by Paul Keegan
Which no repeated wrongs inflame,
Insensible of ev’ry ill,
Because we want thy tusks to kill.
Know, Those who violence pursue
Give to themselves the vengeance due,
For in these massacres they find
The two chief plagues that waste mankind.
Our skin supplys the wrangling bar,
It wakes their slumbring sons to war,
And well revenge may rest contented,
Since drums and parchment were invented.
THOMAS SHERIDAN Tom Punsibi’s Letter to Dean Swift
When to my House you come dear Dean,
Your humble Friend to entertain,
Thro’ Dirt and Mire, along the Street,
You find no Scraper for your Feet:
At this, you storm, and stamp, and swell,
Which serves to clean your Feet as well:
By steps ascending to the Hall,
All torn to rags, with Boys and Ball.
Fragments of Lime about the Floor,
A sad uneasy Parlor Door,
Besmear’d with Chalk, and nick’d with Knives,
(A Pox upon all careless Wives!)
Are the next Sights you must expect;
But do not think they’re my Neglect:
Ah! that these Evils were the worst,
The Parlor still is further curst;
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by Chance:
How oft in Turns have you and I
Said thus – let me, – no, let me try,
This Turn will open it I engage,
You push me from it in a Rage!
Twisting, turning, trifling, rumbling,
Scolding, stairing, fretting, grumbling;
At length it opens, in we go,
How glad are we to find it so!
Conquests, thro’ Pains and Dangers, please,
Much more than those we gain with Ease.
If you’re dispos’d to take a Seat,
The Moment that it feels your Weight,
Nay take the best in all the Room,
Out go it’s Legs, and down you come.
Hence learn and see old Age display’d,
When Strength and Vigour are decay’d,
The Joints relaxing with their Years;
Then what are mortal Men, but Chairs.
The Windows next offend your Sight,
Now they are dark, now they are light,
The Shuts a working too and fro,
With quick Succession come and go.
So have I seen in human Life,
The same in an uneasy Wife,
By Turns, affording Joy and Sorrow,
Devil to day, and Saint to morrow.
Now to the Fire, if such there be,
But now ’tis rather Smoke you see:
In vain you seek the Poker’s Aid,
Or Tongs, for they are both mislaid.
The Bellice, take their batter’d Nose,
Will serve for Poker, I suppose,
Now you begin to rake, – a-lack!
The Grate is tumbled from its Back:
The Coals upon the Hearth are laid,
Stay Sir, I’ll run and call the Maid;
She’ll make our Fire again compleat,
She knows the Humour of the Grate.
Deux take your Maid and you together,
This is cold Comfort in cold Weather.
Now all you see is well again,
Come be in Humour Mr. Dean,
And take the Bellice, use them so –
These Bellice were not made to blow,
Their leathern Lungs are in Decay;
They can’t e’en puff the Smoke away. –
And is your Rev’rence vex’d at that?
Get up a-God’s Name, take your Hat –
Hang ’em say I, that have no Shift;
Come blow the Fire good Doctor Swift. –
Trifles like these, if they must teize you,
Pox take those Fools that strive to please you,
Therefore no longer be a Quarr’ler,
Either with me, Sir, or my Parlor.
If you can relish ought of mine,
A Bit of Meat, a Glass of Wine,
You’re welcome to’t and you shall fare,
As well as dining with the May’r.
You saucy Scab, you tell me so,
You Booby Face, I’d have you know,
I’d rather see your Things in Order,
Than dine in state with the Recorder.
For Water I must keep a Clutter,
Then chide your Wife for stinking Butter
Or getting such a Deal of Meat,
As if you’d half the Town to eat;
That Wife of yours the Devil’s in her –
I’ve told her of this Way of Dinner,
Five hundred Times, but all in vain,
Here comes a Leg of Beef again!
O that! that Wife of yours wou’d burst –
Get out and serve the Lodgers first,
Pox take them all for me – I fret
So much, I cannot eat my Meat.
You know I’d rather have a Slice –
I know Dear Sir, you’re always Nice;
You’ll see them bring it in a Minute,
Here comes the Plate, and Slices in it.
Therefore sit down and take your Place,
Do you fall to, and I’ll say Grace.
HENRY CAREY A Lilliputian Ode on their Majesties’ Accession
Smile, smile,
Blest isle!
Grief past,
At last,
Halcyon
Comes on.
New King,
Bells ring;
New Queen,
Blest scene!
Britain
Again
Revives
And thrives;
Fear flies,
Stocks rise;
Wealth flows,
Art grows.
Strange pack
Sent back;
Own folks
Crack jokes.
