The Dean, she heard her uncle say, Is sixty, if he be a day; His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; You see the crow's feet round his eyes.

At one she rambles to the shops, To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; Or calls a council of her maids, And tradesmen, to compare brocades.

Her weighty morning business o'er, Sits down to dinner just at four; Minds nothing that is done or said, Her evening work so fills her head.

The Dean, who used to dine at one, Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, Looks like the chaplain of the household; Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, In French brocades, and Flanders lace; He wonders what employs her brain, But never asks, or asks in vain; His mind is full of other cares, And, in the sneaking parson's airs, Computes, that half a parish dues Will hardly find his wife in shoes.

Canst thou imagine, dull divine, 'Twill gain her love, to make her fine?

Hath she no other wants beside?

You feed her l.u.s.t as well as pride, Enticing c.o.xcombs to adore, And teach her to despise thee more.

If in her coach she'll condescend To place him at the hinder end, Her hoop is hoist above his nose, His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5]

She drops him at the church, to pray, While she drives on to see the play.

He like an orderly divine, Comes home a quarter after nine, And meets her hasting to the ball: Her chairmen push him from the wall.

The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, And calls the family to prayers; Then goes alone to take his rest In bed, where he can spare her best.

At five the footmen make a din, Her ladyship is just come in; The masquerade began at two, She stole away with much ado; And shall be chid this afternoon, For leaving company so soon: She'll say, and she may truly say't, She can't abide to stay out late.

But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: The cause, alas! is quickly guest; The town has whisper'd round the jest.

Think on some remedy in time, The Dean you see, is past his prime, Already dwindled to a lath: No other way but try the Bath.

For Venus, rising from the ocean, Infused a strong prolific potion, That mix'd with Achelous spring, The horned flood, as poets sing, Who, with an English beauty smitten, Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; The genial virtue with him brought, And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; Then fled, and left his horn behind, For husbands past their youth to find; The nymph, who still with pa.s.sion burn'd, Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, Where childless wives crowd every morn, To drink in Achelous horn;[6]

Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs Where fruitful matter chiefly swims.

And here the father often gains That t.i.tle by another's pains.

Hither, though much against his grain The Dean has carried Lady Jane.

He, for a while, would not consent, But vow'd his money all was spent: Was ever such a clownish reason!

And must my lady slip her season?

The doctor, with a double fee, Was bribed to make the Dean agree.

Here, all diversions of the place Are proper in my lady's case: With which she patiently complies, Merely because her friends advise; His money and her time employs In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, Since others oft have found one there; Where if the Dean by chance appears, It shames his ca.s.sock and his years.

He keeps his distance in the gallery, Till banish'd by some c.o.xcomb's raillery; For 'twould his character expose, To bathe among the belles and beaux.

So have I seen, within a pen, Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; But, when let out, they run and muddle, As instinct leads them, in a puddle; The sober hen, not born to swim, With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8]

The Dean, with all his best endeavour, Gets not an heir, but gets a fever.

A victim to the last essays Of vigour in declining days, He dies, and leaves his mourning mate (What could he less?)[9] his whole estate.

The widow goes through all her forms: New lovers now will come in swarms.

O, may I see her soon dispensing Her favours to some broken ensign!

Him let her marry for his face, And only coat of tarnish'd lace; To turn her naked out of doors, And spend her jointure on his wh.o.r.es; But, for a parting present, leave her A rooted pox to last for ever!

[Footnote 1: Collated with Swift's original MS. in my possession, dated January, 1721-2.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: "A rich divine began to woo,"

"A grave divine resolved to woo,"

are Swift's successive changes of this line.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 3: "Philippa, daughter to an Earl," is the original text, but he changed it on changing the lady's name to Jane.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 4: Scott prints "her."--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 5: Swift has writ in the margin: "If by a more than usual grace She lends him in her chariot place, Her hoop is hoist above his nose For fear his gown should soil her clothes."--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 6: For this fable, see Ovid, "Metam.," lib.

ix.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: So named from a very curious cross or pillar which was erected in it in 1687 by John, Earl of Melfort, Secretary of State to James the Second, in honour of the King's second wife, Mary Beatrice of Modena, having conceived after bathing there.--Collinson's "History of Somersetshire."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 8: "Meanwhile stands cluckling at the brim," the first draft.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 9: "The best of heirs" in first draft.--_Forster_.]

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighbouring pool!

Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise, and harder fare, Soon make my dame grow lank and spare; Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs; While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill, Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight?

Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, What poet e'er could sing a note?

Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years coat so smooth and bare, Through every thread it lets in air; With hungry meals his body pined, His guts and belly full of wind; And, like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Enc.u.mbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapour, Supported high on wings of paper.

He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub-Street rings.

THE SOUTH-SEA PROJECT. 1721

Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, Arma virum, tabulaeque, et Troa gaza per undas.

VIRG.

For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays,"

Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his grandfather.--_W. E. B._

Ye wise philosophers, explain What magic makes our money rise, When dropt into the Southern main; Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes?

Put in your money fairly told; _Presto_! be gone--'Tis here again: Ladies and gentlemen, behold, Here's every piece as big as ten.

Thus in a basin drop a shilling, Then fill the vessel to the brim, You shall observe, as you are filling, The pond'rous metal seems to swim:

It rises both in bulk and height, Behold it swelling like a sop; The liquid medium cheats your sight: Behold it mounted to the top!

In stock three hundred thousand pounds, I have in view a lord's estate; My manors all contiguous round!

A coach-and-six, and served in plate!

Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, Puts all upon a desperate bet; Then plunges in the Southern waves, Dipt over head and ears--in debt.

So, by a calenture misled, The mariner with rapture sees, On the smooth ocean's azure bed, Enamell'd fields and verdant trees:

With eager haste he longs to rove In that fantastic scene, and thinks It must be some enchanted grove; And in he leaps, and down he sinks.

Five hundred chariots just bespoke, Are sunk in these devouring waves, The horses drown'd, the harness broke, And here the owners find their graves.

Like Pharaoh, by directors led, They with their spoils went safe before; His chariots, tumbling out the dead, Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea sh.o.r.e.