If you hope I'll be kind, you must tell me what's due In George's-lane for you, ere I'll buckle to.

CHARIOT

Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you're very alert; Is it your French breeding has made you so pert?

Because I was civil, here's a stir with a pox: Who is it that values your ---- or your fox?

Sure 'tis to her honour, he ever should bed His b.l.o.o.d.y red hand to her b.l.o.o.d.y red head.

You're proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail; And although it may pa.s.s for gold on a ninny, Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea.

Nay, her foretop's a cheat; each morn she does black it, Yet, ere it be night, it's the same with her placket.

I'll ne'er be run down any more with your cant; Your velvet was wore before in a mant, On the back of her mother; but now 'tis much duller,-- The fire she carries hath changed its colour.

Those creatures that draw me you never would mind, If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine; They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare, Drawn d.a.m.nably low by your sorrel mare.

We know how your lady was on you befriended; You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended: But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt; She is two or three years above being out.

Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour On one he can't hope of e'er making _bigger_.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me, whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery."

See, _post_, the Poem ent.i.tled, "d.i.c.ky and Dolly."--_W. E. B._]

TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1]

OCTOBER 31, 1713

Among the numbers who employ Their tongues and pens to give you joy, Dear Harley! generous youth, admit What friendship dictates more than wit.

Forgive me, when I fondly thought (By frequent observations taught) A spirit so inform'd as yours Could never prosper in amours.

The G.o.d of Wit, and Light, and Arts, With all acquired and natural parts, Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, Was an unfortunate gallant.

Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, The nymph had soon been brought to yield; Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, The nymph would ne'er have been a prude.

Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, Mark out the way where Daphne[2] flew; For such is all the s.e.x's flight, They fly from learning, wit, and light; They fly, and none can overtake But some gay c.o.xcomb, or a rake.

How then, dear Harley, could I guess That you should meet, in love, success?

For, if those ancient tales be true, Phoebus was beautiful as you; Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, For wit and learning spoil'd his face.

And since the same resemblance held In gifts wherein you both excell'd, I fancied every nymph would run From you, as from Latona's son.

Then where, said I, shall Harley find A virgin of superior mind, With wit and virtue to discover, And pay the merit of her lover?

This character shall Ca'endish claim, Born to retrieve her s.e.x's fame.

The chief among the glittering crowd, Of t.i.tles, birth, and fortune proud, (As fools are insolent and vain) Madly aspired to wear her chain; But Pallas, guardian of the maid, Descending to her charge's aid, Held out Medusa's snaky locks, Which stupified them all to stocks.

The nymph with indignation view'd The dull, the noisy, and the lewd; For Pallas, with celestial light, Had purified her mortal sight; Show'd her the virtues all combined, Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind.

Terrestrial nymphs, by formal arts, Display their various nets for hearts: Their looks are all by method set, When to be prude, and when coquette; Yet, wanting skill and power to chuse, Their only pride is to refuse.

But, when a G.o.ddess would bestow Her love on some bright youth below, Round all the earth she casts her eyes; And then, descending from the skies, Makes choice of him she fancies best, And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd.

Thus the bright empress of the morn[3]

Chose for her spouse a mortal born: The G.o.ddess made advances first; Else what aspiring hero durst?

Though, like a virgin of fifteen, She blushes when by mortals seen; Still blushes, and with speed retires, When Sol pursues her with his fires.

Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen Struck with Endymion's graceful mien Down from her silver chariot came, And to the shepherd own'd her flame.

Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, And chaster than the Queen of Night Descended from her sphere to find A mortal of superior kind.

[Footnote 1: Lord Harley, only son of the first Earl of Oxford, married Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter of John, Duke of Newcastle. He took no part in public affairs, but delighted in the Society of the poets and men of letters of his day, especially Pope and Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Pursued in vain by Apollo, and changed by him into a laurel tree. Ovid, "Metam.," i, 452; "Heroides," xv, 25.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Aurora, who married t.i.thonus, and took him up to Heaven; hence in Ovid, "t.i.thonia conjux.," "Fasti," lib. iii, 403.--_W. E. B._]

PHYLLIS; OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716

Desponding Phyllis was endu'd With ev'ry talent of a prude: She trembled when a man drew near; Salute her, and she turn'd her ear: If o'er against her you were placed, She durst not look above your waist: She'd rather take you to her bed, Than let you see her dress her head; In church you hear her, thro' the crowd, Repeat the absolution loud: In church, secure behind her fan, She durst behold that monster man: There practis'd how to place her head, And bite her lips to make them red; Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling, Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling.