Those out
May pout;
Those in
Will grin.
Great, small,
Pleas’d all.
God send
No end
To line
Divine
Of George and Caroline.
1728
JOHN GAY from The Beggar’s Opera
MACHEATH
Were I laid on Greenland’s Coast,
And in my Arms embrac’d my Lass;
Warm amidst eternal Frost,
Too soon the Half Year’s Night would pass.
POLLY
Were I sold on Indian Soil,
Soon as the burning Day was clos’d,
I could mock the sultry Toil,
When on my Charmer’s Breast repos’d.
MACHEATH
And I would love you all the Day,
POLLY
Every Night would kiss and play,
MACHEATH
If with me you’d fondly stray
POLLY
Over the Hills and far away.
1731
ALEXANDER POPE from An Epistle to Burlington
At Timon’s Villa let us pass a day,
Where all cry out, ‘What sums are thrown away!’
So proud, so grand, of that stupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his building is a Town,
His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down:
Who but must laugh, the Master when he sees,
A puny insect, shiv’ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour’d Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before: a Lake behind
&nbs
p; Improves the keenness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev’ry side you look, behold the Wall!
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff’ring eye inverted Nature sees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees,
With here a Fountain, never to be play’d,
And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails thro’ myrtle bowers;
There Gladiators fight, or die, in flow’rs;
Un-water’d see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus’ dusty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen:
But soft – by regular approach – not yet –
First thro’ the length of yon hot Terrace sweat,
And when up ten steep slopes you’ve dragg’d your thighs,
Just at his Study-door he’ll bless your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it stor’d?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated Backs he turns you round,
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound.
Lo some are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton ’tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the Chapel’s silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the Pride of Pray’r:
Light quirks of Musick, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a Jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour’d Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a Genial room?
No, ’tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A solemn Sacrifice, perform’d in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you’d swear
Sancho’s dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each Act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz’d in state,
And complaisantly help’d to all I hate,
Treated, caress’d, and tir’d, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil Pride from Morn to Eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
And swear no Day was ever past so ill.
Yet hence the Poor are cloath’d, the Hungry fed;
Health to himself, and to his Infants bread
The Lab’rer bears: What his hard Heart denies,
His charitable Vanity supplies.
Another age shall see the golden Ear
Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep Harvests bury all his pride has plann’d,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
JONATHAN SWIFT The Day of Judgement
With a Whirl of Thought oppress’d,
I sink from Reverie to Rest.
An horrid Vision seiz’d my Head,
I saw the Graves give up their Dead.
Jove, arm’d with Terrors, burst the Skies,
And Thunder roars, and Light’ning flies!
Amaz’d, confus’d, its Fate unknown,
The World stands trembling at his Throne.
While each pale Sinner hangs his Head,
Jove, nodding, shook the Heav’ns, and said,
‘Offending Race of Human Kind,
By Nature, Reason, Learning, blind;
You who thro’ Frailty step’d aside,
And you who never fell – thro’ Pride;
You who in different Sects have shamm’d,
And come to see each.other damn’d;
(So some Folks told you, but they knew
No more of Jove’s Designs than you)
The World’s mad Business now is o’er,
And I resent these Pranks no more.
I to such Blockheads set my Wit!
I damn such Fools! – Go, go, you’re bit.’
JONATHAN SWIFT An Epigram on Scolding
Great Folks are of a finer Mold;
Lord! how politely they can scold;
While a coarse English Tongue will itch,
For Whore and Rogue; and Dog and Bitch.
(1746)
1732
JONATHAN SWIFT Mary the Cook-Maid’s Letter to Dr. Sheridan
Well; if ever I saw such another Man since my Mother bound my Head,
You a Gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred?
I am sure such Words does not become a Man of your Cloth,
I would not give such Language to a Dog, faith and troth.
Yes; you call’d my Master a Knave: Fie Mr. Sheridan, ’tis a Shame
For a Parson, who shou’d know better Things, to come out with such a Name.
Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, ’tis both a Shame and a Sin,
And the Dean my Master is an honester Man than you and all your kin:
He has more Goodness in his little Finger, than you have in your whole Body,
My Master is a parsonable Man, and not a spindle-shank’d hoddy doddy.
And now whereby I find you would fain make an Excuse,
Because my Master one Day in anger call’d you Goose.
Which, and I am sure I have been his Servant four Years since October,
And he never call’d me worse than Sweet-heart drunk or sober:
Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern’d to my knowledge,
Tho’ you and your Come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked Colledge.
You say you will eat Grass on his Grave: a Christian eat Grass!
