Lo Stoner, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome! Lo thousands more; but I want rhyme and room!

XXI.

How lov'd! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain :
And fure thou art not, for I hear thee say,
All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's ftrain,
On whofe ftrong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain?

And what rewards his grateful country pay? None, none were paid-why then all this for me? These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.

EPISTLE VII.

To Mr. Thomas Snow, Goldfmith, near Temple-Bar. A Panegyric, occafioned by bis buying and felling of the third South Sea fubfcriptions, taken in by the Di. rectors at a thousand per cent.

DISDAIN not, Snow, my humble verse to hear :
Stick thy black pen awhile behind thy ear.
Whether thy compter fhine with fums untold,
And thy wide-grafping hand grow black with gold;
Whether thy mien erect, and fable locks,
In crowds of brokers overawe the stocks;
Sufpend the worldly business of the day,'
And, to enrich thy mind, attend my lay.

O thou, whose penetrative wisdom found The South-Sea rocks and fhelves, where thousands drown'd!

When credit funk, and commerce gafping lay,
Thou ftood'ft; nor fent'st one bill unpaid away.
When not a guinea chink'd on Martin's boards,
And Atwell's felf was drain'd of all his hoards,
Thou stood'st (an Indian king in fize and hue),
Thy unexhaufted fhop was our Peru.
Why did 'Change-Alley wafte thy precious hours
Among the fools who gap'd for golden fhowers?
No wonder if we found fome poets there,

Who live on fancy, and can feed on air; [fchemes,
No wonder they were caught by South-Sea
Who ne'er enjoy'd a guinea, but in dreams;
No wonder they their third fubfcriptions fold,
For millions of imaginary gold;

No wonder, that their fancies wild can frame
Strange reafons, that a thing is ftill the fame,
Though chang'd throughout in fubstance and in

name.

But you (whofe judgment fcorns poetic flights) With contracts furnith boys for paper kites.

Let vulture Hopkins ftretch his rufty throat, Who'd ruin thousands for a fingle groat. I know thou fpurn'ft his mean, his fordid mind; Nor with ideal debts would'st plague mankind. Why strive his greedy hands to grasp at more?— The wretch was born to want, whofe foul is poor. Madmen alone their empty dreams pursue, And still believe the fleeting vision true; They fell the treasure which their stumbers get, Then wake, and fancy all the world in debt. If to inftruct thee all my reasons fail, Yet be diverted by this moral tale.

[feat,

Through fam'd Moorfields extends a fpacious Where mortals of exalted wit retreat; Where, wrapp'd in contemplation and in ftraw, The wifer few from the mad world withdraw.

There, in full opulence, a banker dwelt,
Who all the joys and pangs of riches felt s
His fideboard glitter'd with imagin'd plate;
And his proud fancy held a vast estate.

As on a time he pafs'd the vacant hours,
In raifing piles of ftraw and twisted bowers;
A poet enter'd, of the neighbouring cell,
And with fix'd eyes obferv'd the structure well;
A fharpen'd skewer crofs his bare shoulders bound
A tatter'd rug, which dragg'd upon the ground.

The banker cry'd, "Behold my castle walls, 66 My ftatues, gardens, fountains, and canals; "With land of twenty thousand acres round; "All these I fell thee for ten thousand pound."

The bard with wonder the cheap purchase saw, So fign'd the contract (as ordains the law). [clear; The banker's brain was cool'd, the mist grew The vifionary fcene was loft in air.

He now the vanish'd prospect understood,
And fear'd the fancied bargain was not good:
Yet, loath the fum entire fhould be destroy'd,
"Give me a penny, and thy contract's void."

The startled bard with eye indignant frown'd. "Shall I, ye gods (he cries), my debts compound!" So faying, from his rug the skewer he takes, And on the stick ten equal notches makes; With juft refentment flings it on the ground; "There, take my tally of ten thousand pound?”.

EPISTLE VIII.

Mary Gulliver to Captain Lemuel Gulliver.

Argument.

The captain, fome time after his return, being retired to Mr. Sympfon's in the country; Mrs. Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour fome eftrangement of his affections, writes him the following expoftulating, foothing, and tenderly-complaining epiftle.

WELCOME, thrice welcome, to thy native place! -What! touch me not? What: fhun a wife's embrace?

Have 1 for this thy tedious abfence borne, [turn?
And wak'd and wifh'd whole nights for thy re-
In five long years I took no second spouse ;
What Redriff wife fo long hath kept her vows?
Your eyes, your nofe, inconftancy betray;
Your nofe you ftop, your eyes you turn away.
'Tis faid that thou should't cleave unto thy wife;
Once thou didst cleave, and I could cleave for life.
Hear, and relent! hark how thy children moan;
Be kind at least to thefe-they are thy own!
Be bold, and count them all; fecure to find
The honeft number that you left behind.
See how they pat thee with their pretty paws;
Why ftart you? are they fnakes? or have they

claws?