And heave her bosom unaware, For neighb'ring beaux to see it bare.

At length a lucky lover came, And found admittance to the dame, Suppose all parties now agreed, The writings drawn, the lawyer feed, The vicar and the ring bespoke: Guess, how could such a match be broke?

See then what mortals place their bliss in!

Next morn betimes the bride was missing: The mother scream'd, the father chid; Where can this idle wench be hid?

No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came, And thought his bride had skulk'd for shame; Because her father used to say, The girl had such a bashful way!

Now John the butler must be sent To learn the road that Phyllis went: The groom was wish'd[1] to saddle Crop; For John must neither light nor stop, But find her, wheresoe'er she fled, And bring her back alive or dead.

See here again the devil to do!

For truly John was missing too: The horse and pillion both were gone!

Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John.

Old Madam, who went up to find What papers Phyl had left behind, A letter on the toilet sees, "To my much honour'd father--these--"

('Tis always done, romances tell us, When daughters run away with fellows,) Fill'd with the choicest common-places, By others used in the like cases.

"That long ago a fortune-teller Exactly said what now befell her; And in a gla.s.s had made her see A serving-man of low degree.

It was her fate, must be forgiven; For marriages were made in Heaven: His pardon begg'd: but, to be plain, She'd do't if 'twere to do again: Thank'd G.o.d, 'twas neither shame nor sin; For John was come of honest kin.

Love never thinks of rich and poor; She'd beg with John from door to door.

Forgive her, if it be a crime; She'll never do't another time.

She ne'er before in all her life Once disobey'd him, maid nor wife."

One argument she summ'd up all in, "The thing was done and past recalling; And therefore hoped she should recover His favour when his pa.s.sion's over.

She valued not what others thought her, And was--his most obedient daughter."

Fair maidens all, attend the Muse, Who now the wand'ring pair pursues: Away they rode in homely sort, Their journey long, their money short; The loving couple well bemir'd; The horse and both the riders tir'd: Their victuals bad, their lodgings worse; Phyl cried! and John began to curse: Phyl wish'd that she had strain'd a limb, When first she ventured out with him; John wish'd that he had broke a leg, When first for her he quitted Peg.

But what adventures more befell 'em, The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em; How Johnny wheedled, threaten'd, fawn'd, Till Phyllis all her trinkets p.a.w.n'd: How oft she broke her marriage vows, In kindness to maintain her spouse, Till swains unwholesome spoil'd the trade; For now the surgeon must be paid, To whom those perquisites are gone, In Christian justice due to John.

When food and raiment now grew scarce, Fate put a period to the farce, And with exact poetic justice; For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess; They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar, Are cat and dog, and rogue and wh.o.r.e.

[Footnote 1: A tradesman's phrase.--_Swift_.]

HORACE, BOOK IV, ODE IX ADDRESSED TO ARCHBISHOP KING,[1] 1718

Virtue conceal'd within our breast Is inactivity at best: But never shall the Muse endure To let your virtues lie obscure; Or suffer Envy to conceal Your labours for the public weal.

Within your breast all wisdom lies, Either to govern or advise; Your steady soul preserves her frame, In good and evil times, the same.

Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, Stand in your sacred presence awed; Your hand alone from gold abstains, Which drags the slavish world in chains.

Him for a happy man I own, Whose fortune is not overgrown;[2]

And happy he who wisely knows To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; Or, if it please the powers divine, Can suffer want and not repine.

The man who infamy to shun Into the arms of death would run; That man is ready to defend, With life, his country or his friend.

[Footnote 1: With whom Swift was in constant correspondence, more or less friendly. See Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," vol. ii, _pa.s.sim_; and an account of King, vol. iii, p. 241, note.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: "Non possidentem multa vocaveris recte beatum: rectius occupat nomen beati, qui deorum muneribus sapienter uti duramque callet pauperiem pati, pejusque leto flagitium timet."]