dies,
While true lovers' eyes
Weeping sleep, Sleeping weep,
Weeping deep, Bo peep, bo peep.

So teas'd day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my fins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe
With Skinny and Snipe :
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.
The Dean never stops
When he opens his chops;
Im quite over-run
With rebus and pun.

Before he came here
To fpunge for good cheer,
I fate with delight
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,
Or fcratching my nofe,
And jogging my toes;
But at prefent, forfooth
I must not rub a tooth.
When my elbows he fees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And juft as I handle 'em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops,
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I fink in the spleen,
An ufelefs machine.

If he had his will, I should never fit ftill: He comes with his whims, I must move my limbs; I cannot be sweet Without using my feet; To lengthen my breath, He tires me to death. By the worst of all fquires, Through bogs and through briers, Where a cow would be ftartled, I'm in fpite of my heart led; And, fay what I will, Haul'd up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd, My fpirits quite shatter'd, I return home at night, And faft, out of fpite: For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er fhould be faid, I was better for him In ftomach or limb. But now to my diet; No eating in quiet, He's ftill finding fault, Too four or too falt: The wing of a chick I hardly can pick; But trash without measure 1 fwallow with pleasure. Next for his diverfion He rails at my perfon: What court-breeding is this i He takes me to pieces:

From fhoulder to flank
I'm lean and am lank;
My nofe, long and thin,
Grows down to my chin;
My chin will not stay,
But meets it half way;
My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked sticks:
He fwears my elbows
Are two iron crows,
Or fharp-pointed rocks,
And wear out my fmocks:
To 'scape them, Sir Arthur
Is forc'd to lie farther,
Or his fides they would gore
Like the tuik of a boar.

Now, changing the scene,
But ftill to the Dean:
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;

If he fees her but once,
He'll fwear fhe's a dunce;
Can tell by her looks

A hater of books;

Through each line of her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils every feature
Beftow'd her by nature;
But fenfe gives a grace
To the homelieft face:
Wife books and reflection
Will mend the complection?
(A civil Divine !

I fuppofe, meaning mine)!
No lady who wants them
Can ever be handsome.
I guef's well enough
What he means by this stuff:
He haws and he hums,
At laft out it comes:
What, Madam! No walking,
No reading, nor talking?
You 're now in your prime,
Make ufe of your time.
Confider, before

You come to threescore,
How the huffles will flcer
Where'er you appear:
"That filly old pufs
Would fain be like us.
What a figure she made
In her tarnish'd brocade !”
And then he grows mild
Come, be a good child:
If you are inclin'd
To polish your mind,
Be ador'd by the men
Till threescore and ten,
And kill with the spleen
The jades of fixteen;
I'll show you the way:
Read fix hours a day.
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but twenty.
Thus was I drawn in;
Forgive me my fin.
At breakfast he'll afk
An account of my task.