IMITATION OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] 1714

I often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace walk, and half a rood Of land, set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;[2]

But should be perfectly content, Could I but live on this side Trent;[3]

Nor cross the channel twice a-year, To spend six months with statesmen here.

I must by all means come to town, 'Tis for the service of the crown.

"Lewis, the Dean will be of use; Send for him up, take no excuse."

The toil, the danger of the seas, Great ministers ne'er think of these; Or let it cost a hundred pound, No matter where the money's found, It is but so much more in debt, And that they ne'er consider'd yet.

"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my lord know you're come to town."

I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is levee-day; And find his honour in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green: How should I thrust myself between?

Some wag observes me thus perplex'd, And, smiling, whispers to the next, "I thought the Dean had been too proud, To justle here among a crowd!"

Another, in a surly fit, Tells me I have more zeal than wit.

"So eager to express your love, You ne'er consider whom you shove, But rudely press before a duke."

I own I'm pleased with this rebuke, And take it kindly meant, to show What I desire the world should know.

I get a whisper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never saw Come with pet.i.tions fairly penn'd, Desiring I would stand their friend.

This humbly offers me his case; That begs my interest for a place; A hundred other men's affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears.

"To-morrow my appeal comes on; Without your help, the cause is gone--"

"The duke expects my lord and you, About some great affair, at two--"

"Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind, To get my warrant quickly sign'd: Consider, 'tis my first request."-- Be satisfied I'll do my best: Then presently he falls to tease, "You may for certain, if you please; I doubt not if his lordship knew--- And Mr. Dean, one word from you[4]----"

'Tis (let me see) three years and more, (October next it will be four,) Since Harley bid me first attend,[5]

And chose me for an humble friend; Would take me in his coach to chat, And question me of this and that; As "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the wind?"

"Whose chariot's that we left behind?"

Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs;[6]

And mark at Brentford how they spell Hear is good Eal and Bear to cell.

Or, "Have you nothing new to-day To shew from Parnell, Pope and Gay?"

Such tattle often entertains My lord and me as far as Staines, As once a-week we travel down To Windsor, and again to town; Where all that pa.s.ses _inter nos_ Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.

Yet some I know with envy swell, Because they see me used so well: "How think you of our friend the Dean?

I wonder what some people mean!

My lord and he are grown so great, Always together, _tete-a-tete_; What! they admire him for his jokes?-- See but the fortune of some folks!"

There flies about a strange report Of mighty news arrived at court: I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet, And catechised in every street.

"You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great: Inform us, will the emperor treat?

Or do the prints and papers lie?"

Faith, sir, you know as much as I.

"Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!

'Tis now no secret"--I protest It's one to me--"Then tell us, pray, When are the troops to have their pay?"

And, though I solemnly declare I know no more than my lord mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

Thus in a sea of folly toss'd, My choicest[7] hours of life are lost: Yet always wishing to retreat, O, could I see my country-seat!

There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; And there in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the court and town.[8]

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's volume.--_Forster._]

[Footnote 2: Here followed twenty lines inserted by Pope when he published the Miscellanies. The version is here printed as written by Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Swift was perpetually expressing his deep discontent at his Irish preferment, and forming schemes for exchanging it for a smaller in England, and courted Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole to effect such a change. A negotiation had nearly taken place between the Dean and Mr.

Talbot for the living of Burfield, in Berkshire. Mr. Talbot himself informed me of this negotiation. Burfield is in the neighbourhood of Bucklebury, Lord Bolingbroke's seat.--_Warton._]

[Footnote 4: Very happily turned from "Si vis, potes----."--_Warton._]

[Footnote 5: The rise and progress of Swift's intimacy with Lord Oxford is minutely detailed in his Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man, that served the ministry so effectually, was so tardily, and so difficultly, and so poorly rewarded, are explained in Sheridan's Life of Swift. See also c.o.xe's "Memoirs of Walpole." Both Gay and Swift conceived every thing was to be gained by the interest of Mrs. Howard, to whom they paid incessant court.--_Bowles._]

[Footnote 6: Another of their amus.e.m.e.nts in these excursions consisted in Lord Oxford and Swift's counting the poultry on the road, and whichever reckoned thirty-one first, or saw a cat, or an old woman, won the game.