Thy Christian feed, our mutual flesh and bone : Be kind at least to these—they are thy own?

* Biddel, like thee, might fartheft India rove; He chang'd his country, but retains his love:

* Names of the fea-captains mentioned in the Travek.

There's Captain Pannel, abfent half his life,
Comes back, and is the kinder to his wife;
Yet Pannel's wife is brown, compar'd to me,
And Mistress Biddel fure is fifty-three!

Not touch me! never neighbour call'd me flut:
Was Flimnap's dame more tweet in Lilliput?
I've no red hair, to breathe an odious fume;
At least thy confort's cleaner than thy groom.
Why then that dirty ftable-boy thy care?
What mean thofe vifits to the forrel mare?
Say, by what witchcraft, or what dæmon led,
Preferr'ft thou litter to the marriage-bed?

Some fay the devil himself is in that mare: If fo, our dean fhall drive him forth by prayer. Some think you mad; fome think you are poffeft; That Bedlam and clean ftraw will fuit you best. Vain nieans, alas, this phrenzy to appeafe! That ftraw, that straw would heighten the disease. My bed (the fcene of all our former joys, Witness two lovely girls, two lovely boys) Alone I prefs; in dreams I call my dear, I ftretch my hand; no Gulliver is there! I wake, I rife, and, fhivering with the froft, Search all the houfe: my Gulliver is loft! Forth in the streets I rush with frantic cries; The windows open; all the neighbours rife : Where fleps my Gulliver? O tell me where! The neighbours anfwer, " With the forrel mare!" At early morn, I to the market hafte (Studious in every thing to please thy taste); A curious fowl and 'fparagus I chofe (For I remember'd you were fond of those): Three fhillings coft the firft, the last seven groats; Sullen you turn from both, and call for oats.

Others bring goods and treasure to their houses,
Something to deck their pretty babes and fpoufes;
My only token was a cup like horn,
That's made of nothing but a lady's corn.
'Tis not for that I grieve; no, 'tis to fee
The groom and forrel mare preferr'd to me!
Thefe for fome moments when you deign to quit,
And (at due distance) fweet difcourfe admit,
'Tis all my pleafure thy paft toil to know,
For pleas'd remembrance builds delight on woe.
At every danger pants thy confort's breast,
And gaping infants fquall to hear the reft.
How did I tremble when, by thousands bound,
I faw thee firetch'd on Lilliputian ground!
When fcaling armies climb'd up every part,
Each step they trod I felt upon my heart.
But when thy torrent quench'd the dreadful blaze,
King, queen, and nation, ftaring with amaze,
Full in my view how all my husband came!
And what extinguith'd theirs, increas'd my flame.
Thofe fpectacles, ordain'd thine eyes to fave,
Were once my prefent; love that armour gave.
How did I nicurn at Bolgolam's decree!
For, when he fign'd thy death, he fentenc'd me.
When folks might fee thee all the country
round

For fixpence, I'd have given a thousand pound.
Lord when that giant babe that head of thine
Got in his mouth, my heart was up in mine!

* Names of the fta-captains mentioned in the Travels.

When in the marrow bone I fee thee ramm'd,
Or on the house top by the monkey cramm'd,
The piteous images renew my pain,
And all thy dangers I weep o'er again.
But on the maiden's nipple when you rid,
Pray Heav'n 'twas all a wanton maiden did!
Glumdalelitch too!-with thee I mourn her cafe ;
Heaven guard the gentle girl from all difgrace!
O may the king that one neglect forgive,
And pardon her the fault by which I live!
Was there no other way to fet him free?
My life, alas I fear, prov'd death to thee.

O teach me, dear, new words to speak my flame!
Teach me to woo thee by thy beft-lov'd name.
Whether the style of Grildrig please thee moft,
So call'd on Brobdingnag's ftupendous coaft,
When on the monarch's ample hand you fate,
And halloo'd in his car intrigues of itate;
Or Quinbus Fleftrin more endearment brings,
When like a mountain you look'd down on kings;
If Ducal Nardac, Lilliputian peer,

Or Glumblum's humbler title footh thy ear;
Nay, would kind Jove my organs fo difpofe,
To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm through the
nofe,

I'd call the Houyhnhnm, that high-founding name,
Thy children's nofes all fhould twang the fame.
So might I find my loving froufe of course
Endued with all the virtues of a horse.

EPISTLE IX.

BOUNCE TO FOP.

From a Dog at Twickenham, to a Dog at Court.