Bolingbroke, overtaking them one day in their road to Windsor, got into Lord Oxford's coach, and began some political conversation; Lord Oxford said, "Swift, I am up; there is a cat." Bolingbroke was disgusted with this levity, and went again into his own carriage. This was "Nugari et discincti ludere," [HORAT., _Sat._, ii, I, 73]

with a witness.--_Warton._]

[Footnote 7: Stella's transcript, "sweetest."--_Forster._]

[Footnote 8: Thus far was translated by Dr. Swift in 1714. The remaining part of the satire was afterwards added by Pope, in whose works the whole is printed. See Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope.--_W. E. B._]

HORACE, BOOK II, ODE I, PARAPHRASED ADDRESSED TO RICHARD STEELE, ESQ. 1714

d.i.c.k, thou'rt resolved, as I am told, Some strange arcana to unfold, And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen, To vamp the good old cause again: Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is) Must furbish up, and nickname Crisis.

Thou pompously wilt let us know What all the world knew long ago, (E'er since Sir William Gore was mayor, And Harley fill'd the commons' chair,) That we a German prince must own, When Anne for Heaven resigns her throne.

But, more than that, thou'lt keep a rout, With--who is in--and who is out; Thou'lt rail devoutly at the peace, And all its secret causes trace, The bucket-play 'twixt Whigs and Tories, Their ups and downs, with fifty stories Of tricks the Lord of Oxford knows, And errors of our plenipoes.

Thou'lt tell of leagues among the great, Portending ruin to our state: And of that dreadful _coup d'eclat_, Which has afforded thee much chat.

The queen, forsooth! (despotic,) gave Twelve coronets without thy leave!

A breach of liberty, 'tis own'd, For which no heads have yet atoned!

Believe me, what thou'st undertaken May bring in jeopardy thy bacon; For madmen, children, wits, and fools, Should never meddle with edged tools.

But, since thou'st got into the fire, And canst not easily retire, Thou must no longer deal in farce, Nor pump to cobble wicked verse; Until thou shall have eased thy conscience, Of spleen, of politics, and nonsense; And, when thou'st bid adieu to cares, And settled Europe's grand affairs, 'Twill then, perhaps, be worth thy while For Drury Lane to shape thy style: "To make a pair of jolly fellows, The son and father, join to tell us, How sons may safely disobey, And fathers never should say nay; By which wise conduct they grow friends At last--and so the story ends."[2]

When first I knew thee, d.i.c.k, thou wert Renown'd for skill in Faustus' art;[3]

Which made thy closet much frequented By buxom la.s.ses--some repented Their luckless choice of husbands--others Impatient to be like their mothers, Received from thee profound directions How best to settle their affections.

Thus thou, a friend to the distress'd, Didst in thy calling do thy best.

But now the senate (if things. .h.i.t, And thou at Stockbridge[4] wert not bit) Must feel thy eloquence and fire, Approve thy schemes, thy wit admire, Thee with immortal honours crown, While, patriot-like, thou'lt strut and frown.

What though by enemies 'tis said, The laurel, which adorns thy head, Must one day come in compet.i.tion, By virtue of some sly pet.i.tion: Yet mum for that; hope still the best, Nor let such cares disturb thy rest.

Methinks I hear thee loud as trumpet, As bagpipe shrill or oyster-strumpet; Methinks I see thee, spruce and fine, With coat embroider'd richly shine, And dazzle all the idol faces, As through the hall thy worship paces; (Though this I speak but at a venture, Supposing thou hast tick with Hunter,) Methinks I see a blackguard rout Attend thy coach, and hear them shout In approbation of thy tongue, Which (in their style) is purely hung.

Now! now you carry all before you!

Nor dares one Jacobite or Tory Pretend to answer one syl-lable, Except the matchless hero Abel.[5]

What though her highness and her spouse, In Antwerp[6] keep a frugal house, Yet, not forgetful of a friend, They'll soon enable thee to spend, If to Macartney[7] thou wilt toast, And to his pious patron's ghost.

Now, manfully thou'lt run a tilt "On popes, for all the blood they've spilt, For ma.s.sacres, and racks, and flames, For lands enrich'd by crimson streams, For inquisitions taught by Spain, Of which the Christian world complain."

d.i.c.k, we agree--all's true thou'st said, As that my Muse is yet a maid.

But, if I may with freedom talk, All this is foreign to thy walk: Thy genius has perhaps a knack At trudging in a beaten track, But is for state affairs as fit As mine for politics and wit.

Then let us both in time grow wise, Nor higher than our talents rise; To some snug cellar let's repair, From duns and debts, and drown our care; Now quaff of honest ale a quart, Now venture at a pint of port; With which inspired, we'll club each night Some tender sonnet to indite, And with Tom D'Urfey, Phillips, Dennis, Immortalize our Dolls and Jennys.

[Footnote 1: Samuel Buckley, publisher of "The Crisis."]

[Footnote 2: This is said to be a plot of a comedy with which Mr. Steele has long threatened the town.--_Swift._]

[Footnote 3: Alluding to Steele's advice in "The Tatler" to distressed females, in his character of Bickerstaff.]