To thee, fweet Fop, thefe lines I fend,
Who, though no spaniel, am a friend.
Though once my tail in wanton play,
Now frifking this, and then that way,
Chanc'd, with a touch of just the tip,
To hurt your lady-lap-dog-fhip;
Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off,
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.

Fop you can dance, and make a leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg;
And (what's the top of all your tricks)
Can stoop to pick up ftrings and sticks.
We country dogs love nobler fport,
And fcorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fy, naughty Fop! where'er you come
To fart and pifs about the room,
To lay your head in every lap,
And when they think not of you-fnap:
The worst that envy, or that fpite,
E'er faid of me is, I can bite;
That sturdy vagrants, rogues in rags,
Who poke at me, can make no brags;
And that to touze fuch things as flutter,
The honest Bounce is bread and butter.
While you and every courtly fop
Fawn on the devil for a chop;
I've the humanity to hare
A butcher, though he brings me meat:
And, let me tell you, have a nofe
(Whatever kinking fops fuppofe)

That, under cloth of gold or tiffue,
Can smell a plafter, or an issue.
Your pilfering lord, with fimple pride,
May wear a pick-lock at his fide:
My mafter wants no key of state,
For Bounce can keep his house and gate.

When all fuch dogs have had their days,
As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays:
When pamper'd Cupids, beatly Veni's,
And motly, fquinting Harlequini's *,
Shall lick no more their lady's breech,
But die of loofenefs, claps, or itch;
Fair Thames from either echoing shore
Shall hear and dread my manly roar.
See Bounce, like Berecynthia crown'd,
With thundering offspring all around,
Beneath, befide me, and at top,
A hundred fons! and not one Fop.
Before my children fet your beef,
Not one true Bounce will be a thief;
Not one without permiffion feed
(Though fome of J's hungry breed);
But whatfoe'er the father's race,
From me they fuck a little grace:
While your fine whelps learn all to fleal,
Bred up by hand on chick and veal.

My eldeft-born resides not far
Where fhines great Stafford's glittering star;
My fecond (child of fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian gates;
A third majestically stalks
(Happieft of dogs) in Cobham's walks!
One ufhers friends to Bathurst's door,
One fawns at Oxford's on the poor.
Nobles, whom arms or arts adorn,
Wait for my infants yet unborn.
None but a peer of wit and grace
Can hope a puppy of my race:
And, oh!,would fate the blifs decree
To mine (a blifs too great for me),
That two my talleft fons might grace,
Attending each with ftately pace,
Jülus' fide, as erft Evander's†,

To keep off flatterers, fpies, and panders;
To let no noble flave come near,
And feare Lord Fannies from his ear:
Then might a royal youth, and true,
Enjoy at least a friend or two;
A treasure, which, of royal kind,
Few but himself deferve to find;
Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)
Shall wag her tail within the grave.
And though no doctors, Whig or Tory ones,
Except the feet of Pythagoreans,
Have immortality affign'd

To any heat but Dryden's hind:
Yet Mafter Pope, whom truth and sense
Shall call their friend fome ages hence,
Though now on loftier themes he Lags,
Than to beftow a word on kings,

Has fworn by Styx *, the poet's oath,
And dread of dogs and poets both,
Man and his works he'll foon renounce,
And roar in numbers worthy Bounce.

EPISTLE X.

To the Learned Ingenious Author ↑ of" Licentia Po"etica Difcuffed;" or, the " True Teft of Po

etry." Written in 1709.

THE vulgar notion of poetic fire

Is, that laborious art can ne'er afpire,
Nor conftant ftudies the bright bays acquire;
And that high flights the unborn bard receives,
And only nature the due laurel gives:
But you, with innate fhining flames endow'd,
To wide Caftalian fprings point out the god;
Through your perfpective we can plainly fee
The new-difcoverr'd road of poetry;
To fteep Parnaffus you direct the way

So fmooth, that venturous travellers cannot ftray,
But with unerring steps rough ways difdam,
And by you led, the beauteous fummit gain,
Where polifh'd lays fhall raife their growing fames,
And with their tuneful guide enrol their honour'd

Rames.

EPISTLE XI.

To my Ingenious and Worthy Friend, WILLIAM
LOWNDS, Efq. Author of that Celebrated Treatife,
in folio, called "The Land-Tax Bill."
WHEN poets print their works, the scribbling crew
Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew.
Can meagre poetry fuch fame deserve?
Can poetry, that only writes to ftarve?
And fhall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the fenate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had I Virgil's force, to fing the man,
Whofe learned lines can millions raife per ann.,
Great Lownds's praife fhould fwell the trump of
fame,

And rapes and weapontakes refound his name!
If the blind poet gain'd a long renown
By finging every Grecian chief and town;
Sure Lownds's profe much greater fame requires,"
Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and
fquires,

Their feats, their cities, parishes, and shiṛes.

[obey;

Thy copious preamble fo fmoothly runs, Taxes no more appear like legal duns: Lords, knights, and 'fquites, th' affeffor's power We read with pleafure, though with pain we pay. Ah! why did Coning by thy works defame! That author's long harangue betrays his name. After his fpeeches can his pen fucceed? Though forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read. Under what science fhall thy works be read? All know thou wert not poet born and bred.

Orig. Sticks; purposely mis-spelt, to make it “the "dread of dogs.'

Dr. William Coward.

Or doft thou boaft th' hiftorian's lafting pen,
Whofe annals are the acts of worthy men?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lath
Makes the rich mifer tremble o'er his cash.
What on the drunkard can be more fevere,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

tea;

Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his [fpread, While thou through Britain's diftant ifle fhalt In every hundred and divifion read. Critics in claffics eft interpolate,

But every word of thine is fix'd as fate.

Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringes round a tallow-light.
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like Steele (when unaffifted by a friend):
But thou shalt live a year, in fpite of fate;
And where's your author boafts a longer date?
Poets of old had fuch a wond'rous power,
That with their verfes they could raise a tower :
But in thy profe a greater force is found;
What poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Camus, by fowing dragons teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the poisonous feed.
Thy labours. Lownds, can greater wonders do;
Thou raifeft armies, and cant pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen, thy annals ceafe;
Why need we armies when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are perfect deviis in their way; [lay.
When once they're rais'd, they're curfed hard to

EPISTLE XII.

To a young Lady, with fome Lampreys.
WITH lovers 'twas of old the fashion
By prefents to convey their pallion;
No matter what the gift they fent,
The lady faw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,

Took the boar's head her hero gave her;
Nor could the briftly thing affront her;
'Twas a fit prefent from a hunter.

When 'fquires fend woodcocks to the dame,
It ferves to show their abfent flame.
Some by a fnip of woven hair,
In poefy'd lockets, bribe the fair.
How many mercenary matches,

Have fprung from diamond-rings and watches?
But hold-a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a poet's pocket;
He thould fend fongs that cost him nought,
Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.

Why then fend lampreys? Fye, for shame!
Twill fet a virgin's blood on flame.
This to fifteen a proper gift!
It might lend fixty-five a lift.

I know your maiden aunt will fcold,
And think my prefent fomewhat bold.
I fee her lift her hands and eyes:
"What! eat it, niece; eat Spanish flies!
Lamprey's a moft immodest diet:

"You'll neither wake nor fleep in quiet. "Should I to-night eat Sago-cream,

Iwould make me blush to tell my dream:

"If I eat lobster, 'tis fo warming. "That every man I fee looks charming. "Wherefore had not the filthy fellow "Laid Rochester upon your pillow? "I vow and swear, I think the prefent "Had been as niodeft and as decent. "Who has her virtue in her power? "Each day has its unguarded hour; Always in danger of undoing, "A prawn, a fhrimp, may prove our ruin! "The fhepherdefs, who lives on fallad, "To cool her youth, controuls her palate. "Should Dian's maids turn liquorish livers, "And of huge lampreys rob the rivers, "Then, all befide each glade and visto, "You'd fee nymphs lying like Califto.

"The man, who meant to heat your blood, "Needs not himfelf fuch vicious food-"

In this, I own, your aunt is clear,
I fent you what I well might fpare:
For, when I fee you (without joking),
Your eyes, lips, breafts, are fo provoking,
They fet my heart more cock-a-hoop,
Than could whole feas of craw-fifa foup.

EPISTLE XIII.

To a Lady, on her Paffion for Old Clina.
WHAT ecftafies her bofom fire!
How her eyes lauguifh with defire!
How bleft, how happy, fhould I be,
Were that fond glance beftow'd on me!
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near? a china jar.

China's the paffion of her foul:
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl,
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her reft.

Some gems collect, fome medals prize, And view the ruft with lovers eyes; Some court the ftars at midnight hours; Some doat on nature's charms in flowers: But every beauty I can trace

In Laura's mind, in Laura's face;
My ftars are in this brighter fphere,
My lily and my rofe is here.

Philofophers, more grave than wife,
Hunt fcience down in butterflies;
Or, fondly poring on a spider,
Stretch human contemplation wider.
Foffils give joy to Galen's foul;
He digs for knowledge, like a mole;
In fhells fo learn'd, that all agree

No fh that fwims knows more than he!
In fuch purfuits if wisdom lies,
Who, Laura, fhall thy tafte defpife?

Where I fome antique jar behold,
Or white, or blue, or ipeck'd with gold;
Veffels fo pure, and fo refin'd,
Appear the types of womankind:
Are they not valued for their beauty,
Too fair, too fine, for household duty?
With flowers and gold, and azure, dy'd,
Of every houfe the grace and pride?
U